something good for something better

We all know the beloved American classic, Napoleon Dynamite. Well tonight I had an "Uncle Rico moment." You know, a moment where I wanted to go back, to live in the glory days, and remember the past with rose-colored glasses. A moment where I wanted to believe that the past was better than the future could ever be (a false idea, I know, but I entertained it nonetheless). Perhaps it was because I was on a 3 hour car ride by myself, my mind sure does wander into some random corners when its left to think about life, or maybe it was the fact that I had to participate in my favorite Jeppesen Family party via tele-conference, not to mention the fact that while they are all enjoying Mickey Mouse waffles and breakfast by Grandpa, I will be buried away in the biomedical library working out the details of a qualitative research project. Well, whatever the reason, tonight I wanted to go back. Back to life before piles of student loans. Back to a life of vacations and adventures. Back to a life of sleeping on the lawn under the stars. Back to 3 days on and 4 days off--no responsibility attached. Back to ICS. Back to seat heaters and sunroofs. Back to sleepovers with the crazies (my nieces and nephews...crazies is an endearing term, I promise). Back to a 20 minute drive to the temple. Back to parking lots and freeways that are actually FREE. Back to Cafe Rio. Back to friends and people I miss. Back, I just wanted to go BACK.
But that's just it, I can't go back. That was then and this is now... That is definitely the life I sometimes crave. However THAT is not the life that Heavenly Father wants me to have; Philly is where I belong. I have had confirmation after confirmation that this is where I'm supposed to be. I have fallen in love with this city and a whole new crew of friends. My life out here is great, really it is. However, sometimes I crave the security blanket of Utah with a life and a career so clearly mapped out. Out here the options aren't so transparent. The future is uncertain, and we all know my brain needs a plan. I have goals to accomplish that span far more than the next two years. I need to know what to expect. I need to prepare my heart and my mind for the course I am about to follow. Life in Utah was predictable. Expectations were clear.
Really, this is all a matter of trust. Trust that things are working silently together for a much larger purpose than my vision can currently see. Trust that best is yet to come. In the middle of this whirlwind of thoughts, a talk by Elder Jeffery R. Holland came to mind. He discusses Lot's wife and the dangers of looking back..."I plead with you not to dwell on days now gone, nor to yearn vainly for yesterdays, however good those yesterdays may have been. The past is to be learned from but not lived in. We look back to claim the embers from glowing experiences but not the ashes. And when we have learned what we need to learn and have brought with us the best that we have experienced, then we look ahead, we remember that faith is always pointed toward the future. Faith always has to do with blessings and truths and events that will yet be efficacious in our lives. So a more theological way to talk about Lot’s wife is to say that she did not have faith. She doubted the Lord’s ability to give her something better than she already had. Apparently she thought—fatally, as it turned out—that nothing that lay ahead could possibly be as good as those moments she was leaving behind." Okay, I get it. Really, I do. I am being molded by opportunities I could only find here...

Then I exited the freeway and drove right on through center city, nuzzled my way into a parallel parking spot, and realized that this is home.

I've traded in something good for something better...

That should be ILLEGAL!

I am highly opposed to celebrating Christmas, or even thinking of Christmas, before Thanksgiving. It just doesn't seem right. That being said, you can imagine my annoyance with those November-1st-Christmas-music-ers and those that consume holiday beverages (aka Egg Nog) before the official season is upon us. Please, let me enjoy my apple cider and pumpkin flavored everything before I rush off into season stuffed with baked goods, peppermint, and parties.

I have remained strong and resisted such temptations...until tonight.

It has been years since I've had egg nog--YEARS! That egg nog experience was not pleasant, nor memorable, thus I have yet to consume that Christmas tradition since. In my mind egg nog was gross. In fact, I scoffed at friends for loving such a beverage (especially before Thanksgiving). However tonight I was stuck waiting in the car with some newly purchased egg nog (note: I was not the purchaser of said egg nog) and my mind began to wander. The curiosity to taste, again, this beloved drink began to work inside me and before I knew it I was sneaking a drink of that blasted egg nog...and you know what? IT WAS GOOD! Really good. Surprisingly good. Refreshingly good. Excitingly good. Before I knew it, I had well exceeded the suggested serving size of a 1/2 cup and I couldn't stop. That thick, creamy, flavorful beverage kept calling me back. Before I realized it my friend and I had finished off the jug! Yes, the jug! It was a small jug (a quart), but it was a jug nonetheless. In a moment of regret, I peered at the "Nutrition Facts" on the back to see what the damages were; that is where the devastation set in. It was the "servings per container" line that really did me in. It was 8!!! Eight servings in this little ol jug?!? You've got to be kidding me! I just drank 4 servings of egg nog without even a hesitation. A quick calculation left me even more shocked...180 calories and 4 grams of fat per serving...times that by four...and AGH! 720 calories and 32 grams of fat!!!! WHAT?!? I just drank a Big Mac and a half! 720 calories and 32 grams of fat is what an entire family in a third world country consumes in one day. How did I manage to do it in a few sips? How can they put that artery-clogging goodness in such an easily drinkable carton without a warning. Seriously that should be illegal!

a proud moment...

Two words: Parallel Parking. Yes, I know you just got a little nervous as you flashed back to drivers' ed and the infamous parallel parking test you were forced to complete as a young sixteen year old. Well, the nervous feeling only quadrupled when I arrived here in Philly. Parking is a nightmare, and EVERY parking spot requires the dreaded act of parallel parking. The streets are narrow and the native Philadelphians leave only inches between their car and yours; all these elements combine for a rather stressful experience to the naive city parker. In fact, my first night in Philly it took me 8 tries, a nice, big, black man giving me step-by-step instructions from the sidewalk, and my roommate backing me in, to successfully park in a tight little pocket on our street. Once I was in a spot I found myself avoiding all types of driving just so I didn't have to move my car, only to later attempt an awkward parallel park. I've never craved parking lots more than I do now. What a treat it is to pull in and park wherever and however you want! Suburbia, I thank you!

But they do say "practice makes perfect," and after 2 months in this concrete paradise I have improved. My heart no longer starts to race at the thought of fitting into space only inches bigger than my car; I have acclimated. It feels good; it feels real good. My skills are still mediocre at best, but I can nuzzle in with the best of em. But I'll be honest, I still love parking lots.

(Yes, that's my little Corolla parked Philly style. Impressed? I would be.)

Final Score: Danelle & Amber: 2 Mouse: 0

Confused by the picture are you? Well, good. You should be.
Let me explain. Here in this fabulous city of Philadelphia we have seemed to encounter a bit of a mouse problem, and by problem I mean they are taking over our house. Okay, okay, so we've only seen them twice, but their presence is well noted by hollowed out loaves of bread, chewed up plastic baggies, and an occasional scamper across the bathroom floor, all of which have been equally disturbing. So we decided to take matters into our own hands and reclaim our house. (Note: you should know there are few things I HATE more than mice. Spiders: no problem. Snakes: I can handle them. Ear wigs: gross, but I can deal. Mice, nope, can't do it! Disgust, fear, and invasion are the range of emotions I feel when I have a mouse encounter. Perhaps its because when I was a child I found a dead mouse (that had fallen prey to my dad's trap of D-CON) in the middle of my room one morning. As a kid, that kind of thing can traumatize you for life, and in my case it did.)
Step 1: How do you kill a mouse?
Well thanks to the handy guys down the street, and their rodent knowledge, we were provided with the "gold standard" of mouse traps. We immediately set the trap in our bathroom and awoke the next morning successful. We caught the mouse. We breathed a sigh of relief and resumed normal activity, no more barricading the vents and shoving towels under our doors; we were safe, or were we? A few days later another unpleasant visitation of a furry friend was noted.
Step 2: Get ANOTHER trap.
The results of step 2 were not nearly as quick as the results of step 1, but were they ever more dramatic. My roommate and I came home from a weekend in Boston only to find our bathroom was the scene of a murder, yes, a murder, and a messy one at that. Blood had splattered all over the tile and up the wall. My immediate reaction was to grab my toothbrush and sleep at someone else's house that night. But the interesting part about this homicide scene was that there was no victim, or trap to be found--just blood. Confused, my roommate and I began to cautiously search around for a half-dead mouse and his trap. In the process of the search I found the bag with the new slip I had just bought (and conveniently forgotten to take on the trip to Boston-the whole purpose for buying such a slip in the first place). However, tucked in with the slip I noticed a piece of wood. "Ugh, Amber," I stammered, "I think I found the trap." I was not about to dig through the bag to discover whether or not there was the trap and the mouse nestled in my slip, in fact, we were so grossed out by the findings we left immediately.
Step 3: We need a hero.
After abandoning our findings, my roommate and I went down the street to the guys house and told them of our terrible encounter. They, of course, were unsympathetic to our plight. "You guys are dramatic." "Its just a mouse," they responded. Sure, sure, they say that now, but if their bathroom was covered in rabies-tainted mouse blood, they'd be singing a different tune, guaranteed. So after some mild convincing, and pretty intense begging, we found our hero to locate and dispose of this hemorrhagic mouse. We, of course, stayed put far down the street at the guys house while Ben went back to the crime scene to investigate.
Step 4: Found!
Ben located said slip bag, and bravely began to peer a little more closely into its contents. As he did so he found, tangled in a sea of slip, with one extremity pinned to the trap, the mouse. The mouse was indeed alive, but moving rather slowly as you can imagine with one limb stuck to a big would block, the other caught on a silky slip, and all the while he was slowly bleeding to death from his trap wounds. We had given Ben strict instructions to dispose of the mouse and get it as far away from our house as possible. Easy enough, right? With the bag, slip, mouse, and trap in tow, Ben vacated the premises looking for a dead mouse receptacle. Now you're thinking, "Great, problem solved." Oh, if it were only that easy. You see, Philly has some of the most narrow streets and little row houses stacked on top of each other, leaving no room for garbage cans, nope not a one on the entire street. So Ben, feeling a little anxious to dispose of this dying mouse, makes an executive decision, and throws this piece of trash where everyone else throws their unwanted trash--an empty construction lot in between houses. He flung that mouse and slip combo into the air, over the chain-link fence, to its final resting place on a muddy mound of earth next to other random bits of Philadelphia garbage. So if you're ever in Philadelphia walking along about 20th St. and Clymer St. glance over at the small construction site and there you will find my slip and a dead mouse. (If you look closely at the above picture you will see our protagonist, the mouse, stuck to his trap, and yes, that is my slip)

Step 5: Lessons learned.
Buy d-CON instead.