Wednesday Giggles

So I just finished the first two discs of How I Met Your Mother Season 1

its LEGEN (i hope you're not lactose intolerant because the other half of that is) DAIRY!

Barney is the Neil Patrick Harris' character and is what makes the show go from quirky/interesting to awesome. This is a quintessential Barney moment.

This is What I Do

So I have a lot of non-LDS friends and as part of the other 99.5% of the rest of the world, they drink.

I was at my buddy from work's place last night. His girlfriend (that is also a friend of mine) was throwing a party for her best friend's birthday. His roommate was there too and his roommate's on-again-off again-hang-around-like-a-disease-ex-boyfriend who he has never gotten along with and for good reason was also there. I don't really like him either. He's like the gay, petty version of the short, angry, mean chef from Ratatouille. They've been squaring off for a while and were getting ready to blow. I honestly was a bit worried about this party and what might happen when both of them got a little alcohol in them, and I was right to worry.

I was at Disneyland for the beginning of the night so everyone was like 4 rounds in by the time I got there. At my buddy's place there is this game room with a pool table and stuff upstairs but the rest of the party was downstairs. I was having a lovely chat in the kitchen with the dude with neck tattoos that was a very interesting and conversational guy. There's one of those at every party I've found. They weren't prison tattoos or anything crazy, they were Celtic stuff which was double impressive. We were talking about how much I wasn't drinking and he was like "you're the kind of person that keeps the world together..." etc.

So right then we both see a scuffle type thing going on upstairs and we look at each other like "Is that real or are they screwing around?" and then we say "Is that real or are they screwing around?" but then I hear the Douche Baggy Ex Boyfriend Man starting to yell so loud I can hear him above the music (which was considerably loud) and me and Nice Tattoo Guy look at each other like "damn" and without a word he puts his glass down and calmly goes upstairs like hes changing a light bulb or reaching the top shelf or something to 1) break it up or 2) throw the Ratty Boy out or both. It was pretty hot, I'm not going to lie. If he hadn't been there with a girl I would have given him my phone #.

Why are the only true specimens of non-related masculinity I've ever found very non-Mormon guys??!! It almost makes me cry but that's a whiny blog post for another day....

ANYWAY-

So there is still a bundle of scuffling feet on the landing up stairs that I can see from down stairs and the yelling died down so I started to go upstairs to see if they needed help and as I start going up Ratboy and his group come barreling down the stairs. I got out of the way just in time to see Roommate following them and yelling at him to get out so he left after a lot of screaming and arm flailing dramatic jacket grabbing and expletives.

I didn't know the fight was between my buddy and Ratboy at this point so I go upstairs to see if everything is OK because everyone has frozen into drink clutching pairs of big eyes downstairs.

It turns out Ratboy got buttered about something in the pool game, Roommate jumped in between him and my buddy and Ratboy sucker punched my buddy over Roommate's shoulder.

Now let me explain some things about my buddy; you don't punch him much less sucker punch him. The dude is an ice hockey player and a man's man type bada$$. He doesn't try to, he just is. He's a bundle of gentlemanly but unapologetic, barely mitigated testosterone. He's a softy but once he clicks over to his Hulk side its over. He would turn a guy into burger, dust off his shirt, pick up his pool cue and keep playing without turning the music down and ask you if you wanted another drink.

So I get upstairs and see my buddy pacing in the game room with a torn shirt and berserker eyes with a few people blocking the door so he couldn't get out.

Since Ratboy has "left" we let my buddy downstairs and hes still pacing around and screaming how "if he ever comes back here I'm going to kill him" and all that other chest slapping rhetoric boys do. I get him an ice pack for his eye but his adrenaline is pumping too fast.

A few ornaments got broken with Ratboys descent down the stairs and there was glass everywhere so I was sweeping things up and we heard something from outside and it turns out Ratboy left the house but he was still outside in the street with his peeps so my buddy, still pacing mad, just darts for the door faster than anyone can grab him.

Rule #1 with drunk fights is keep them as far appart as possible right? Well everyone failed. They hadn't morphed back from being giant pairs of frozen eyes. So I drop my broom and caught him in the drive way. Ratboy was still in the street. Some more yelling ensued and my buddy was flailing so bad I had to grab him around the waist to keep him from doing anything stupid. We were all about a minute away from the police station or the hospital or both. So I let him blow off as much steam as he could before I thought the neighbors might call the cops and then got him back in the house.

Ratboy left for real that time but came back about 20 min later with a knife and just walked in the house like an idiot. I was helping Roommate clean up spilled cranberry drink off of the beige velour carpet upstairs at the top of the landing and I saw him right when he walked in and Roommate was looking up the stairs at me and saw me see him and turn into a big pair of eyes looking down the stairs at Ratboy. Roommate turned around and started to chase Ratboy out again and Nice Tattoo Guy wasn't far behind. He held back during the first scuffle apparently but he charged out this time ready to regulate. Thank goodness. I stayed where I was because my buddy was in his room upstairs with his girlfriend still calming down so I look in the open door to his room at him to see if he realizes Ratboy is back. He does and starts the pacing mad let-me-at-him stuff again and his sweet bulldog Daisy is popping around and hes worried Ratboy would stab his dog so we get her back safely upstairs.

Ratboy finally takes off for real. We lock the door, debrief while we finish cleaning up more broken ornaments and spilled drinks and carpet, and once I'm satisfied everyone is sobering up and its over I say my goodbyes and head out, being grateful for The Gospel and that I could do some good. And that no one landed in the ICU (even though it might have taught Ratboy something and I wouldn't have been too sad). And that I didn't have to give a statement.

*hands in for no statements*

Nhime Ahheinteen

"Nhime ahhein teen by murrf daye do taye"

Does anyone else remember Kermit's "Frog Prince" and the princess who couldn't speak correctly and sing that song she sings when it's your birthday? Yeah - me too. Or maybe its just a dyslexic kid thing.

*reminder* start at 6:30 or so

You know its been far too long since you've been on Blogger when the interface is totally different from the last time you were here.

HI EVERYONE!!!

Sorry I've been in a self imposed cone of silence, bloggily speaking. It's been for a mixture of reasons and circumstances but I'm here now and that's the material point is it not?

Things are as they ever were. I'm mainly in the thick of thin things, happy thin things, but thin nonetheless. I've been in a media coma of sorts. There are so many blogs and books and albums to get lost in to distract you from the hard things in your life. One could disappear for years if they wanted to. I always pull my cards a little closer to the chest around my birthday. I get introspective and pensive, a bit self-deprecatory and even sometimes a little panicky.

I've suffered a birthday curse since I was about 16. Things usually melt down in some fashion or another and tears are usually spilt. Mine, my mother's or both. So, for the last 3 years or so I've tried to either ignore the fact (which I'm rarely allowed to do. Mom thrives off of ceremony. One year she wouldn't stop ranting till a cake, a candle, some blowing out and a song were in play so we found a bagel and dinner taper candle, lit it, sang and there was end and mom was placated.) or have something low key.

When I've left festivities up to mom in the past it usually ended up with a scavenger hunt for microscopic bottles of saffron (Rachel - testify!), mountains of bread, backwards meals (ie: dessert first and soup last). Meals that Babette would envy mind you, but backwards nonetheless and a general fluster of angst and non-birthdayness.

This year I was a bit scared because not only was it a birthday but I was turning 30. Yes, I am 30. I'm OK with it. It's a bit of relief. It's not this social grim reaper looming outside my car window every time I pulled up anywhere and behind me during post-fireside over-refreshment introductions. It's here and the reaper isn't so bad. He has a good sense of humor and doesn't mind dishes.

Yes my ring finger does feel more naked than it did before and I did have a mild nervy b at the temple the other night when I took to heart a comment a medical type person made informing me that after 35 a woman's chance of a complicated pregnancy goes up exponentially and I realized I only have 5 more years to have a family and even if I did I would be ancient and retired by the time they got out of high school and I had just blown it. I also dealt out a good deal of censure for waiting so long to get serious about settling down. Not that I've never not been serious about marrying and starting my family, but I've never felt any urgency either. I dunno, it was an interesting session for me. Had I been anywhere else it might have been an absolute meltdown instead of the nervy b that it was. So yeah - my womb is shriveling as I type and there seems to be very little I can do about it...

Back to the birthday -

Mom got to throw a party. I specifically instructed her "No themes. No sparkles in any form, no maypoles, no costumes". I know my mom, these limits were necessary. If she could have looked up skywriters she would have. Toya went ahead and made a 4' maypole (which I adore in my heart) though. We went to my favorite mom and pop Indian place. Invaded would be a better word I think, all 25 of us commendeered 3/4 of the physical space and all of the emotional space the place had. Half of North India was in full garb and having a wedding in the room next to us which made the night that much more fun. It was one of the best nights of the year for me.

My favorite thing to do is nothing with my favorite people. Add some garlic naan and some funny stories and the Celestial Kingdom can't be far. Not *all* of the favorites could be there, they're scattered across the US and the rest of the world for that matter, but the ones that made it were fantastic. Patrick got everyone telling their favorite Liz stories (and if you have one I'd love to hear it). Wendy recorded the ones that were told there and is threatening to YouTube them, and if the world wants to hear about my Irish accent exploits at the Getty and loosing my glasses and calling in stupid to work, by all means - tune in.

It was a marvelous night. I really think this one broke the curse. I think I might be in the clear for normal birthday times from here on out. It wasn't the road trip up the 1 in a convertible Mini that I was hoping I'd do for my birthday, it was better.

Mom got all my favorite white flowers and made these sprawling centerpieces (sorry about the stinky lilies again Rachel) and there were mylar balloons and yummy gourmet suckers and glow sticks and noise makers and mint chutney and friends and friends and friends with nothing but love and stories and smiles and giggles. It was amazing. It was a night that could have warmed anyone's heart, naked ring fingers, shriveling wombs and all.

How can anyone feel sheepish and defeated about turning 30 with so much love around them? I don't know. I really don't. I am a blessed and amazed girl and if I could adequately tell everyone in that room, or those who wished to be there, how much I love them and how much it meant to me that they were there and giggled along with me I could. But I don't think I can. I get all glowy and warm inside just thinking about it.

And present speaking I got art, tea, books, tea cups, smellies, blogging programs and gift cards galore. All the things that I value, treasure, and love.

Avatar on DVD would have made the night unreal and you've got to leave something for Christmas right?

Viva la Appa and happy birthday to me. :D

Spinning Parallel Lines

So in two weeks I'm heading back to DC for the weekend to visit Christian and I can't tell you how excited I am. It's the first time I've been back since I served my mission out there so naturally my mission has been on my mind more than not lately.

Chris goes to church in the same building that the Spanish ward meets in that I served in for 6 of my 16 months in the field. He knows all the leadership and goes to their firesides. He attends meetings in the same chapel that people I taught were baptized and confirmed in. It's a strange comfort to know part of me, even by blood extension, is still tending to that flock.*

So naturally I've been more than a little reminiscent and pensive about my 16 months in DC and what I learned there and who I was and who I became.

DC is a demographic wonderland and being a missionary there was a trip on Planet Unicorn almost everyday. One of the dimensions of the social landscape that was really really different from home was the amazing number of Muslims there were. In every apartment complex we lived in, the majority of the other people were these beautiful meek Muslim families. We'd come out of whatever Quick-E mart with a snack and turn the corner and find a few individuals at noon time prayer with their little carpets in the parking space next to ours. It was pretty common thing. Some women wore scarves, some didn't, some wore the burkha, some didn't. I'm not going to lie, the burkhas took me a while to get used to. We called them ninjas because looking over in traffic and only seeing a black hood driving in the car next to me startled me more than once. Or when we went down to do laundry they were there too, with their munchkins in tow, doing their thing.

I figured we were equally as weird with our name tags on so I struck up conversations and they were responsive, educated, and very well mannered**, we borrowed each other's soap and fabric softener, I played with their kids while they folded and they almost always let me in in traffic***. Out of everyone, and they types of everyone, I met in DC the Muslim women were the kindest and the most comforting. On the hot hot hot days they were the ones that let us in, even if they didn't speak a lick of the language. They just nodded, smiled, gestured for us to sit down, gave us something cool to drink and politely just sat with us****. They also were the only ones that let us in on the snowy days with something warm to drink. Most times they couldn't communicate with us, they just knew we were in need and they helped us. Plain as that.

This was all before 9/11 and I cannot tell you how grateful I was for that social education during that disaster. There were a few times that I was walking to my car from class and saw a group of guys teasing a Muslim girl about her scarf and poking and prodding her asking to see her hair. Both times I shooed them away, put my arm around the girl and walked her to her car or waited with her to get picked up, and both times the poor girl was trembling. I could tell that the guys weren't being malicious, just troublesome. They didn't understand how terrifying and invasive that would've been to her, but thankfully I did. And after all the kindness I've received how I could I do anything else? Especially for them? That kind of ignorance angers me. A LOT. I talked to the security guard a couple of times too. Totally inexcusable. But I digress...

So - with all this stirring in my mind this article was in my LA Times feed on my iGoogle this morning and it gave me pause.

I know that critics are chomping at the bit to exploit these kind of friendships and scream patriotic blasphemy, but if you look at the world's population 2.1 billion are Christian and 1.5 billion are Muslim and the majority of the Muslim population live in countries that stand in need, so naturally if we're sending aid to people who need it there is a good chance that they'll be Muslim. And honestly, I can't think of a people I'd rather associate myself with than them. They are some of the most kind, genuine, principled and disciplined people around. I was so happy when I read this article.

Understanding is such an empowering thing, I just really wish more people were open to it. I desperately don't want people to judge my faith by the toothless and badly dressed Polygamist redneck wonders that claim to be LDS so I won't judge every girl around me wearing a scarf as an anarchist extremist with bomb recipes in their glove compartments.

I don't know why honest belief in something scares so many people. Belief is a beautiful thing, if not the most beautiful thing, and the only thing that leads to honest human connection. I hope you'll give a smile and a nod to our scarfed sisters and hard-working brothers because they are amazing people. Truly amazing.

* When the ward heard I was coming back not only did they remember me but they're throwing me a "Welcome Home Party". I was so touched when I heard I cried.
**something I VASTLY appreciate. Manners are a lost art and something that strangely really matters to me.
*** signs of serious virtue in DC traffic (read: Insanity)
**** and can I just sing the praises for keeping alive the lost art of being someones company. It goes back to the manners thing I think.