The Best Purchase I Ever Hated

This is for the Molly Weasley's in the world. 

The people that have two priorities in life: 
1) To make sure that every person within a 10 mile radius is fed.
2) To make sure that everyone within a 10 mile radius is warm enough.

When I got a dog walking job my freshman year, I encountered a Molly Weasley. 

She learned that I didn't have a pair of "good winter boots." This is apparently one of the cardinal sins in a mother's book. In fact, I got scolded. 

This woman was very generous and offered to pay for half of a pair of good winter boots for me. Well, half of the price of a pair of good winter boots. I only agreed because back then I was even more of a people pleaser than I am now. 

We went to Nordstrom and I felt sick to my stomach. The only thing I had ever bought from Nordstrom was nothing because I was too cheap/poor. 

I spent 20 minutes deliberating over the boots on sale. (By the way, on sale was $100) When I came home with my purchase, I tried them on again and wept. There were four thoughts going through my mind.

1) These make my feet look big. 

2) I will look ludicrous if I wear these.

3) I just payed $50 bucks for shoes that make my feet look big and ludicrous. 

4) Because I just made an expensive, "unnecessary" purchase, I will be in debt for the rest of my life, my children will have to scrimp for clothes and I will never have peace of mind about my finances. 

I didn't consciously flesh out the last thought into words, but that is how my mind was reacting. It felt that terrible. I hope you don't think I was ungrateful. An OCD mind just tends to overreact.

I put the boots in my closet and would only bring them out to walk the dog. And not because I wanted to keep my feet warm, but because I was a people pleaser. I would get the dog, wave to the woman, point to my boots smiling, give her a thumbs up and walk away scowling at my big ludicrous feet. 

In case you can't tell, I have a tendency to be hypersensitive. God bless you if you have a child like this. 

It took me 4 years, but I slowly eased up on the "I HAVE TO MAKE SURE LIFE IS PERFECT" pedal and I wore my boots even though I still kinda thought they made my feet look big. Then I started to wear them even when it wasn't snowing, then I started to wear them because I thought they looked cute. Then I realized that I actually love these boots and I am so glad that I bought them. They have lasted me 6 years and they still look brand new. They have kept my feet warm and dry through many a Utah winter. They give me peace of mind in bad weather. I hope that they last me many more years.

Turns out I didn't know everything at 17 like I thought I did. 

Down Once More

When I was 13 years old, I became fascinated with a 30ish year old French man named Erik. Although I didn't know him by that name at the time. He mainly went by "The Phantom." Also sometimes "The Opera Ghost." If he was feeling really fancy, "Angel of Music." It helped that he was played by Gerard Butler who still looks dang good with half his face covered up.

The first time I was introduced to the Phantom was in 2004 when the film adaptation of the musical came out on DVD. From the moment that the organ music started to play, I felt all the mystery, emotion and imagination that has captivated Broadway audiences since 1988.

I could not stop talking about it to my friends or singing all of the parts of all of the songs. My mom, brother and sister did not understand this obsession, but my dad, he understood. He was the one who introduced me to the movie and was just as enthralled as I was.

Part of what is SO GOOD about this musical is that you are simultaneously repulsed by and rooting for the phantom.

"You are a sadistic freak, BUT I WANT YOU TO BE HAPPY."

"Christine, run as far as you can. Yes, go with Raoul. That's all he's asking, BUT GIVE POOR GERARD A BREAK. THE MAN HAS BEEN ALONE HIS WHOLE LIFE."

And then there's that part where she takes off his mask and you just feel depressed for everybody.

I don't cry over very many things, but after the 16th time of watching the movie and listening to the ending song "Learn to be Lonely." I sobbed in my room. Sobbed. Leaning against the unbroken mirror in my room thinking about the phantom's broken mirror and broken life........

All the feels.

My dad and I have both had opportunities to see the musical live, but they got away from us.My dad's opportunity was back in the 90's. He bought actual nice tickets for a show in Los Angeles, but didn't get to go. My opportunity to see it was at BYU my sophomore year. The guy I was dating bought us tickets but I broke up with him before the show so I didn't get to go.

The years passed and I didn't think of my first musical anymore.

Recently, my obsession has been Hamilton. The cheap seats to that show are $900.  I started to look at the other shows on Broadway and after scrolling past "Kinky Boots" and "Cats" I saw my old Middle School crush "The Phantom of the Opera." The wheels in my head started to turn and after realizing that New York City is only (hah) four hours away from where I live, I decided to get tickets to the show for me and my dad for Christmas.

We were a tad bit excited.

My dad likes to change the lyrics to songs. Either that or he just doesn't know them in the first place. It's hard to tell. The morning of our trek to New York, I could hear my dad singing from the catacombs of the bathroom to the tune of "In sleep he saang to mee, in dreeams he caame." Except his version was, "I like the waaay you think. You stink, you stink." He sounded so happy and I could tell he was excited for our trip. I asked him later if there was any particular reason for his choice of lyrics and he said no, it just rhymed.

Having never been to New York, everything was new and enthralling. Plus, when you are in an iconic place, suddenly everything becomes iconic to you. "Hey! Look! It's the Omega-1 Barbershop!" Really, we had no idea what was famous and what wasn't. Probably most of it wasn't.

You also think that you see celebrities. I swear that Kenneth Branagh was in front of us in line.

We entered the Hamilton lottery and didn't win tickets, but by happy, serendipitous circumstances, our parking space was right across from the Richard Rodgers. 

I've never gone hoarse from shouting at a football game but I did get hoarse from belting Broadway tunes with my dad in the car and from laughing and squealing. As a piece of trash floated gently through the window of our car in Times Square, I took it as a sign that the city had accepted us and wanted us to come back. 'Til we meet again New York.

Roommate Battle Tactics

Roommates. They are a wonderful invention. They lower the cost of housing, they give you someone to come home to after a long day of school, they have kitchen supplies that you don't have. It's great.

Most of the time.

Sometimes they come straight from Hades.

The particular roommate I'm thinking of actually came from a city on the east coast, but close enough. She and her boyfriend were both 17. They were madly in "love" and they didn't care who knew it. My other roommates and I had been good friends for a long time and we had a system going. This roommate, we'll call her "Trudy," clearly did not realized that we had a defined system that was going just fine, thank you very much.

Trudy and her boyfriend had a system of their own that became defined to us very quickly.

They would come home, sit on the couch, put on a sci-fi show like Firefly or Dr. Who and then proceed to make-out for 2 hours. Sometimes they ate Chinese food beforehand, but usually they just went straight to making out.

I like to think that I am a patient person.We gave them their space, we stayed in our rooms and only crossed the muggy, dark living room when we absolutely needed to get to the kitchen.

They started off only taking over the living room once a week or so. They were testing the waters to see how tolerant we would be. Once they realized that we wouldn't fight back, it was like we never had a living room in the first place.

At first, we adapted. Then we got angry.

I would shout things like "I JUST WANT TO FEEL LIKE A DECENT HUMAN BEING AGAIN!"

Never in Trudy’s presence of course. Because openly communicating would make too much sense. Instead I opted to glare at them as I scuttled through the living room. This did not work because

a) It was not only dark in the living room, but hazy. Somehow they always made it hazy.

b) They were locking lips vigorously, so paying attention to my even squintier already squinty eyes was not the highest thing on their totem pole.

(Side note: I heard somewhere that we’ve had this totem pole thing mixed up for years. It’s actually the lowest carving on the totem pole that is most important. Can anyone confirm or deny this?)

Low or high totem pole, the point is, they didn’t care about what I thought. 

One day, I decided that enough was too much.

I was in the kitchen making food when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I checked my microwave clock. It was Firefly time. Then I heard the sickening, coo coo-ey, googly-eyed laughter. In a fiery-eyed decision, I ran to the back bedrooms to my roommates and said "TODAY, today we are taking a stand! Everyone on the couches!"

My roommates, startled, but sensing that I was not to be messed with, extricated themselves from their rooms and quickly came to the living room. We had to be quick and we had to be quiet.

We rushed in, leapt onto the couches, and spread out nonchalantly and very widely, so as to make clear that there was no available space.

Trudy and Mr. Lips came in laughing and then stopped when they saw us all on the couch. We slowly flipped our magazine pages and raised our eyebrows like we were thoroughly absorbed in our articles.
What we were really thinking was "Please work. Pleeeaaassee work."

Trudy sipped on the straw from her Panda Express cup and pulled honey bunny out the door. If I'm not mistaken, I saw her raise her cup ever so slightly and nod her head in defeated respect. We watched with bated breath as they walked past the window and down the stairs and then heaved a collective sigh of relief.

We all went back to doing whatever it was that we had been doing before with our self-respect and our living room reclaimed.

British Curse Words

Sometimes when you have OCD you worry about saying weird things out loud.

And sometimes when you have OCD, because you worry about it, you do say those weird things out loud. At the sensitive age of 10 years old, I was in the kitchen with my mom talking about a class project. My class project was on fertilizer. (Don’t ask me why, I probably picked the topic and was for some reason interested in the dangers of eating chemicals).

Now – before I go any further with this story, I need to explain my family’s idea of open communication. When kissing came up on a movie, my parents would say “Close your eyes!”

My dad’s idea of talking about the birds and the bees was to covertly ask me, “Soo. Do you believe that Mary was a virgin?”

,

"Yees"

 “Do you know what that means?”

"Yees."

And that was the end of that.

Well, except that from them on I assiduously avoided any topics that might feel as intensely awkward as that did.

Ok, back to the kitchen when I was ten. I was talking to my mom about my project and practicing it in front of her. When it came time for me to say “fertilizer,” I said “testicles.”

No other context or reason other than my OCD brain made exactly what I was afraid of come true.

My mom:

“Do you know what that means?”

Me: 

I think the subconscious thought process in my mind was something along the lines of this:

“Ok I’m talking about fertilizer……roosters fertilize eggs….how does that work?…..testicles….That would be SO awkward if you said that out loud.”

And then the word came out of my mouth like a gymnast sticking a perfect landing on the mat. Loud and proud for all the world to see. Unmovable and unmistakable.

I considered trying to pretend that I had said another word similar to that. Festival, cubicle, anything but what had so very horribly come out of my mouth. I quickly realized there was no recourse and said something like, “IIIIIII have to go arrange my American Girl dolls now.”

14 years later, I was on the phone with someone from Great Britain. I used one of the exclamations that I like. Something like “man alive” or “jeezy petes.” That started a conversation about what exclamations Brits use. There was a girl from England in my ward and she would always say “bollocks” when she missed the ball during volleyball. She seemed like a nice, normal girl, so I didn't think the word would have any bad connotations. I brought up this word to my friend and he lost it on the phone. At that moment, I knew I had made a tragic mistake. How grave a mistake, I wasn’t sure, but definitely a mistake.

He composed himself, explained what it meant, and I realized that my old "fertilizer" friend had come back to afflict my life. Except this time the word was wearing a Union Jack. Loud and proud for all the world to see.

Julia Vincent Hetherton

The First Time I Watched Jaws

There are some movies that are burned into your psyche forever. The first movie that affected me was "Where the Red Ferns Grows." I was four and the part where the boy falls on an axe and dies sent me into a waterfall of tears. I went upstairs with my mom following me. She asked me why I was crying and all I could come up with was that death made me sad.

My parents tried to be courteous of my sensitivity from that point forward. My dad was so courteous that when I was nine and he wanted to watch Braveheart on TV in our  living room, he locked the door after I went outside to play. He was even so gracious as to refuse to let me in when I was pounding on the door and yelling, "I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!!!"
I heard a muffled, "Just wait a few minutes!" through the front door. I suspect that he had fallen asleep as per the norm.

A year later, "The Patriot" was on TV and my parents were watching it in the living room at night when I was supposed to be asleep. I couldn't sleep though, so I came downstairs to see what they were up to and as soon as I rounded the wall, Heath Ledger's character got shot in the face. I turned right around and went back upstairs.

When I was eleven, my parents thought that I had outgrown my movie sensitivity. They regretted that assumption later.
We watched Jaws as a family one night. I was a little scared, but it was more of that "fun" scared feeling rather than like sheer terror. That is until I had to take a shower the next day.

I was legitimately terrified that a full-grown shark was going to be able to come up through the 3-inch drain pipe into my shower and kill me dead. The solution to this problem? If my mom was in the room at the same time, that would prevent any blood-thirsty sharks from coming into my tub. The shark would move on to the next kid who naively took a shower without a parent in the same room. Rookies.

My mom humored my irrational fear and whenever I would shout, "MOM! I have to take a shower!!" she would sigh, grab a magazine and come upstairs.

My sister also had an illogical lavatory fear. At six years old, she was afraid that when she flushed, some monster was going to be able to emerge from the plumbing depths and get her. So, naturally, to prevent this from happening she would close the lid, stand on top of it, flush, and stand there until it wasn't making noises anymore. Then she would bend her little strawberry blonde head down to peek through the little crack between the seat and toilet and make sure the coast was clear before getting down to wash her hands.

My hygienic shenanigan went on for a couple weeks until my mom made me take a shower without her in the room. Any time I heard a gurgling sound coming from the pipe I would hold very still and get ready to hop over the little wall of the tub. Then I would slowly resume washing my hair while holding very still. By some miracle, I survived (my mental absurdities, not a shark attack) and I have turned out to be a semi-rational human being.

I remember you, but you don't remember me

Blog reader,

You may have noticed that I have an affinity for the Myers-Briggs personality test. I explain some of my absurdities with my INFJ personality type. If you are sick of this, too bad, I am going to do it again.

One characteristic of an INFJ is to notice EVVVVERRRYYTHING about the people around them. And remember it.

That bored look you gave the person you were talking to? I noticed it.
That flirtatious witty banter between you and the Sunday School teacher? I made a note and I won't be surprised when you start dating later.
That time I met your dog? I'll remember her name and breed and age.

Yes, it is weird. I have gotten many strange looks from people because I remember that it is their dad's birthday and that Hitler was born on the same day which also happens to be National Weed Day.

If you have been a victim of my people memory, I apologize. You can call those asbestos people if you want to try to get some sort of compensation.

They seem really eager to sue others for you. Just don't ask me how to get to their office because my directions memory is non-existent. 

My uncanny ability to blurb out very specific facts about people increases in already awkward conversations. If I don't know what to talk about, the more likely I am to spout off some question like:

 "How is your Aunt Mabel doing? She went into surgery last Tuesday right?" 

And you will answer with, "How do you know I have an Aunt Mabel?" 

I will try to brush it off by saying, "Ohhh, you know, everyone has an Aunt Mabel."  

When that doesn't work, I will deflect by saying "Look! I found a website all about Jasmine Cephas Jones from Hamilton!" And you will still give me a weird look and then walk away while I get distracted by trying to infer things about her relationship with Anthony Ramos because they are so dang cute but private, which I respect. See below.

I went into the plasma center a few months ago and met a new screener man. As he was sticking my finger, getting my protein count and making sure I hadn't shot up heroin in the recent past, I started to ask him questions about himself as is my mode of operation. 

We had a fairly sanitary conversation (he used an alcohol swab on my finger and we stuck to boring topics). He told me he was planning on going up to Ogden that week to visit his parents.

When I went back the next week to donate plasma (I WAS POOR OK?) I happened to get the same screener guy. As he was sticking my finger again, I casually asked "How was visiting Ogden?"

He continued to squeeze my finger as I was internally cringing and thinking "pleeeaaaasseee don't register how weird it is that I remembered that."

He didn't even look up and answered that it was good to see his parents and family. Just as I was about to let my breath out in relief, he slowly looked up at me and squinted his eyes like he had just remembered that a total stranger was sitting in front of him. Which is exactly what he had just remembered.

I can only be thankful that I hadn't called him by name, referenced his major or talked about what he likes to do for fun. 

When I have a moment like this, I try to make it less weird by explaining that I can list off all 6 of Angelina Jolie's kids. It works sometimes.

So, if I ask you "What's your name again?" know that I am just pretending for all of our sakes.

And if you are thinking that this somehow helps me in school, it doesn't, so no need to be jealous of my sweet skills. 

I never saw that screener guy again. Whenever I think of Ogden though, my finger will throb in memory and I will be secure in the knowledge that if I ever do see him again, he probably won't know me from Aunt Mabel.

Oedipus Rex Complex

Greek Mythology. So weird and yet so applicable to life.

Let me tell you a modern-day tale of Oedipus Rex. But first, I am going to briefly tell you the original tale in modern language.

It goes something like this:

Laius and Jocasta: Yay! We had a baby!

Oracle (someone who foretells the future): Yo, I just got a tip that your son is going to kill you Laius.

Laius and Jocasta: Naturally, our only option is to send our baby out of Thebes.

Many years later and in a different town:

Oracle: Oedipus, man, I don't know how to break this to you but, uh, you are going to kill your father and marry your mother.

Oedipus: SICK.

Oracle: I know, right?

Oedipus decides to leave his parents home to avoid doing either of those things. On the road he kills the King of Thebes, Laius, and then he marries the widowed queen, Jocasta. Later on he finds out that Laius and Jocasta are his actual parents. HE is the baby that they sent away.

Brief aside: When Oedipus realized that he had inadvertently caused the very thing that he didn't want to happen, to happen, he gouged his eyes out.

Ok. You are probably wondering why I told you this story. Well, because a similar sort of thing happened to me. Except what happened to me wasn't that terrible.

I like to pretend that I can control things. Not crazy things like inanimate objects with my mind or the outcome of the election. Just, ya know, my life and stuff.

I have convinced myself that if I worry about something enough, I'll be able avoid any misfortunes that might come my way.

Case in point: I had a semi-expensive bottle of essential oils in the front pocket of my backpack.
A mere twenty feet from the door to my house, I was walking composedly up the sidewalk. Then barreling in like a freight train from some town where they worry a lot, a thought entered my mind. The thought was this: "WHAT IF, my backpack is unzipped at this very moment and my semi-expensive bottle of essential oils that I just bought, falls out of my backpack and I lose it or it breaks??" I quickly whipped my pack around, unzipped the pocket to make sure that my bottle was still in there and because of that, I dropped the bottle onto the ground. Where it semi-broke.

Like tragic Oedipus of old, I had killed my father in the form of slightly scientifically-supported headache reliever and in the process, given myself a headache. I did not gouge my eyes out.

Picture with me another modern-day scenario:

You don't want to lose something. That something is probably an important object like keys, or glasses or that random tool that you only use once every 4 years but has one very important specific function.

You notice this thing in its current habitat. You think, "hmm I'm probably going to lose it if I leave it there. I am going to move it to another spot that is much more logical so that I won't forget where it is."

What happens next? When you go to look for the thing, it is humanly impossible for you to remember where you moved it. What can you remember though, without fail? Where it was originally.

My friend, if this happens to you, consider yourself among one of the great and noble ones that the Greeks deemed worthy to etch onto a pot, because you have just Oedipus Rexed yourself.

Julia vs. Stuff

I am an anti-hoarder. I love to throw things away. It's like a high for me. I get a trip out of tossing something triumphantly into the trash. "You don't have any hold on me you transient worldly dross!"
It's freeing. I try to convert people all the time, but humans are surprisingly attached to their stuff.

Secretly, I would LOVE to be a professional de-clutterer. Getting to throw people's crap away would be exhilarating. This is how I feel when I chuck something into the trash:

But like I said, people are attached to their stuff and the chances of me getting seriously maimed would go way up.

"You don't need this ratty sweatshirt from high school."

"But I like it."

"But you don't neeeeed it."

*Tosses it smugly into the trash*

*Gets beat up*

The only sentimental thing that I keep is notes from people. If you write me something even just mildly personal and kind, I will keep it.

On the flip side, I am also a tightwad. So the things I do keep, I use sparingly. My mind has decided that there is some special occasion coming up in the future that I need to save my nice things for. What that special occasion is, my mind has yet to inform me. Usually this applies to perfume and nice shoes, things that will either run out or get worn out if I use them too frequently.

When there is a special occasion that I might use my nice things for, I usually forget to use them. I buy perfume and because I worry about it running out, I don't use it. So it's essentially like I don't have perfume. WHICH IS THE PROBLEM THAT I'M TRYING TO AVOID IN THE FIRST PLACE. Sometimes I really don't think that I raised my brain.

Even though we live in a world of scarcity (thank you Econ 110 and Dr. Kearl) I am trying to live abundantly. Not wastefully, but abundantly.

I've realized that each moment can be a special occasion because "this very moment is the only one you know you have for sure" - Oprah Winfrey

Cheesy, but true.

So my advice is this: use the dang perfume and then throw the bottle away.

And here's more Soul Train because there are few things greater in this world. The last one is my personal favorite.

"Their Eyes Were Watching God" - thoughts

For those who are familiar with my blog, you will quickly realize that this is not one of my typical posts. This is not a story about something that happened in my life. Instead it is my thoughts on a book that I read. Since I didn't have anyone to discuss it with, I wanted to discuss it with myself. So if you fancy that, read on.

I'm a sucker for literary titles. I have to admit, that is one of the reasons I was drawn to read this book by Zora Neale Hurston. I didn't know much about it except that the title seems to contain a whole world in one sentence. "Their Eyes Were Watching God." It tells the reader almost nothing, but ignites questions. "Who are they?" "Why are they watching God?" It implies some sort of struggle. It implies humans interactions with a force greater than themselves.

So with this curiosity, I started to read.

I found that this book was exactly about struggle and forces greater than us. And yet, it is not a sad story. It contains, among other things, sadness and even worse than sadness, apathy, but I closed the cover feeling enlightened, wiser and with a desire to live my life with more purpose. As Janie Crawford, the main character, says "You got tuh go there tuh know there." I want to go "there" now. I want to have experiences and live and not be afraid of the struggle.

Janie's experiences at first stifle her thoughts and her voice. Then, partly because she meets Tea Cake, her third husband and the man that propels her forward towards her horizon, she rediscovers herself. One great symbol of this is when she lets down her hair from the constricting hair wrap that her second husband forces her to wear.

I love how Janie learns to put what people think of her into perspective. She wants to be true to herself, rather than be true others. This is illustrated poignantly at Tea Cake's funeral. " No expensive veils and robes for Janie this time. She went on in her overalls. She was too busy feeling grief to dress like grief."

As an INFJ, I frequently feel that my actions conform depending on who I am around. Janie encounters this too. With her grandmother and her three husbands she changes how she behaves and how she loves. She compares love to the changeable sea. "Love ain’t somethin’ lak uh grindstone dat’s de same thing everywhere and do de same thing tuh everything it touch. Love is lak de sea. It’s uh movin’ thing...it takes its shape from de shore it meets, and it’s different with every shore.”

Each marriage that she has is a shore. Most importantly, at the end of the book, she arrives at her own shore and is able to love herself and her voice.

To put it in the words of Peoby, Janie's best friend,  “Ah done growed ten feet higher from jus’ listenin’ tuh you, Janie.

Swamp Drugs

They say that to find trouble in Provo you have to go looking for it. Well, I'm here to tell you that sometimes it finds you. 

It was my friend's birthday and she had had a rough day. It would have been bad regardless, but it was especially bad because it happened on the day that everyone was writing on her Facebook wall "Hope you had a good birthday!" 

We were trying to decide on what we could do that would turn around a crappy birthday. We determined on going to the hot springs. Nothing like sitting in warm sulphur water and mud to celebrate your life, right?

This is the actual hot springs that we went to:

(Side note: I believe that is a shark in the water.)

We didn't leave until 11 PM. We had to walk through the creepy woods in the dead of night. Let me explain to you how creepy these woods are: They are creepy. 

Luckily, we did not get abducted by cult members looking for a sacrificial victim. (That is a legitimate fear I have every time I walk through there.) We did, however, find a group of youths having a party next to the hot springs. I'm not talking about a balloons and streamers party either. We shrugged our shoulders and decided to get in anyway. 

After listening to lots of grammatically unnecessary swearing and enjoying the warm water, I noticed that one of the youths put his head on the ground and started blowing on something. I said in my normal volume voice "What are they doing??" My friend shhhed me and informed me that they were making a bong. Sure enough a thick cloud of ganja smoke wafted over the smell of the sulphur springs and it was at that moment that we decided our hot spring birthday celebration had ended.

They always warn you about the naked people at the hot springs, but they never warn you about the drugs.

I can now say that I have been to a "real" party. Accidentally, but I was definitely there. 

The Lisp

"What are you majoring in?"

"Oh, I want to be a Thpeech Therapitht" I joke, emphasizing my lisp.

Most people don't really notice that I have a lisp. However, I don't spend my time surrounded by most people. I spend my time surrounded by people who have been trained for 4+ years to hear incorrect articulation. It's hard to fly under the auditory radar around them.

I'm going to indulge myself for a second and tell you about the three types of lisps.

1.The Emma Stone. Also known as a dentalized lisp (the kind that I have).

2. The Kahmunrah. Also known as an interdental lisp. This is the one that sounds like a straight up /th/ sound. 

3. The Sid the Sloth. Also known as a lateral lisp. 

There's a lot more spit involved with that type of lisp. Ironically, I actually physically cannot produce a lateral lisp. Believe me, I've tried. A lot. 

When I first told my mom that I was changing my major to speech therapy, there was a pause on the end of the line and then, "Are you sure that's what you want to go into?"

I got flustered and said "I know you think I do, but I don't have a LITHP!"

When I get mad, nervous or loud, it gets worse.

Luckily, I'm stubborn and I felt that this is what I was meant to go into, so I stuck with it. Two years passed and I would practice my /s/ sound anytime I was out walking. Walking to class, walking my dog, walking into things, just walking. I improved it a little with help from my mom.

This term, my first term in grad school to become a speech language pathologist, I felt compelled to ask one of my professors to help me with my lisp.

Humbling. That is how I would describe that conversation. Humbling and oddly reassuring.  My professor reacted with kindness and honesty.  I walked out of her office a little overwhelmed with the task of changing a habit of 21 years. I also walked out carrying a workbook that is designed for children.

I have to admit, the way I speak is a part of my identity. Getting rid of my lisp is like asking me to dye my hair blonde or asking me to find the NBA interesting. I like that I have a lisp. I like the slightly higher pitched sound that I make. Do I lose some of my Julianess if I lose my lisp? Can I be a speech therapist with a speech impediment?

I once had an eye doctor with the laziest lazy eye that you've ever seen. In my naive 14 year old mind this seemed absurd to me. "Really? out of allllll the professions, you chose EYE doctor??"

I've since noticed that people are sometimes attracted to the very thing that they struggle with. For example, I recently read a book about a psychologist with manic depressive disorder. I know of social workers that grew up in abusive homes and teachers that hated school.

Never having struggled with something can be a struggle in and of itself. Weakness is not necessarily a bad thing. Struggle gives us passion and passion makes us good at what we do.

Achilles could have made a great podiatrist. Who knows.

Now, I'm not saying that you can't be a civil engineer if you've never had a bridge collapse underneath you. What I am saying is we all need empathy and a reason. A drive.

So when a client comes up to me and says "this thtinks." I can say "I know kid, I know."

Julia Vincent Hetherton

Costco Pizza

Have you ever had that dream where you forget to attend one class for an entire semester? And then as a result you fail miserably.
Me neither.
Just kidding, I probably have it at least twice a semester. It's terrifying.

I am a planner. I like to plan and I like things to stick to the plan. If there is no plan, then life is uncertain, variables come in, unpleasant surprises might happen and my whole life will go down the crapper.

This may sound extreme, but it's how my OCD, INFJ, Julia subconscious mind works.
When things aren't planned, my body responds by going into hyper drive. I immediately start thinking of how to secure plans, my heart rate goes up, my mind goes into James Bond focus and I can't sit down until it's all figured out.

I've never just "flown by the seat of my pants."

Actually I did once, but I ended up being lost for 35 minutes as a direct result.

The year that I graduated from college was a proud one for me. Four years of hard work and dreams about forgetting a class were finally completed. I was rewarded with this:

Almost makes you wanna cry, huh?

So to celebrate, my family decided to have a little gathering of 15 or so people. We planned our menu of Costco pizza, fruit and brownies.

Simple.

 I, however, wanted to make sure that we would have enough pizza. I didn't want Costco to be so backed up that they couldn't fulfill our order.  After all, we were going to be feeding a whopping 15 people. And it was graduation weekend at BYU. There were probably a lot of people planning to have Costco pizzas at their graduation party. This is Utah and having a Costco membership is akin to having a minivan. Or being a dentist. Or voting for Mitt Romney even if he's not running.

Don't believe me? Guess where the largest Costco in the world is. Just guess. Like I said, Utah loves Costco.

With all this, and more, in mind, I called to put in my pizza order.

"Hi, Is it possible to order pizza for a future date?"

"Sure thing, what can I get you?"

"Ok, I'm having kind of a big party, so we'll need three pizzas. Two cheese, one pepperoni. Can you do that?"

"Yeah, when would you like that for?"

"May 22nd"

There was a subtle, but unmistakable choking sound on the other end of the line. "We only take orders up to 3 days in advance"

It was April 26th.

Flummoxed, I said "So if I order three days in advance, you guys will be able to handle my order?"

"Yep."

Honestly, my first reaction was, "What business in their right mind doesn't let people order food a month in advance?!" 

The ridiculousness of what I had just thought dawned on me and I continued walking down the street to do the rest of my Christmas shopping. 

My Therapist's Name

The first time going to therapy is terrifying. "I have to admit to someone that I have FLAWS? And I'm probably going to have to make eye contact while admitting my flaws??" At least, that is my idea of terrifying.

For my first appointment, I arrived early as per usual and paced in the hallway about 6 times. I was trying to decide if this was actually a good idea. Whenever someone would walk by, I would stop and feign all-encompassing interest in a picture of some lady with beady eyes and spectacles. Peering over my shoulder, I would set to work pacing again as soon as I saw that they were gone.

When I was on my 7th rotation, I braced my feet to the ground, set my jaw and wobbled forward to the door. Advice: don't be early to your first therapy session. Be running a little late so you don't have time to question whether you are going to go through with it or not. Just bulldoze through the door with your head held high.

Once inside the lobby, I bee lined for the receptionist and whispered to her, because everyone whispers in the therapy office. If someone could explain that to me, I would greatly appreciate it. Maybe a long time ago someone had a cold and had to whisper and then everyone started to whisper and now no one wants to be the person that talks LOUD, which is actually just a normal level. Hmm. Spreading meekness instead of germs. Interesting.

Anyway, I succumbed to passive aggressive peer pressure and whispered "Hi, I have an appointment with um....Lisa."I whispered "Lisa" even quieter in case she had a reputation for taking on really difficult clients.

"Juuuust so everybody's clear, I need help but I don't need that much help, OK? OK."

Dumb. I realize that that is dumb now.

Once I was in Lisa's personal office and sitting in her purple recliner it wasn't so bad. A few sessions of reality checks and a diagnosis of anxiety and OCD and I was feeling muuuuch better. It's funny how realizing that you are, in fact, crazy makes you feel less crazy.  In short, therapy made me feel really happy and when I feel happy about something, I tell EVERYONE.

That personality trait has worked out for me thus far in my life because usually I'm happy about a book or a movie or a cool fact that I learned. Those things are safe to talk about.

After experiencing the wonders of therapy, I would be talking to someone and think of some great insight that I had learned from my therapist. I would open my mouth and widen my eyes to share it and then abruptly clamp my mouth shut and pout in a conflicted way.

It was like "psychologist" was some taboo word that I couldn't say. Eventually, I got tired of not talking about therapy and now I talk about it whenever I feel like it's relevant and helpful.

I've visited three therapists at different times in my life. The first two were named Lisa and Glen. In my opinion those are perfect therapist names. Lisa. Glen. Say them out loud to yourself. Lisaa Gleenn. Don't you just feel calmer saying them? Liiissaaaa Gleeeeennn.

After my mission when I wanted to see a therapist again, I was expecting to get someone named Alan or Joel or Susan or something like that. Equally soothing names.

When I came to the front desk for my appointment, the receptionist (Named Sherrie.....fairly good therapist name but not as good as Glen or Lisa, which is probably why she was just at the front desk) smiled politely and said "Tyler will see you in a moment."

Tyler?!? What kind of a name is that? Not a therapist name! I had some serious doubts about this guy's credentials. Tyler is the name for someone that skateboards or that you have lots of fun with or that makes movies about an old Black woman. Probably the closest Tyler to being a therapist is Tyler Joseph. He sings about depression and stuff. He's allowed to be named Tyler because he's a pop star.

If I followed my own theory, I should have been a librarian. But a speech therapist is close enough.

Skeptically, I walked into Tyler's office and cautiously assessed his competence from behind folded arms and squinted eyes. Turns out Tylers make pretty good therapists too. I have since changed my namist ways.

So if your name is Archibald and you want to be a social media specialist, go for it!

And don't be afraid to talk about what you want to talk about. Like the fact that your name is Archibald and you had to go to therapy for that. No shame! When you share your story, it helps other people to share theirs.

The Bus Ride

I walked into the house around 4 PM looking disheveled. Nothing incriminating, but just a little tired. My roommate welcomed me with "Yay! You're home! Where have you been?

I flopped onto the couch and half laughed, half sighed, "It's a long story."

Walking

I'm a late bloomer when it comes to transportation. I didn't get my driver's license until I was 18, I still don't have a car and I'm chronically challenged with directions. When I was making my debut into the world (aka my day of being birthed), I kept trying to come out sideways. Even then I was bad at directions.

Thus, I have become well acquainted with the art of walking. This puts me on the same level as Elizabeth Bennet, Steve Jobs, Henry David Thoreau and Ellen DeGeneres' grandma.

Perks to walking:

There are lots, but I'll just condense it down to this: It forces me to slow down and actually appreciate life.

Today was not a perk day.

I Did a Dumb Thing

Alright, so today was my first day of "freedom" from grad school. I didn't know what to do with myself. I'm sick so I probably should have just taken a nap.
However, my mind thought, "Hey, Julia, you know what would be a good idea? Let's go to DI" (East Coast translation: Good Will).

I parried back with "Why? What do I need from DI?"

My mind, always quick on the draw, responded with a logically sound argument. She said, "National Geographic magazines and summer dresses"

I couldn't argue with that.

So despite the 45 minute walk time that google maps estimated, I waltzed out the door armed with my purse, my best 97 cent walking flip flops and "The Things They Carried" by Tim O'Brien.

My energy and good intentions started to wane about 15 minutes out. My throat started to hurt because apparently walking when you're sick makes your throat hurt? That was a new one for me.

Just as I was about to admit defeat, turn around and take a nap, I saw a bus!

A bus! I know how to navigate a bus! and that would save me from this whole walking thing. Not only do I know how to navigate a bus, I had to use the bus for the whole month of March, so I'm basically the Indiana Jones of buses.

Feeling pretty proud of myself for being so street savvy, I sauntered onto the bus. 

There is this game that you can play while you ride the bus. At least I play it, I'm not sure if anyone else does. 

It's called "Let's not look at the bus schedule, let's just guess when you have to get off and hope that it's the closest stop to your destination." Terrible name for a game, I know. I'll gladly take suggestions for a new title. 

Bus stops don't really have a rhyme or a reason. There could be two within 50 feet of each other, or it could be a mile before there is another bus stop. 

As I get close to my destination, I gamble on which stop is the closest and when I think I can't get any closer without going past my destination, I pull the yellow cord to let the driver know I want to get off. It's surprisingly stressful and exhilarating. 

There have been many times that I thought to myself "crap, too early" as I exit smiling and waving to the bus driver. 

On this particular day, I was playing my game. Only I thought I knew exactly where the bus was headed. I was calm, cool, collected and confidant. The bus was at a light and I was looking left because that's where I needed to go. Really slowly, the bus started to veer to the right. 

It dawned on me: I've been betrayed!

No matter, I waved my hand in my mind, the bus usually takes the least logical route to get somewhere so we'll probably take a little detour and then end up where I need to be. I picked up where I had left off in my book.

Half an hour later and in the town north of where I live, it became clear that the bus was not going to be near my stop again for a long time. I determined to just keep reading my book until I got back to near my house.

An hour and a half later I got dropped off where I had been picked up and I made my way home.

I had spent $2.50 to go essentially no where. However, I had gotten through about 90 pages in my book.

Sometimes you just have to laugh :) And I'm lucky enough to have roommates that laughed with me.

The Hug

Some people are naturally good huggers. I love those people. I am not one of those people. 

I could blame it on the fact that my immediate family and both sides of my extended family consider physical contact to be bordering cruel and unusual punishment, but let's all be honest. I'm just not a good hugger.

It's inevitable that when I hug someone, I will hurt them. 

Shoulder to the jugular, foot on the foot, glasses to the nose, fist to the wrist. I never know what limb will cause harm, but one of them manages to get in the way. 

"Oh it can't be that bad!" People tell me. Was it that bad when I accidentally punched an 81 year old woman? Yes, it was that bad. 

I have made a conscious effort to focus while I hug people. I plan my movements in advance. 

"Ok, arms out, clear the shoulders as you come in, don't move too fast, watch out for their face"

OOF. I shove my toe into their foot. 

Tall people are especially difficult to hug. There's more square footage to potentially damage. Also, for some reason, I always feel that my arms need to be on top. I'm not sure if this is a control thing or what....either way it makes things awkward. 

I have a soon-to-be cousin-in-law that I adore. Despite the fact that it takes 6 words and 4 hyphens to describe how I'm related to her. 

The first night I met her, it came time for goodbye hugs. She's 6'0.  I wanted to make a good impression. I determined to focus all my mental energy on coordinating my limbs. I moved slowly. I navigated carefully. Success! We hugged, it was normal! It was great! In my euphoric relief, I exclaimed "I hugged someone without hurting them!" I swung out my arms out in celebration and promptly clocked my 5 year old cousin in the face. 

Is there any hope for me? 

I can only keep believing that there is. 

I can only keep believing.

The Houseboat

There comes a time in everyone's life where you find yourself in an odd situation that you never thought you would be in. And yet, there you are, with a giant gauze pad taped to you and there's nothing you can do about it! (I'm going to spare you all the details of how I got to this point, I'll just give the necessary details.)

Two weeks before I was supposed to leave on my mission, I found myself bedridden and dealing with a painful medical condition. Two days after I was supposed to leave for my mission, the doctor told me that all was clear and that I could be on my merry way. Well, the proverbial mission train only comes around once every 6 weeks and I had missed the bus. So there I was still healing and with absolutely nothing to do with myself for 5 weeks and 5 days.

I was used to working, going to school, exercising, and having friends. With one swift kick in the pants, Mother Medical Problems had taken that away from me. I was left to fend for myself in my brother's old room. (I need to mention here, that I had a very doting real mom that took care of me wonderfully.)

At first the idea of doing nothing was really appealing.

"I have an excuse to stay in bed ALL day! I can watch Indiana Jones ALL day!"

1. I got bored of that pretty quick.

2. I have an overactive "do something productive" command in my hard drive.

"Doing something productive" translated into "research everything you can about houseboats" I know right? Where did that even come from?  I have no idea. I became obsessed with owning a houseboat. I was like Mr. Toad with one of his manias.

I even got my dad hooked on the idea. I had convinced myself that I could never be truly happy until I was moored to some river bank in Europe, living in a houseboat. It was exhilarating at first, to imagine myself, ruler of the dock, with my cute little floating house. But squint as I might at my finances and my life plans, I couldn't figure out how to make it work. Slowly, I realized that this dream would take a lot a lot of work to become a reality. And even if it did happen, it would be many years down the road. 

And even when I did get a houseboat it probably wouldn't look like the houseboat of my dreams.

It would look like this:

I was deflated, depressed and stuck. "If I can't own a houseboat, then what am I even doing with my life??" I think I had been stuck in a room by myself for too long. 

But nevertheless I felt despondent, like I had no control over my life or my happiness. I felt totally and completely out of control because the things that I felt would bring me joy were so very out of my reach. I felt trapped in every real sense of the word. It's not a pretty place to be. 

After feeling sorry for myself for a little while, I had an epiphany. And if you listen carefully, I think that this epiphany can help you too. 

I realized that I didn't really want a houseboat. What I wanted...... was to be creative and live like a gypsy and defy social norms. (I think this might have come from being stuck at BYU for so long, also my brain is weird) 

I could do that from home! Huzzah! I had found a solution to my problems! I DID know what I was even doing with my life! I started researching how to make my own shampoo with baking soda and vinegar and how to make my own deodorant with coconut oil. I also started cooking a whole bunch of new recipes. 

In case anyone is interested:

http://theartofsimple.net/how-to-clean-your-hair-without-shampoo 

http://wellnessmama.com/1523/natural-deodorant/ 

Do I still do these things? No. Well I still cook, but I buy shampoo and deodorant from the store. 

Did this experience help me in some way? Yes. 

So, if you are feeling stuck or deflated about your life because it's not where you want it to be, look for the small things that you can control and then do them! Plant 5 seeds in an egg carton, paint a wall in your house, curl your hair a different way, buy a new shirt from DI, call your grandpa that lives in Louisiana, make a zen garden out of rocks and sticks. 

It's exhilarating and even if the product doesn't turn out the way you want, the process of creating is wonderful and I believe that it is part of why we live. It's what we're even supposed to be doing with our lives. So create. 

<3