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Leaving my childhood home after getting married.
One of my least favorite goodbyes. 

Over the last ten years, I’ve had 16 different addresses in 7 different states and 10 different cities. Having been literally born in my childhood home and raised there until age 18, those statistics are outrageous.

When I first left home to go to college in Utah, I had a boyfriend who did not join me. We did the long-distance thing and were (in hindsight, unhealthily) attached to one another, so I spent the better part of my first semester depressed and pining for home. I didn’t bother to make friends, especially after deciding that I would never come back to Utah. Why make friends if you’re just going to have to say goodbye in a few months?

And that was my approach to the next five addresses: Don’t bother making friends. You’ll just have to say goodbye, and goodbyes are the worst.

While in my travel study program at BYU-Nauvoo, I grew close to a small few, but not by my own doing. They befriended, included, and loved me. I struggled to reciprocate because I knew I would have to say goodbye in four months. I cried unattractively and hard while hugging them goodbye, so they wore me down (and we're still friends today), but I can’t say I really enjoyed much that semester. I just wanted to be home. 

After the break-up of the century (in hindsight, thank goodness!), I moved to Rexburg to try out a different BYU. This time, I stayed an entire eight months, but still only opened up to a few. Social life was a distraction from homework and sleeping, and though newly single, I was pretty arrogant and didn’t need “a man” to be happy. (I wasn’t particularly happy without one, either.) Plus, goodbyes are the worst, and I didn’t want to bother.

Our first apartment in Rexburg.

It wasn’t until I was a missionary in Ohio that I started to change my thinking. I knew that I would move around periodically and fellow missionaries would go home, so, goodbyes were inevitable. But, I also knew that not actively making friends made me kind of miserable. I carried so many regrets about college, so I decided to experiment and see what would happen if I treated my time in Ohio as if I was going to stay there forever, as if it were my home.

I started loving people. With genuine, whole-hearted, I’m-going-to-hug-you-even-though-I-don’t-know-you kind of love. The goodbyes were excruciating, but they were meaningful. Everything I did was meaningful. Everything that happened deserved a page in my journal. Did I have crazy anxiety and want to come home by the end? Absolutely. But, when I did come home, I was grateful for the experience rather than regretful.

Tyler and I lived in Las Vegas for the past five months for student teaching. We didn’t know whether we’d be staying for a job or moving to one of the 20 places where he applied, so I decided to make that weird city my home. And, my goodness, I fell in love with that weird city. With the thrift stores and homeless people that dotted every corner, with the palm trees and the fact that we were minorities in our neighborhood, and I fell in love, especially, with the people, my new friends, at church.

Saying goodbye to our second Las Vegas home.

But, alas, we got a summer job in Seattle, and again, I had  to say goodbye. I cried, unattractively and hard, through all three hours of our last Sunday. And I’m crying unattractively and hard right now. But I would do it all again, even if I knew beforehand that I’d be saying goodbye a few months later. I’m not exactly sure how to put into words why it’s so important to jump in completely and invest time in creating relationships except: there’s a richness in a life that’s filled with people you love and have loved. And “home” becomes not just the place that you visit at Christmas, but wherever you are.

Four hours into our drive to Seattle, Tyler was offered and accepted a teaching job in Idaho Falls. So, I’ll add at least one more address and city to my stats before the end of the year. And while that means more goodbyes, I’m going to bother making friends and call Seattle home.

Artsy-farts and Entertainment

I don’t read reviews. Mostly because I think people are stupid. 

But, I recently went to the Redbox website to see when Birdman was going to be available. I glanced down at the bottom of the screen to find that nearly every reviewer gave it less than one star. Again, I believe that most people aren’t smart, and that dumb people are ten times more likely to write something negative on the Internet than something positive, but I was just so curious that so many people would “Thumbs Down” the winner for Best Picture.

This review was my personal favorite: “I watch a lot of movies, and not many I don't like. This was a bomb! Did not care for it from beginning to end, but suffered though it.”

Let us just lay it out there – If someone starts out a sentence with “I watch [listen to, read] a lot of movies [music, books], and not many [much] I don’t like,” you can be sure that whatever comes next is a load of crap. 

I sound cruel, don’t I? Closed-minded? Rude? I know. That’s because when it comes to art and literature, and particularly television and film, I’m a complete snob.

There’s this great moment in Modern Family when Cam accuses Mitchell of being a snob (he’d never been to Costco), and Mitchell responds with:

This is how I feel about how I feel about film. I’m discerning. I’ve probably been this way all of my life (favorite childhood films: Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, The Point, The Wizard of Oz, The [Original] Parent Trap), but it got significantly worse in Mr. Timmons' English class my junior year of high school when I was introduced to Paper Moon and The Graduate. He essentially taught us how to watch movies. They stopped being a source of entertainment and became art. I learned that there was so much more behind the story and the script. The director had to make so many seemingly mundane decisions: what color to make the couch, where to place a picture frame, what type of glasses the main character should wear, how a character should be standing, etc. And many of these decisions are deliberate to make an audience feel a certain way about what’s happening or what people are saying or not saying or to hint at something that’s going to happen later. It’s all a little overwhelming to think about actually. But now, when I watch a film, it’s all I think about.

Let’s take the Jared and Jerusha Hess 2004 cult phenomenon, Napoleon Dynamite. I remember when it was released in only a few theaters. I had seen previews on MTV and was so excited that a bunch of Mormons got together and made a movie. I went with a friend to see it, the theater was sparsely occupied, and I was in awe. It ended and I looked over to see what my friend thought - the look on his face said, “That was the weirdest, stupidest movie I’ve ever seen.” It took months before the hype really started, but I like to think that I was on to something really special before anyone else had it figured out. And this was before “hipster” was a thing.

Yes, Napoleon Dynamite was mostly plotless, extremely low budget, and sometimes painfully awkward to sit through. But it was beautiful. The colors were vintage and saturated, the soundtrack was perfect, the relationships between Napoleon and Deb and Pedro were sweet, and when people describe the movie as “stupid” or simply, “funny,” I think, “they just don’t get it.”

Here’s another Birdman review: “WOW - CAN I GET MY MONEY BACK!!!! One of the worst movies I have ever watched. No story, does nothing to make you want to continue watching. They went all artsy fartsy with no entertainment value what so ever. Picture of the year, you have to be kidding me. I knew I should have passed on this 1.” (I'm biting my tongue to avoid also discussing his use of the numeral '1').

Birdman was stunning. Completely deserving of the Oscar for Best Picture. Anyone who disagrees will also disagree with this entire post. And that’s okay. But, to quote my parents quoting someone else, “In my humble, but correct, opinion,” movies and films are two different things. You want entertainment? Go watch a movie, enjoy it for a moment, and forget about it tomorrow. For me, let's watch a film and bring on the farts.

Feminism: We've Come a LONG Way

While the social debate has shifted towards whether or not leggings are appropriate to wear in public (are leggings really any different from skinny jeans?), I think the subject of feminism deserves a refresher. Several months ago, I was going through some old women's magazines from the 1920s to the 1960s. It was a fascinating anthropological study, though my purpose was a more creative one. I make greeting cards from old books and magazines. The art is charming, the word "gay" is used innocently, and most importantly, I don't want this part of American culture to ever be forgotten. 

In my search for sentences I could take out of context and iconic "Dick and Jane"-type images, I noticed something profound. The role of women during this time was "Mother" and "Wife" and ONLY mother and wife. Nothing else. (If single, there was "money in art" or secretary training.) 

Though I had always been a slightly messy procrastinator who loved school and work, I envisioned my married, mother-life to be much like June Cleaver's, minus the heels and curlers. I assumed I'd be a 100% stay-at-home-mom and that I would feel 100% fulfilled by that role. Surprisingly, when I got married, my personality didn't change at all. I continued going to school, I worked a full-time job that I loved and I left dirty dishes in the sink for days. Then, I had a baby, and STILL my personality didn't change. Two weeks after he was born, I worked for a few hours one Saturday while he slept in the back of the store. This one-time shift turned into working 10 hours a week for over a year. And I LOVED it. I loved having a reason to leave the house that didn't cost me any money. I loved my break from my adorable baby so that I could actually have a chance to miss him. And I really loved continuing to learn about something not baby-related. 

Did you know that today, in 2015, it is not only possible to have a career and be a mom, but that it's encouraged? (Maybe not as strongly in the unique culture that is Rexburg, Idaho, but I don't care what anyone there thinks of my choices.) This realization made me think about those old magazine ads and the messages (or rather, singularly, message) they convey. Let's take a look at some of my favorites:

"Domestic Science" - Teach 'em young.

Is this legible? A most intimidating and offensive list of "Model Mother" characteristics.

Emily Taylor's identity made even more apparent by the picture's companion:

And Emily Taylor isn't the only one. So many wives cleaning!

And wives sewing...

And wives cooking...

"Domestic Hands"

So, it's NOT okay to be yourself.

              

And be sure to ask your husband's permission.

And, the best for last:

With "more luck than brains" - just let that sit for a second...

Uncovering these gems made me laugh at first. But then I grew solemn and grateful for the bra-burning, man-hating women of the 1960s. Though radical, they brought about such necessary change. 

I've created a different definition of feminism that is less man-hating and more natural-birthing, but my point here is to remind myself and you that we've come a very long way since the misogynistic "Mad Men" era. Today there are 26 female Fortune 500 CEOs - so, whatever, that's only 5.2%, but a 5.2% that deserves celebration! Fifty years ago, there were 0.

Who cares about what's modest and what isn't? Women today are allowed to wear whatever they want! And who cares if you're a stay-at-home-mom or one who works away from home 40 hours a week? What matters is that, today, YOU can make that choice! 

I've always said that I was born in the wrong decade - the 60s certainly had the best clothing, furniture and music - but the 2010s are pretty great, too. 

Give Me Clutter or Give Me Death

One of my oldest treasures. A small hand puppet with a wooden face. Bought at an antique shop 

in El Paso, Illinois when I was 12.

Thrift store finds, gifts and original art by my uncle Mark Mittlesteadt.

Tyler, Coltrane and I recently moved to Las Vegas. We ordered a 14’ U-Haul truck per A-1 Rental’s suggestion when I told them we lived in a 900 sq ft apartment. HA! I didn’t take a picture of the inside of the truck because I was too busy shouting expletives in my head out of embarrassment that I had so much freaking stuff, but it was packed, quite literally, top to bottom, front to back, side to side. My eternal gratitude goes out to Ben Mathews, Sean Poole and Andrew Pincock for their genius and optimism at making everything I couldn't part with fit.

Every family needs a Kewpie photo-bomber. And, yes, that shelf was so full,
it was bowing in the middle.

I’ve never been a minimalist. My bedroom growing up had walls covered in photographs and posters and bookshelves full of books and tchotchkes (don’t you just love the spelling of that word?), all of which was kept, boxed up and moved to my first married-person studio apartment. After crying for three days from claustrophobia, I parted with about a tenth of my things and had a garage sale. We moved three more times since then and again, only parted with a couple of boxes each time. Keep in mind, I had not stopped accumulating - when you see a street sign at an antique shop with your dad that says “FERTILE” on it, it must be bought and kept without negotiation. When your mom gives you a stack of vintage women’s magazines from the 1920s-60s, you accept them, savor that vintage paper smell, and giggle at the misogynistic advertisements for years to keep the past alive. And some things are just plain useful and I don't want to have to buy them again.

The creepier, the better, I always say. And that cookie jar was purchased by my
equally unique sister at a thrift store in Merrill, WI. Midwest thrifting is
where it's at.

Have you any idea how many articles, books, blogs, and YouTube videos are dedicated to the subject of de-cluttering and simplifying your life and space? There are times I feel bombarded by them, as if the only way to find happiness and peace is to get rid of all of your crap and create a home that is Architectural Digest magazine worthy. But, one day, I read an article that brought tears to my eyes about a woman who, with her family, had decided to build a small, eco-friendly home, which required some serious downsizing. She remembered telling herself how free and light she would feel at getting rid of things, but after her yard sale, all she felt was that she “deeply missed [her] stuff.”

Those boxes are full of wonderful, tiny things: doll parts,
keys, bird''s nests, dollhouse furniture and more! All
organized by type and labeled.

For the first time ever, my feelings about my “things” were validated. I love my stuff. I love my “Language of the Whistles” card table, my stuffed puffin with its leather beak and feet, my Yamaha CP-70 Electric/Acoustic grand piano that weighs a thousand pounds but is just too unique and weird and awesome to ever let go. These things are irreplaceable, make me think of my sweet and loving family and childhood, and make me happy when I look at them. And, inevitably, they will follow me to every residence until, upon my death, my children will have to make that difficult decision to keep it or throw it away.

Appropriately positioned, I thought.

Instead of feeling embarrassed while the missionaries unloaded our 14’ truck, I was excited to be reunited with my strange treasures and find a place for them in my new home. My stuff is awesome, my decorating style is eccentric and a little cluttered, but I like it. And to anyone who disagrees, I’m sad for you and your boring and editorially pleasing home.