Polygamists

I just learned that my first cousin has joined up with the Canadian branch of the polygs who used to be affiliated with the Warren Jeffs branch. I believe a man named Winston Blackmore is the head honcho of the community. I can't recall the specific incident that split up Blackmore and Jeffs, but such rifts usually occur as a result of greed or a power struggle.

The cousin in question is twenty-six and had not been married. If I were twenty-six and not yet married, my parents would be pleased that I had so many years to focus onn my education and career before marriage and children came along. My LDS aunts and uncles, on the other hand, start quoting statistic about how a woman is more likely to be killed by a terrorist than she is to ever marry if she hasn't married before some arbitrary age such as twenty-eight. In the LDS church, women are told that they will be married in the millenium (when Jesus personally regins over the Earth for one-thousand years) or in the afterlife. Most of the time, this means the women will be married to men who already have other wives and will have to share their husbands.

If you've ever watched either "Big Love" or "Sister Wives," you would be gullible to believe that real polygamy exists as depicted in those series. The reality is that except for factions among wives that form, hardly anyone gets along in polygamous families, and women frequently mistreat other women's children. Most of these people are under-educated. Some women work, while others collect welfare. The wife with the most seniority, the "first wife," typically hold most of the authority in the household. The only exception to this is if the "first wife" falls out of favor with her husband, which isn't as common as one might think. Husbands do picke out newer and more modern versions of feminity to marry, and the young ones enjoy attention of the husband early in the marriage. In most cases, however, a new and improved model eventually shows up to replace the previous new wife and to claim the favors formerly possessed by her.

I'm relactant to state this, but in seeing the news coverage of the raid on Warrn Jeffs' community in Texas, it was apparent that the vast majority of the polygamous females are not classic beauties by any stretch of the definition. In every book I've ever read by a polygamist female, the author would say something to the effect of, "My mother was beautiful, and the girls in our family were very pretty as well, so the others were jealous of us." I'd like to know where these attractive female polygamists are being stored. I've read more coverage concerning than has the average person, and I've actually been to the Colorado City/Hillsdale compound, and I've yet to see one female over the age of twelve who could be accurately characterized as beautiful, pretty, striking, attractive, cute, or even of average appearance. Their space alien hairstyles do nothing to enhance their appearances, but even if their hair were done by the same hairdresser who does Jessica Alba's hair, these women would be homely at best. Mt cousin is no exception in the regard.

I tend to be a bit callous and to think things like this are funny. My parents, on the other hand, are concerned about the emphasis on early marriage within the mainstream LDS culture and the way my cousin must've been made to feel when she didn't marry at the standard LDS age of twenty to twenty-two. They're also worried that she may have difficulty escaping if she ever changes her mind. They're considering driving to British Columbia this summer to attempt to find my cousin, They want to be sure she knows what she's getting into and that they will help her get away at any time she wants to. They also want to tell her she can live with them if she ever needs to.

I suppose, if my parents ever find her, they'll try to talk her out of leaving and use their limited funds to educate her as well. I only hope she doesn't have three kids by the time she breaks away, because the court battle my parents will surely finance for her to gain custody of her children is likely to usurp any inheritance I might ever have been bequeathed. Then again, there are more important things than money.

The cousin's parents are laissez-faire about the whole thing. They vacillate between "It was meant to be" and "She's exercising her free agency. Now she can lie in the bed she's made." My grandfather is a major player in the LDS church. He doesn't want anyone to even talk about the subject, which is precisely the reason I chose to blog about it.

More Contact with Psychotic Relatives (partial Repost); These people make Jessica Beagley look like Mary Poppins.

This is a long story I told earlier. Even if I try to create the condensed version of my story, it will be long. Read at your own risk. (If you read it the first time, it may bore you to read it again.) This concerns my legitimately psychotic LDS relatives as opposed to those who are merely somewhere between quirky and demented. They are after me again.

Just under a year ago, my mom was really sick, and my dad had to work. I was recovering from multiple fractures and a kidney infection. My parents, in spite of my begging and pleading that they not send me away, had me taken for a week to be cared for by my father's sister and her husband. This particular uncle-by-marriage is an MD, so he would be able to monitor my health status at night when he was home and would be able to provide the nightly antibiotic injections I needed. My aunt and uncle were to be paid generously for my care.

As soon as another relative who was traveling in that direction dropped me off and left on his way, my uncle carried me up two flights of stairs to an unfinished attic, which had been furnished with a cot and sleeping bag. My aunt brought up minimal food, which included a pop tart for each day's breakfast, a stale half of a peanut butter sandwich (no jelly) for lunch, and a small can of Spaghettios for dinner. She also brought up a refilled water bottle each day. There was no bathroom. With both a broken leg and a broken collarbone, I was unable even to use crutches and was thus immobilized to the point that I could not travel down the attic stairs to the nearest bathroom. In place of the use of a bathroom, my aunt brought up a bag of store-brand disposable diapers that her four-year-old was still using, along with a package of baby wipes. The child was on the chubby side, which meant that the diapers were, if anything, a bit roomy for me. I never received any of my antibiotic injections, which made me happy at first, until I began to get sicker. because of the quality of the food and because of my worsening kidney infection. I developed diarrhea, which made the possibility of running out of diapers a real concern. I was forced to conserve diapers. Doing that while experiencing diarrhea inevitably led to a rash. Then I developed a fever. I told my aunt on the fourth morning that I had a fever, but she told me that I only had rwo days left with them and wasn't likely to die in that amount of time.

Then my aunt apparently got a call from one of her children's schools that her child was sick. She took her youngest two children with her to go pick up the sick child from school, then took the sick child to his father's office and waited there until his father could see him. She did not tell me that she was leaving. She left some concoction in the oven at a fairly high temperature. Eventually the house began to fill with smoke, which rose to the attic, and smoke alarms sounded.

I waited for a time, assuming my aunt would come up to the attic to help me out. I didn't think she would leave me inside the house to burn to my death. Eventually it became apparent that absolutely no one had any intention of helping me. I scooted off my cot and used my sleeping bag to scoot along the boards of the attic. It seems odd to me now that I was concerned about a thing like splinters with all the hazards I faced. I scooted down the rough wooden attic stairs through the smoke. I scooted down the carpeted hall to be sure the seven-month-old baby was not in his crib, as I couldn't have lived with the thought of having left a baby to die in the fire or from smoke inhalation, sighing with relief to find the crib empty. I then scooted as best I could (stairs were easier for scooting down, as gravity was an aid) with the use of only one leg and one arm down a hallway to the stairway that led from the second floor to the ground floor. I finally reached the front door. Smoke alarms continued to screech away. The source of the smoke was never known to me, but its density was such that I knew I needed to get out of the house. After a couple of unsuccessful tries, I was eventually able to pull myself to a standing position to reach the front door's deadbolt, which was positioned deliberately high in effort to keep young children from escaping.

Once I got the front door open, it took several attempts to be able to hold on to rhe doorknob and then to a porch railing with my uninjured arm and to hop on my unijured leg to get to the steps of the porch, and was barely able to scoot down. Not knowing if the house was erupting in flames or poised to do so shortly, I scooted across the damp lawn to the curb, where I sat. The elevation at my aunt's and uncle's home is higher than the elevation where I live, and it was still cool that morning despite it having been late spring; the temperature hovered around fifty degrees.

I sat on the curb in my skimpy nightgown and soiled diaper. I hadn't thought to bring extra diapers with me, and probably wouldn't have felt comfortable changing myself on the curb regardless, despite the presumptive evidence that absolutely no one in the neighborhood was home. My relatives' house was on a cul-de-ac that didn't attract a high amount of traffic. I was ambivalent about being found: I knew it would be embarrassing for a fifteen-year-old girl --even one who looked much younger -- to be seen wearing a skimpy nightgown and a diaper, but I also knew I was in a world of trouble. I was coughing non-stop from having inhaled smoke. The entire area covered by the diaper burned and stung fiercely from the effects of acidic fluids on rash-covered skin. I shivered from fever and from the unseasonably chilly weather. Sitting added discomfort to the tender skin on which I sat, but lying on the grass made it even less likely I would be noticed. and also made my shivering worse. I scooted next to the mailbox so that I could lean against its post, hoping that my small body wouldn't be obscured by the mailbox. While hoping for help, I also hoped my aunt wouldn't arrive home before someone else noticed me and came to the rescue. I was afraid my aunt would do nothing to help me, and I knew by this point that help was probably essential to my survival.

Eventually a woman who lived in the cul-de-sac, a middle school physical education teacher who was home that day with a sick child and was returning home after having taken her child to the doctor, drove past and noticed me, probably assuming I was several years younger than the fifteen that I actually was. She dialed 9-1-1. She assessed my injuries and determined that they were adequately immobilized for me to be moved. She carried me to her sofa, wrapping me in a light blanket, to await the paramedics, fire department, and police. Just as the fire engine pulled up, my aunt arrived home. Leaving her children in her car parked by the curb in front of her home, she then went to look for me. Seeing the open door of her neighbor's house, my aunt guessed correctly that I was inside. She walked through the open door without knocking and attempted to physically remove me from the sofa on which I had been placed. The neighbor told her to leave me there, then used her own hands to remove my aunt's hands from my arm and shoulder.

At that time two paramedics entered the neighbor's home. My aunt told them that I was in her custody. Her neighbor told the paramedics that she had found me on the curb in terrible condition while smoke was pouring from the house, and that no one else was apparently home. Despite my aunt's insistence, the paramedics would not allow her to take me and demanded that she leave the home and tend to her own children.

Firefighters were in my aunt's house, wearing full protective gear while investigating the cause of the smoke. They eventually pinpointed the burning concoction in the oven as the source of the smoke. The oven was turned off, and all doors and windows were opened.

Paramedics administered oxygen to me. I asked if I could change out of the diarrhea-soiled diaper. The neighbor left the room briefly, reappearing almost immediately carrying a towel, baby wipes, and a pair of underwear belonging to one of her children. She asked if I needed help, to which I answered yes. She started to place the towel under me above the blanket on the sofa, then asked the paramedics and the police if a bath, especially in light of the fever, which had been measured at 105.0, would be allowed. The paramedics agreed and set the water at a temperature not so cold as to make me shiver and bring the fever up, but cool enough to lower the fever. When my diaper was removed, the neighbor, the paramedics, and thee police gasped at the severity of the rash. The neighbor asked the paramedics if she should get A and D ointment to apply to the affected area after the bath. One paramedic made a comment to the effect that I was going to need a lot more than A & D ointment, but it was probably better than nothing for the time. One of the police officers took a picture of my diaper rash after I was cleaned but bathed before the A and D ointment was applied. He was careful to explain that these pictures were only for evidence, and that I should never let anyone take pictures of me in a state of undress unless multiple emergency response personnel were present and agreed that it was appropriate to do so. Being the subject of a nude-from-the-waste-down photo would have ordinarily upset me tremendously, but I don't recall offering as much as a word of protest; I don't think I would have cared if the chief photographer from "Child Pornography Unlimited" magazine had been there snapping away at my private regions. it was the very least of my concerns.

The neighbor produced a fresh gown that belonged to one of her own children. It was a front-button nightgown and was easy to get on without causing additional pain. She also brought out a clean pair of undies that must have belonged to a daughter. The police officers kept both the my original nightie and the soiled diaper as evidence. They also asked paramedics for my vital signs so that they could be included in the report the police were preparing.

The paramedics hooked me up to an IV, changed my oxygen source from the little things that poke into your nostrils slightly to a mask that was, they said, the right size for my face. They placed me on a gurney and loaded me into an ambulance. I lost consciousness at some point shortly thereafter. My first memories following being loaded in the ambulance are of being in a hospital near my home after having been airlifted there from the local hospital where I was originally taken following the failure of both my kidneys.

I was on dialysis for a time, but with the administration of fluids and effective antibiotic treatment, my kidneys soon resumed their normal function. I still had to recover from both the kidney infection, the effects of temporary kidney failure, and pneumonia that had developed at some point along the way, which was likely worsened by smoke inhalation. It took longer than a month for me to regain strength even to the diminished level at which it was before. (The reason I was to be with this aunt and uncle in the first place was that I needed care and medical supervision.) The effects of dehydration required treatment for a week. Additionally, my fractured collarbone had suffered a setback in healing of the fracture itself in addition to soft tissue damage from having to use the injured extremity to pull myself to safety. I had a severe staphyloccocal infection that had advanced from localized to systemic as the result of extreme diaper rash. My collarbone and surrounding tissues eventually healed. I no longer suffer any physical effects from this unfortunate and totally preventable incident. Even the scars from lesions in my diaper area have reached the point they can't easily be seen after liberal application of Mederma to affected areas once they were healed enough to tolerate the Mederma formula. I do, though, have occasional nightmares about being trapped in a smoke-filled house with no likely means of escape.

My aunt's initial response was to blame me for not having the common sense to check the oven and turn it off when the house filled with smoke and alarms began sounding. Law enforcement officials were unimpressed by her assessment of the cause and blame. Child protective services soon became involved, and all the couple's children currently living at home were removed from their parents' custody. One son, nineteen years old and serving a mission in England, was unaffected. The children spent some time in foster care but were eventually dispersed among various relatives, as the foster care system is overburdened and relies on family members to take in children from abusive or neglectful situation whenever possible. Even though there wasn't direct evidence of abuse or neglect of the couple's own children, the care they provided me convinced the authorities at Child Protective Services, and later a judge, that the children were in imminent danger in the care of their parents. Two of the relatives who were named temporary guardians of the children surreptitiously returned the children in their care to their parents. When this was discovered, those children, four in all, were placed in the actual foster care system.

It has been nearly a year since this event took place. My aunt and uncle have regained custody of all but their youngest two children. The judge's reasoning for holding out on returning the two youngest is that, as toddlers, they are most vulnerable and least able to help themselves in the event that neglectful care comes into play.

This is where I come in. The relatives, including others besides my aunt and uncle, feel that if I were to testify on their behalf that the incident was in part my own fault and that I never witnessed any degree of negligence in their home, the judge's opinion would be weighted in their favor. I refuse to do so because the part about testifying that the incident was in part my fault would be committing perjury. My parents do not think I have any further role in this case unless compelled by a judge to testify. They feel that the physical evidence involving me speaks for itself. They say that I gave honest testimony in initial hearings related to the case. If a judge asks for more, I'll provide it, My parents say I should  certainly not perjure myself by assuming responsibility for something over which I had no control. (No trial took place, as the case was pleaded out. The family is just trying to appeal part of the judge's ruling in order to regain custody of the two youngest children.)

I feel that I have nothing to add than what I have already contributed. Medical and eyewitness accounts from police officers, paramedics, the initial neighbor who responded, and another neighbor who is a physician's assistant and who came on the scene at some point before I was loaded into the ambulance about what happened are worth more than any words I could offer in recollection of the case nearly a year later. No matter how far I stretch my imagination when thinking of the horrible experience for me, I can't do the mental gymnastics or cognitive contortions that would be required for me to assume any responsibility. I'm not taking sides against them in their quest to regain custody of their two youngest children. On the other hand, I refuse to perjure myself so that they might achieve their goal of family reunification. I stand behind any statements I made to law enforcement personnel and under oath both in depositions and in court. Furthermore, statements made by others who came upon the scene at the time carry greater weight than anything I could possibly say' my memories are clouded by a fevered state of delirium.. Regardless, the fact that my aunt and uncle mistreated and neglected me to the degree indicates that they are capable of incompetent parenting. I am not going to lie under oath about what happened during the five days I was with them. The chips will have to fall where they fall. My words and actions in regard to the situation will not cause me to lose any sleep. I can't say the same for the entire experience. I still occasionally suffer nightmares and flashbacks as a result of my stay with my aunt and uncle, who, despite being paid three thousand dollars to care for me for what was to be a total of six days, couldn't manage a level of care as competent as the average fourteen-year-old babysitter would provide. The smoked-out house may actually have been a blessing in disguise. My parents were told by one nephrologist that I might not have lasted another forty-eight hours under their care.

In any event, I sincerely wish them well in reuniting their family, although I'm comfortable with the children remaining in the care of qualified caregivers until the authorities have been thoroughly convinced that the children ar safe in the care of their parents. All this went down in a tight little Mormon town in the sticks. The Church couldn't prevent charges from being filed, but they could and did illegally hold files so that nothing ever made the news . . . not that I would have wanted it reported in the news that I has diaper rash.

I will survive, while their youngest two babies might thrive if placed under their parents' care agaiml however, there's no guarantee that they'll fare even as well as I did. It's little more than the toss of a coin or a roll of the dice. Children deserve better odds.

Home Again, Home Again: Teenage Alcoholic or Not?

I'm back at home briefly to take part in a couple of athletic events. I have a track meet tomorrow. Almost two months ago I had greater than average success in my hurdling events after downing a beer the night before. In the interest of science I'm repeating the experience. I have a bottle of Guinness ale, which I am dowing as fast as I can. It really doesn't taste all that wonderful to me, and I have to plug my nose to get it down. Then I have to find a good hiding spot for the bottle, because I'm not going downstairs to dispose of it tonight. Even one beer leaves me entirely too happy to escape my parents' detection and consequently be the recipient of an informal breath check. Tomorrow it will be easy enough to drop the bottle into a neighbor's recycling bin.

I'm going to bed right after finishing the beer and brushing my teeth. Then if my parents happen to come in to ask me something, they'll attribute my lack of coherence to being woken out of a sound sleep as opposed to being tipsy. My parents were relatively cool about it last time I drank a beer, but instincts tell me it was a one-time amnesty experience and that, were I to be discovered again, I wouldn't walk away from the situation totally unscathed. My parents will read this, but not for awhile because they're very busy, and it will be old news and the statute of limitations will have expired before they get to catching up on any of my blogs.

Lest any reader be of the opinion that I need to hook up with Alcoholics Anonymous, AlaTeen, or whatever rehab institution that so sucessfully cured Lindsay Lohan's problems, this is only the second beer I have consumed in my life, and I've never drunk anything harder. I'm experimenting with the idea that a beer the night before enhances my hurdling performance the following afternoon. If I totally suck tomorrow, I'll know that the first time was a fluke, and I'll leave the beer alone. If, on the other hand, I break any more local records the day after consuming the beer, I may have to consider the apparent cause/effect relationship.

If such happens, I may consult the director of my mental health facility, who does ot technically manage my case but does oversee my care. Does anyone know if a doctor in California can legally prescribe small quantities of low-alcoholic-content beverages to a minor for therapeutic purposes?

I relly don't want my experiences to turn into a Lifetime Channel movie entitled, "Alexis A., Portrait of a Teenage Alcoholic." I may not be able to convince anyone of the sincerity of my approach -- that I'm legitimately experimenting to see if the relaxation effect and resultingly better quality of sleep after consuming twelve ounces or beer, or ale, or whatever it really is, as I don't know the difference, can result in a stronger athletic performance for me. As far as drinks go, I'd choose grape Kool-Aid any day over just about any other beverage.

Furthermore, even if my research indicates that there is athletic benefit to my consuming a beer the night before a track meet, I wouldn't choose to drink a beer the night before each competition. For one thing, the impact might lessen over time. I'd savw my aaace-in-the-whole for the most important athletic events -- qualifying meets, league, divisional, are , or state meets.

Incidentally, I haven't a clue as to how consuming alcohol the night before a competition would impact my diving. I have two sports with which to concern myself. If I begin drinking before important competitions of both sports, I may as well make a reservation at the Betty Ford Clinic.

A High School Un-Musical about Texting

The TV series "Glee" has spawned a new interest in high school performing arts groups and musical theatre. This is evident at many high schools,my own included. My school is putting on an originally written and composed musical comedy. The term "musical comedy" is being applied very loosely here, as, from what I've seen, the production is neither funny nor remotely musical.

The premise of this original work is text-messaging. Try to envision an episode of "Glee" where the talented singers all had developed laryngitis and had to be replaced by passer-by off the street, and where all anyone ever did was pretend to text-message. The entire musical involves people singing their text messages, complete with text lingo, meaning that if they type in non-standard spelling, they sing the letters instead of the word so the significance is not lost on the audience. Teens text while driving and have fatal accidents during the production. Really funny stuff, isn't it? Teens break up with one another via singing text. Teens "come out" during singing texts. Two teens even text during a quasi-sex scene that they fought with the administration over including. There's even a subplot involving a West Side Story or "Capulet - Montague" story line involving star-crossed lovers who use Blackberries and Iphones respectively. The actors text during tests, during movies, during football games (including the players), and they all sing their stupid texts, and not at all well, I might add.

I've always thought the main reason for going to a musical comedy was for the music. If the plot was weak and the acting poor, I could still tolerate it if the music was of high quality. I'd just as soon it not be about Star Trek or something similarly inane, but still, oustanding performance of well-written music can apparently save even a musical on the topic of the Book of Mormon.

The problem here is that the music itself isn't good for starters, and that its performance is beyond abysmal. One drawback to "Glee" is that it has persuaded some people to sing in public whose singing skills would best have been left buried under twenty feet of quicksand. The singers, if they're even on key, which is far from a given, have such lousy delivery and so many vocal affectations they've gained from watching and imitating poorly-trained pop singers that the experience of viewing this musical will be much like watching the tryouts for "American Idol" would be if the "American idol" contestants were limited to singing songs written by someone chosen randomly from a phone directory who was tone-deaf.

I was originally involved as a consultant with this ill-fated production. Before I knew just how bad the production was going to be, or what it was even about, I actually composed two melodies for the production. I told those involved that if word gets out I had anything to do with any part of it, someone will pay in a major way. These people know I'm at least a little crazy, so even an open-ended threat carries some weight.

My parents are very supportive of music and the arts in schools, and even they are refusing to attend this debacle because they've heard just how unbearable it's doomed to be. My dad, who hates "Star Trek" with a passion most people reserve for baby killers and mimes, says that he would watch ten straight hours of "Star Trek: the Next Generation," which he's heard is the single worst incarnation of "Star Trek" in existence, before he would sit through a single act of the high school's musical. The major players can't even decide on a name. "Texting" is the best they can come up with, and even they recognize it's not a very catchy title.

If you have any ideas for what the students at my high school should call their musical, please answer via the "Comments" section ASAP. This musical is opening in just over three weeks. My final act of involvement will be to pass along any suggestions I receive. I am making it a point to go to Utah the weekend the performance is scheduled. I want to be able to say in all honesty that I wasn't even in the same state where it all went down when people start looking for scapegoats for this fiasco.

A New "Friend"

A new resident showed up at my treatment facility. When new patients (which the staff members do like us to call ourselves, but what else are we? We're certainly not clients at a spa. We're admitted to a freaking hospital) arrive in the ward, if a particular psychological intern is on duty, she always introduces the new patient in a, "Boys and girls, we have a new friend. I'd like you to meet Lucretia [not her real name, obviously] who will be with us for awhile. Everybody say 'Hi!' to Lucretia," manner, as though we're a bleeping preschool class.

This method of introduction is annnoying at the very least to the existing patients, and it makes the new person feel as uncomfortable as hell. "Hey, everybody, stop what you're doing and stare at this poor teenager who obviously has something seriously wrong with one or more of his or her psychological processes, or else he or she wouldn't be here." Duh. Insurance is NOT going to fork over the wad of cash demanded to house one of us in this loony bin for a day, much less for months on end, unless there is at least one serious and compelling reason, and it costs so damn much to stay here that only the Gateses, the Rockefellers, the Onassis heiress, Kim Jong Il, and possibly a couple of European royal families could ever afford to pay the going rate out of pocket.

Then there's the awkward dance around the reason why the new person is here, or why any one of us is here, for that matter. The staff obviously can't disclose our diagnoses, although they make it unnecessarily obvious that the diagnosis one is claiming is bogus when someone announces that she is in the facility because of an unfortunate episode during which the person, in a fugue-like state, killed the next-door neighbors with a pumpkin-carving knife the day before Halloween and hid the bodies in the oversized containers where her LDS relatives store their two-year supply of food. (I was clearly joking when I said it, and absolutely none of the patients took it seriously. I was not intending to scare anyone, nor did I. It was total overkill for my computer and cell phone to have been confiscated and my parents called so that they could yell at me over the phone.)

Sometimes I think it would be healthier if, in our therapy sessions, we stood up and introduced ourselves along with our diagnoses a la Alcoholics Anonymous. "Hi. My name is Alexis, and I'm suffering from post-traumatic stress disorders and related sleep disturbance and anxiety attacks." Such disclosure couldn't be forced, of course, because of confidentiality laws, but most patients would voluntarily spill the info.

Most of us eventually tell the truth about what our problems are anyway, but even if we didn't, it wouldn't be all that hard to figure out. If the person can only blow-dry his or her hair while being watched like a hawk by at least one staff member, the person has obviously been identified as having suicidal tendencies. If the staff hovers right outside the shower and allows a person to have possession of a razor for only forty-two seconds, the person is either suicidal or is a cutter. Ironically, if that person is a cutter, she ends up cutting her legs into ribbons in attempt to successfully shave both legs and both underarms in the short amount of time allotted.

If the person is required to pee into a cup fairly regularly, substance abuse is a large part of the reason he or she is here.

We used to have a few eating disorder patients in our ward. The telltale sign for a bulimic was the lack of privacy in using the bathroom for several hours following a meal or a snack. The anorexics were watched carefully during mealtimes because they had creative ways of making food disappear without actually eating it. The other dead giveaway for the anorexics was their characteristic thinness. (Another "duh." I try to limit my blogs to no more than two "duhs" per post, but it's hard because it's one of my favorite words, both spoken and in print. One therapist tried to impose consequences against me each time I was heard by a staff member saying "duh!," but the Nazi was overruled by the director of the facility, who theorized that saying "duh!" is to me as hitting baseballs over an outfield fence while consuming massive quantities of anabolic steroids is to Barry Bonds or throwing a football and abusing dogs is to Michael Vick. I've been asked not to say "duh!" to staff members in a rude or insolent, eye-rolling manner, but sometimes an answer is so obvious that there's nothing to say but "duh!" The director of the facility understands this, and sometimes himself says "duh!")

Eating disorder patients aren't usually treated in our ward now. I've been told that if such a patient were fairly far into the recovery process he or she might be placed in our wing, but food is generally not restricted or monitored among those of us in the ward because no one here has issues with it, so sending a very seriously eating-disordered patient to live among us would be counter-productive to his or her recovery.

People who have PTSD or anxiety disorders, such as I, are occasionally heard yelling or screaming in their sleep, and are somtimes allowed up at night while the rest of the loony bin is confined to their beds.

If someone were really that curious about another person who was holding out on his or her diagnosis, one could come close to identifying it by watching what meds were given to the person. One could identify the drugs by using photo guides of pharmaceutical sites on the Internet, and then could make a ballpark guess as to what was the diagnosis.

Most people really don't care that much, nor are most of us all that secretive. As long as I'm confident the people in the rooms on either side of me aren't making anthrax to prove a point or aren't otherwise dangerous, it's not an issue to me. It only becomes a problem with the forced friend-making when a new person shows up. Then it naturally causes everyone, both the newbie and the oldies, to be suspicious of one another. It would be better if the person just showed up in front of the TV to watch whatever was on, or walked into the game room and joined an activity. The patients here aren't rude or snobbish. No new person is going to be hazed. One would have to be pretty pathetic to think that he or she was superior to another person by virtue of having been housed in a loony bin for a longer period of time. It's not exactly a badge of honor.

The new girl sort of knows how to play the piano, but when she got here she only knew, or at least only played, two songs: "The Bluebells of Scotland" and a fake Native American-style song called "From a Wigwam." My mom recognized both songs as being from the John Thompson Teaching Little Fingers to Play piano method book, which was popular in the dark ages and still exists in some backwards communities. When my mom was last here, she went online and downloaded some music for the new girl so that she could learn a few different songs. She also sent a few slightly more modern piano method books from ones we had around the house. It is now my job to give piano lessons to the new girl. As I see it, it's a public service: people were going to go even crazier than they already were if they had to listen to those two songs over and over for much longer. The girl seems appreciative. She's not necessarily Van Cliburn material, but I've seen worse. She's far from hopeless.

I should let any new readers know that I am now in this facility on a modified plan. I'm here for about half of any given week. I return to my home and home school to take part in athletic competitions and attend classes two to three days a week now. I didn't start that until mid-March.
I was here full-time, with occasional visits home, for several months previously.

Guten nacht!

Tommee Tippee and the Grassy Knoll: We Put the "O" in OCD

I don't have a diagnosis of OCD, or Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder for those of you who hold aversions to acronyms. I don't think I have many more than the average number of compulsions. I don't count exactly seven squares of toilet paper each time I have a need for it, nor do I bend my fingers back a particular number of times before I begin any public piano performance. Some obsessions people have are written off merely as superstitions. I've never considered myself particularly superstitious, although I make it a point not to sleep thirteen in a bed on a Friday night. Clearly, compulsions are not a major source of disruption in my otherwise disrupted life. Compulsions do not rule my life.

Obsessions, on the other hand . . . I can obsess with the very best of them. I probably had earlier obsessions, but the very first one I can remember is my Tommee Tippee cup. Mine wasn't like the ones they make now in clear plastic with straws and other exciting features. Mine didn't even have a lid, because my mother believes that sippy cup lids contribute to overbites and other orthodontic problems. My Tommee Tippee cup was one I had inherited from my mother. Its advantage over any other cup I might have used was its weighted bottom, which eliminated all but deliberate spills. My heirloom Tommee Tippee cup -- light blue with a brown bear drinking from a cup -- was interesting in that the cup from which the Tommee on my cup was drinking also pictured a brown bear drinking from a cup which also picured -- you guessed it-- a brown bear drinking from a cup. Etc, etc.

I was an early bloomer in terms of cognitive, language, and some motor skills. I was probably around six months old when I first began using the cup. I know I was using it before I was seven months old because we moved at that point, and I do have memories (with no photos or home videos to bolster them, so they're genuine memories) of using the cup in the old house. As my mom remembers it, I was eight or nine months old when I became very concerned with the bears on the cup, and with the repeated pattern of each bear drinking from a cup bearing an image of him drinking, and so forth. My mom says I first asked for a mirror at about the age of nine months when I was having lunch in my high chair. She said I asked for the mirror (I spoke early), and she brought a small hand mirror from a drawer at a desk just off the kitchen. I had her hold it so I could watch myself drinking. She asked why I wanted to see myself. I told her in a form of language that was probably not quite grammatically standard but still comprehensible that I was looking to see if I turned into a bear when I drank from the cup. She laughed, and I remembered hearing her tell the story to a couple of people.

Not long after that I began to peer intently at the cup, trying to count how many repetitions of the pattern there were. At first I'd just look casually. As the days went on, I'd squint and look so hard that I began to give myself headaches. The Tommee Tippee cup disappeared for awhile, but I won that battle by refusing to drink anything from any other cup for my mom. When my dad was home he could usually, by sheer brute force, get a few ounces of fluid down me, but my mom was becoming concerned about dehydration, so she "found" Tommee Tippee but told me that if I squinted my eyes and gave myself headaches anymore, Tommee Tippee would have to go away again.

After that, I learned to be a bit less obvious in my quest to define the bounds of infinity as depicted by my Tommee Tippee cup. Then I discovered my mom using a magnifying glass. Why she was using it I cannot recall, but she explained when I asked that it made things look bigger. I watched her put it away in a hallway cabinet. Just before lunch, I went to that cabinet and retrieved the magnifying glass. I slipped it inside my overalls.

My mother usually watched us very closely as we ate -- she was concerned about choking hazards posed by our finger foods -- but my brother Matthew for some reason barfed all over his bib and his high chair tray that day. As my mom was dealing with the gratifying task of cleaning up my brother and his high chair, I pulled the magnifying glass from my overalls and used it to examine Tommee Tippee in greater detail. Our kitchen/breakfast nook had a large picture window that allowed morning and noon sunlight to fill the room. The angle of the sun through the magnifying glass and onto my paper napkin (my mother tried to teach us proper table manners before we were even old enough to sit at a table) was the perfect storm, so to speak. My mom looked up from her barf-cleaning task to see my napkin starting to smolder at its corner. She immediately dropped her cleaning rag, grabbed the napkin and threw it in the sink, picked me up from my high chair, and whacked me one of the only two times she has ever done so.

That was apparently on a Friday, which meant that the next day began a weekend, and my dad would be home for the next two days. He had greater ability than did my mom to persuade me to do things I didn't want to do, such as to drink from a cup other than my beloved Tommee Tippee, and was more immune than my mom to my screams and cries when Tommee didn't reappear as I demanded that he do so. Tommee Tippee took a permanent vacation from my house, as did the magnifying glass as far as I could ever tell. I've never seen either that magnifying glass or another one in any of the homes where we lived since. I'm sure my parents must have thought they had a budding pyromaniac on their hands, but making fire was a totally unintentional by-product of my effort and held no allure to me after it happened. I merely wanted a magnified view of Tommee Tippee and of infinity.

Since then, I've developed other obsessions. Our family passed through the Truckee area when my twin brother and I were approximately two-and-one-half, and my parents took us along as they visited historic sites and monuments related to the Donner Party. Thus began my obsession with the Donner Party, which exists in a minor form to this day. I used to have nightmares about William Keseburg, who allegedly ate Tamsen Donner. Mrs. Donner had been relatively healthy when last seen and had remained at the Truckee site because she refused to leave her critically ill husband to die without her. After George Donner passed, Mrs. Donner was attempting to make her way into the valley below when she met up with Keseburg. Parts but not all of her body were recovered, and human flesh was found in Keseburg's cabin. Keseburg denied the allegations, which haunted him all the remaining days of his life, but the facts were that Tamsem Donner was healthy when last seen, and that there was plenty of actual food to sustain Keseburg, Tamsen Donner, and the dying George Donner until the next rescue party arrived. Still, when that rescue party got to the site, they found a deceased George Donner, parts of a deceased Tamsen Donner, and a living William Keseburg. Almost any way you do the math, Keseburg comes out of it looking as though Mark Geragos or Johnny Cochran ("If Mrs. Donner's tibia don't fit, you must acquit" is a rather catchy slogan, though) would've had one hell of a time convincing even one juror of reasonable doubt against the greenest ADA in the nation, or even against the fictional character of Casey Novak, a former ADA on Law & Order SVU. Did she ever win even a single conviction against anybody?

Soon after our Truckee visit, I began to have nightmares about William Keseburg. Keseburg occasionally still creeps into my nighttime unconsciousness, but for the most part I now have matters closer at hand about which to have nightmares. Still, I'm sure my parents rue the day they took us along as tiny children when they toured the Donner Party sites. They probably had no clue I was taking in so much information. It didn't seem to bother my brother in the least. As long as my parents kept his Tupperware holder filled with Cheerios for him to eat, he was content to sit there forever as tour guides talked on and on in gruesome detail about starvation and the extreme measures to which the group resorted to prevent it.

I was barely two when the Jonbenet Ramsey murder occurred, but it caught my attention in a big way. About two days after it happened, my brother and I were babysat in Utah by my paternal grandparents while my parents skied. My grandmother in particular was greatly intrigued by the Ramsey story as it unfolded, and watched on TV every bit of coverage she could access. She probably had no concept that as a two-year-old I was taking in the information as she was watching it and that it was upsetting me. I'll give her the benefit of the doubt anyway, although I've learned since then just what a mean old crone she can be. Regardless, that was my introduction to true crime that happened in my own lifetime. I read milk cartons with pictures and descriptions of missing children, and obsessed over each new case as it was reported by the media. I refused to go into any basement. I developed a fear of Maglite flashlights, as one had been suggested as the weapon used in bashing Jonbenet's skull, and I refused to eat pineapple, which an autopsy report showed she had eaten shortly before her death.

I was seven when the Elizabeth Smart kidnapping took place. That one hit home a bit more because of the location --Salt Lake City, where I had spent considerable time -- and because one set of her grandparents lived near my grandparents. I had personally seen Elizabeth Smart, although the two of us probably had not spoken more than five words to each other. Her sister Mary Catherine was closer to my age, and the two of us had once played together for a short time at her grandparents' home. From the Elizabeth Smart case I developed a fear of alarms not being set and of windows being left open at night -- I didn't even want my parents to leave open the upstairs ones with no access unless an intruder had brought a ladder. Because they didn't want to run the air conditioner all night in the summer (the swamp cooler is much less expensive to run and works adequately at night, but needs open windows in order to operate) and because summer is uncomfortably hot where we live, my parents had our house alarm adjusted so that windows could be left open to a slight degree but if anyone moved any window even a fraction of an inch, the alarm would sound. I wouldn't or couldn't go to sleep until our alarm was set at night. My mom had been in the habit of setting it when she went to bed, but she had to adjust her routine to set it when we were put to bed. It had to be disarmed if either of my parents needed to open a door for any reason. My parents were forced to have the alarm company demonstrate to me that if anyone tried to cut our alarm lines or disable the system in any way other than by using the code, it would automatically sound, with battery power if necessary. My parents had qualms about humoring my obsessions or fears or whatever one might call them, but if they wanted me to sleep, they had no choice.

Fortunately for everyone involved, the Elizabeth Smart case had a happy ending, but it still left its mark on my psyche (while she appears to be doing remarkably well, I hate to even think of the mark it left on poor Elizabeth's psyche) and gave me one more source for nightmares.

The Laci Peterson murder was of deep personal interest to me. Scott and Laci's home was only about sixty miles from where we lived at the time. When the reports of the missing woman first hit the airwaves, my dad said immediately (as probably did many people, though maybe for different reasons) that the story could not have unfolded the way the husband told it, because there was no way a golden retriever would allow anyone to abduct his or her pregnant female owner without putting up a major fight. Dogs can sense pregnancy, my mom says, and golden retrievers in particular are even more protective of owners who are expectant mothers than of other family members, with the possible exception of small children. In this case, at least as far as the jury verdict went, my father and a whole lot of other people called the case correctly from the onset. The case was especially sad because life was taken from a radiantly beautiful young woman who had so much to which to look forward. My mother had a slight connection with a very tiny portion of the prosecution of this case, but I am not at liberty to divulge the information. This particular obsession caused me to be sad, as it would have caused anyone with remotely normal human emotions to feel sadness, but it wasn't a source of nightmares for me. It was more of a morbid curiousity thing. My morbid curiosity has been piqued with cases since then. I continue to follow true crime but am not quite so obsessed by it, nor am I traumatized to the degree I was with the Ramsey and Smart cases.

I'm not alone, even within my family, in my tendency to obsess. My mom wasn't alive when President Kennedy was assassinated, but developed an obsession with it and with all things related to the Kennedys. She was three when Robert Kennedy was assassinated, and remembers the event well. She talks of feeling terribly sad for his children and for his pregnant wife that everyone was saying was pregnant but who did not yet look pregnant. My mother associated pregnancy with greatly protruding midsections and didn't understand that the condition was present for months before it became physically apparent. To this day my mom could tell you the names of the boiler room girls (known for their role in the party before Ted Kennedy's drive off a bridge on the island of Chappaquidick), the names of all Rose and Joe Kennedy's grandchildren, and could recite the birthdates of JFK and all of his siblings. I'm sure there's far more that she knows about these people of which I'm not even aware. She's had other obsessions besides the Kennedys. My point here is that I didn't start the fire (figuratively speaking; I did start the fire with the magnifying glass and the paper napkin); obsession as a tradition existed in my family long before I made my appearance on the planet.

My dad probably obsessed over sports statistics as a kid more than over any other matter. He still does obsess over sports in general and statistics in particular to some degree -- an obsession he shares with my brother Matthew. It is interesting to note that Matthew knew his NFL team logos -- and could correctly identify the location associated with each insignia on a U. S. map -- before her reached the age of three, and long before he knew either uppercase or lowercase letters. To be perfectly frank, he didn't break any land-speed records in learning either his NFL insignias or his letters. Matthew has always pushed the lower limits on Piaget's six cognitive stages, proving that when genes and chromosomes pair themselves up in random ways, even highly intelligent parents can end up with offspring that can only euphemistically be described as "average."

Now my dad obsesses over cures for leukemia and lymphoma. Occasionally another medical research area will creep into his focus, usually when his help is requested by a colleague, but reliable cures for lymphoma and leukemia remain his Holy Grail, so to speak.

If I were to venture out to the extended branches of both families, but my dad's in particular, I could provide countless examples of OCD, ODD, schizophrenia, Bipolar Disorders I and II, kleptomania, Borderline Personality Disorder, Psychopathic Syndrome, and Sociopathic Syndrome, just to name a sampling of the cornucopia of my extended family's mental and/or psychological anomalies. For now I'll spare you. On another day, if one of my batshit-crazy relatives does anything new to warrant my wrath, his or her psychological profile may become fodder for my blog. Karma can be a bitch.

Sex Education/Pregnancy Prevention/Coke (WARNING: PG-13)

How did most of us learn what we know about s-e-x? I took an informal survey among my fellow inmates at the loony bin and the staff who are paid to supervise us but mostly do their nails and read People magazine. Most of us acquired the majority of our knowledge on the subject from slightly older relatives or older siblings of our friends. Of course we then had to unlearn a whole lot of it, because most of what these helpful individuals shared with us was complete garbage. Fortunately we were young enough when we first learned the faux information that it didn't do any real damage.

My parents were always very open about the human body and reproduction, although I think they tried not to tell us more than what we really wanted to know. I could pretty much ask anything and be given an age-appropriate answer. Sometimes I did just that. At other times it was a whole lot more fun to hear from my cousin about how a girl could supposedly prevent pregnancy by douching with Coke before and after intercourse. If it was unplanned sex, a girl could still skew the odds in her favor by doing the post-coital Coke douche, but the girl who didn't plan ahead and limited herself to just the after-party cocktail was, in effect, playing Russian roulette with her reproductivity. What seems now ironic to me is that the cousin who told me this is a daughter of Uncle Mahonri. (She's an old married woman with kids now, and she didn't have any babies out of wedlock, so either the Coke douche worked for her or no guy ever went near her. I'd bet on the latter.) If you're a first-time reader I'll share with you that my Uncle Mahonri was arrested a month or so ago for stealing a crate of disposable douches.

Now I can't help wondering if there is some connection between Uncle Mahonri's older daughter's belief in Coke douches as effective birth control (what the Coke douches were more likely effective at was giving any girl stupid enough to try it the yeast infection from hell) and the disposable douches he stole. Maybe it was just the douche bottles he wanted and not the actual douching fluid. Perhaps Uncle Mahonri intended to empty the bottles of their original contents and then refill them with Coke so that if any of his daughters were to engage in sex, they could be proactive in limiting its consequences. On the other hand, aren't Mormons discouraged from consuming Coke, never mind the premarital intimacy angle? If they're not supposed to even drink Coke, what twist in a revelation could possibly make it acceptable to squirt the stuff into unmentionable places?

The one thing my cousin's impromptu birth control lesson did for me was to make Coke a totally repulsive beverage that went on my Donner Party* list. Why would I drink something if its real purpose was for the prevention of pregnancy via douching? My Mormon relatives thought I was finally seeing the light in at least one regard when I would turn down Coke in favor of water or milk, but the real reason was just how grossed out I was by the association.

About a year ago, in a conversation regarding just how truly demented everyone in Uncle Mahonri's immediate family is, I casually mentioned to my mother what my cousin had told me about special douches that prevent pregnancy. My mom was in her bed recovering from kidney surgery, so I guess it wasn't a very good time to have shared this information with her. She started laughing hysterically, which hurt her kidney, so she grabbed a pillow to try to cushion it. (I don't really understand how that would help, but at that point I had never had kidney surgery.) My dad heard her and thought something was terribly wrong, so he came running upstairs to their bedroom. She was laughing too hard to really talk, so she used sign language of sorts to indicate that I should tell him what I told her. I told him. (We're not all that delicate in what we talk about even between genders in my family.) My dad fell onto the bed laughing. My brother came in and wanted to know what was going on, so I told him. He didn't know what a douche was, so I told him that as well. He was like, "You girls do that with Coke?" I explained to him that no, we don't, and it was just something that our wacked cousin said. He still didn't get it and didn't think it was half as funny as the rest of us did. He probably pictured in his mind something such as my cousin shaking a can or bottle of Coke until it reached maximum explodability, and then holding it you-know-where as she opened it, and this mental image of douching will probably torture my brother for life. Maybe he'll become a Catholic priest as a result just to avoid dealing with such matters.

I apologize for not having come even close to adequately covering the topic of sex education. At some point in the near future, I will.

By the way, I still don't drink Coke. Neither does my brother anymore.

* My Donner Party list is my list of foods (or drinks) that I would not eat
(or drink) even if I were trapped in the snowy mountains near Truckee with my options being limited to the items on my Donner Party list, one of the Reed family's legs, or certain starvation. I don't know for sure which option I would choose (I tend to think it would be death by starvation) but I know absolutely that I would not opt to eat one of the items on my Donner Party list.

Immigration Reform

I will now address a topic about which I know very little. My detractors would ask, "How is this new or in any way different from anything else you write?" I admit that as a sixteen-year-old who was born in the U. S., and, for that matter, not all that close to any foreign borders, despite the lame U. S. government course I took in high school, how can I profess to have any real knowledge regarding the subject of immigration?

Three of my four grandparents were born in nations other than the United States and immigrated here. My remaining grandparent was the son of two Irish immigrants. Who am I to to say that the borders should remain open long enough to let my family in, but that they then should then be tightly sealed against all but the most wealthy and educated of foreigners who would desire to come here? As a nation of immigrants, we should all understand that underlying sentiment to some degree. Still, our nation probably cannot continue to function even as well as it currently functions if anyone and everyone who wants to come here for whatever reason is allowed to do so. Some control of the borders is inevitable.

My purpose for addressing the topic at this time, while I have nothing intelligent to contribute to the discussion, is to express a small degree of pride in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints for taking a decidedly non-conservative position on this divisive issue. The church has come out in favor of the government taking a "compassionate stance' in keeping families together. The Church took a major risk of alienating a portion of its membership, some of whom would make John Birch appear liberal by comparison. For once I can say with at least a small measure of pride that my father gave two years of his life in missionary service for this faith.

God help us in  keeping this nation as one to which anyone in his or her right mind would desire to immigrate.

Sex and the School (Warning-PG-13)

Some students, parents, and teachers put much faith in the "word on the street" as being a valid and reliable source concerning what is actually happening at my high school, among the students who attend the school, and with the adults who work there. The information travels in various forms. While it was formerly limited to word of mouth, either in person or by phone, or by the occasional passage of a note in class, the grapevine wasn't terribly efficient in the olden days.

Along with just about everything else in the modern world, today's bush network has gone high tech. Rumors, or truths, as some would prefer to perceive them, often initiate via word of mouth, but text-messaging and social networks are usually involved within minutes of the initial news flash. Those unfamiliar with the students and staff at my high school might make the assumption that the topics of such newsbreaks and subsequent text messages and Facebook postings occasionally concern who tried out for some local version of "American Idol" and was laughed off the stage, or who just came out [of the closet; DUH!], or even who shoplifted what item that she's wearing at school today, and from what store she shoplifted it. Anyone assuming any such thing about the rumors circulating at my school is way off base. Gossip at my school concerns one thing and one thing only: sex.

If the rumor mill at my high school is to be believed, teachers are almost constantly having sex with other teachers or school employees. Students are doing the same with other students or even occasionally non-students, with at times the two circles of the figurative Venn diagram intersecting. If the rumor mills at my school have any substance to them whatsoever, very little activity of any kind other than sex could possibly be happening at any given moment and at any given place on campus. With all the sex that's rumored to be happening, there simply cannot be any time for education, athletic participation (except in the sense that sex is athletic participation; hell, maybe we should turn it into some sort of competitive sport; if the rumors are even half true, our school could kick any other school's butt in a sex contest), or anything else of a non-erotic nature. We're all far too busy having sex to work, study, learn, or practice.

The irony in this is that my school has an amazingly high passage rate, even with record numbers of students taking the tests, for Advanced Placement exams. Only one explanation for this is plausible: the students at my school must be freaking geniuses if they're able to have sex all day in place of focusing on their studies yet still receive college credits for academic work done while in high school. Actually, I wrote prematurely when I declared the existence of only one possibility for my school's high academic performance in spite of the dearth of time and resources actually devoted to academic studies. Clearly another explanation exists, or even co-exists. (I think the medical and psychological term for this phenomenon is comorbidity.)In any event, one must not discount the possible role of the act of sex itself in my school's relatively strong academic performance as measured by comparatively high Advanced Placement exam scores. Perhaps sex makes people smarter. The more I ponder the hypothesis, the more logical it seems, especially in conjunction with the comorbidity factor. Teachers become more intelligent and competent teachers without ever teaching anything to anyone by having sex with one another, which in turn impacts students, who are also procreating and mutiplying their respective intellectual capabilities exponentially. With all the government money doled out in the form of grants for the purposes of legitimatre academic and educational research, why has this hypothesis yet to be fully tested? Why did it take a sixteen-year-old girl to come up with it?

According to "common knowledge" or "the word on the street," my school has become some sort of a free brothel. The students are then successfully moving on to respectable universities, often with nearly one-quarter of their university credits completed before the students have even set foot on the university campuses. Rumors are always true -- I've been told such is even more the case if the information was gleaned from the Internet. (If you read something on the Internet, it has to be true, right?) Sex makes people smarter and causes them to be more successful in their academic endeavors. If you are a student and are not having sex at this very minute, you are wasting precious time and valuable brain cells.


The purpose of this discourse is not to make light of any situation in which a student, male or female, is physically or psychologically coerced into an inappropriate relationship of any kind with an authority figure. Such action is, of course, abhorrent, and should be dealt with through the appropriate channels.

Aunt is Still Tripping

I spoke with Auntie on the phone today. She was trying to make sense of the various "Keeping Up With the Kardashians" and related spin-off series. That's one way I know she's under the influence of some mind-altering substance. She would never leave a Kardashian show on for long enough to try to make sense of it, as though sense exists to be made of it in the first place. She kept calling me and asking who these different characters (I call them characters rather than people because, to me, it's all just bad acting) were. She wanted to know what happened to Reggie Bush. Then she was getting Scott Disick confused with Rob Kardashian and was wanting to know why even a network as low-brow as E! would show a brother and sister who had a kid together and were preparing to become intimate again. Her vision was blurred, too, and she thought Kris Jenner was the actress who once played Felicia (or however the character's name was spelled) on Another World. I'm sure the actress has been on another soap since Another World's demise, but I have so little exposure to soaps that it's a miracle I even knew about Felicia and Another World.My aunt was also confused in regard to why Bruce Jenner was spending so much time at the Kardashians' home. She couldn't get it through her Vicodin-addled brain that the late (may he rest in peace) Robert Kardashian's former wife is now married to Bruce Jenner. Either that, or she just didn't really care, but was so bored and stoned that she kept calling me anyway. She's also confused about how any of these people other than maybe Bruce Jenner have attained sufficient stature in life to be extended the honor (or dishonor) of a reality TV series. I told her it's a question for the ages, and pundits have been trying to solve the puzzle since the very first Kardashian-related series aired.

The verdict is not yet in on my prom date. Both the person and the situation are being investigated from numerous angles. If the invitation was or is sincere, I feel sorry for the guy. If it wasn't or isn't, he deserves any scrutiny or bad publicity that falls his way. I hope to have an answer soon. Either way, I know my life will continue on its same boring course.

Sayonara!

My Aunt Wants Vicodin: Dedicated to and Inspired by Both My Real Aunt and Aunt Becky

There is truth to what I'm writing, so Aunt Becky (Sherrick Harks) is less likely to sue me for using her considered-but-rejected blog title as my heading for this particular blog entry. My aunt had surgery to remove portions of her intestine because of two perforated ulcers (I admit to profound ignorance once more: I don't even know whether it was her large or small intestine, or if she had a separate ulcer in each) and to resect the intestines minus the damaged and removed portions. Often, I've been told, when a person has intestinal surgery, the use of narcotics is limited because the use of opiates greatly interferes with intestinal motility.

Isn't that just what you wanted to read about? I hope anyone who is reading this is not eating. I'll try to be more sensitive to these sorts of matters in the future. My aunt, however, has cystic fibrosis. Patients with cystic fibrosis often suffer from either too little intestinal motility or too much of it. My aunt's situation is the latter. Food travels through her at the rate the late Secretariat ran the track at the Belmont Stakes. A little bit of sluggishness in the gastric motility department is actually a good thing for my aunt. It might actually allow food to remain in her system long enough for her to absorb a few nutrients. Her doctors, then, have liberally prescribed painkillers for her.

Painkillers alter my aunt's personality. She has a normally pleasant enough disposition. While she does possess a sense of humor, not everything that might occur in an unremarkable interval of an hour or so would necessarily send her into fits of hysteria. When she takes Vicodin, however, all bets are off as to what she'll find beyond hilarious. My uncle experienced just the slightest degree of difficulty in removing the child-proof cap from my aunt's Vicodin bottle one afternoon.

My uncle doesn't know the rule about child-proof caps, which is that if one is having difficulty opening a child-proof bottle of anything, hand it to a little kid, and he or she will have it open in a nano-second. The kindergarten teacher my twin brother and I had was a senior citizen and took a whole slew of medications, from blood thinners to beta blockers to MAO inhibitors to Prozac to God only know what else. She brought the bottles to school each morning in a slate-blue plastic basket. The "medicine monitor" would set a timer and would, at the appointed times, open the bottles, count out the correct numbers of pills of each sort, and hand-deliver them to our teacher, along with a glass of water. I don't recall that any of the kindergartners in our class ever thought to mention this slightly odd procedure to our parents. Why in hell would we have done that? Doing such might have cost us a turn at being the "medicine monitor," which was one of the more highly-coveted classroom jobs. It ranked just beneath "office monitor," who delivered hand-written messages, supplies, or whatever, to and from the office, but ahead of "telephone monitor," who answered the classroom intercom phone and relayed messages between the caller and the teacher because the aging teacher lacked sufficient mobility to actually walk the distance to the phone herself. Another important job was "fire drill monitor." This wasn't such a highly preferred duty as some of the others, because fire drills happened only once a month unless a juvenile delinquent was unsupervised in the vicinity of a fire alarm and pulled it at a time when a fire drill had not been scheduled, or, God forbid, an actual fire broke out. It was, nonetheless, an important task. The kindergarten teacher's ability to discern high-pitched frequencies, such as that of the sound emitted by our school's fire alarm system, fell somewhere between "hard of hearing" and "stone-cold deaf." Had the alarm sounded, the class would have heard it and would have exited the building, but the teacher would either have been left sitting at her desk wondering what had happened to the class or, in the event of an actual fire, would have gone down with the seventy-something-year-old building that couldn't possibly have been anywhere near up to code. Thus, the "fire drill monitor" had the duty to alert the kindergarten teacher whenever the fire alarm sounded. Enough about my brother's and my rather bizarre kindergarten experience. I must get back to the discussion of my aunt and her unusual reaction to Vicodin.

My uncle's difficulty in opening the child-proof bottle of Vicodin took place more than four hours after my aunt had been given her most recent dose, so we're talking half-life at best where the effects of the drug were concerned. Still, my aunt laughed harder at my uncle trying in vain to pry open the child-proof container than my brother laughs when he's watching The Hangover, which is his favorite movie of all time. I'd be afraid to let my aunt watch The Hangover if she'd taken any Vicodin within twenty-four hours; she would quite possibly laugh so hard she'd either pee on herself, go into a seizure, or have a stroke.

My aunt laughs riotously at The MacNeil-Lehrer NewsHour when she's on Vicodin. She also thinks ladybugs are funny when she's under the influence of the drug. I told my uncle that he must never take my aunt to a funeral, no matter how close she may have been to the deceased, if she's been given Vicodin or any related opiate within a week of the scheduled date and time of the funeral. My aunt would probably laugh, and not just at the lame jokes of the eulogist or of those participating in the "open-mike" portion of the funeral, but at the incensing of the coffin or at the vocalist's rendition of "The Old Rugged Cross" (which, I admit, has been laughable at least once at a funeral at which I was in attendance, but still, we all showed proper respect by pretending either to cry or to cough instead; there are times when one does not laugh). She would disgrace our entire family. My uncle agreed with me and said that if a funeral ever were to be scheduled without sufficient notice to keep my aunt off the Vicodin for a suitable interval, she'd have to sit that one out.

My aunt, I'm told, is not prone to addiction. She's already taking considerably less Vicodin than she was when she first left the hospital about a week ago. Conversations with her are slightly more lucid but are not as much fun. I spend a not insignificant part of vacation time with her and her husband, and they have taken on portion of the chore of teaching me to drive. Sooner or later they'll send me on the occasional errand with one of their cars. I'm hoping nothing ever goes wrong on any of these excursions, but I should probably prepare for the worst by getting my hands on a Vicodin and squirreling it away for one of those true "rainy day" moments, such as if someone ever were to sideswipe me or, even worse, if I were to back into a fire hydrant.

If that were to happen, I would say, "Auntie, you look like you're in pain. Your abdomen must be hurting from your surgery you had [however many] months ago. Here! Have a Vicodin! It'll make you feel better." I would produce the tablet, which she would gladly take. I would wait twenty minutes or so for it to take effect . . . Then I'd tell her about the car.

Mommy Wants Vodka

I probably should have put the title of today's blog in quotations, because it's the title of a blog that belongs to someone else and is probably even copyrighted. I certainly don't want to be sued by the owner of the copyright, if, indeed, it is copyrighted. I could go back now and add the quotation marks, but I'm too damned lazy.

"Mommy Wants Vodka" is the title of a popular blog by a major player in the blogosphere, Becky Sherrick Harks, or Becky Harks Sherrick. I get confused about which is her maiden name and which is her married name, and haven't yet committed the mental resources necessary for me to keep it straight. At some point I may. Then again, maybe I won't, and I'll go through life totally ignorant in regard to which is her correct name. C'est la vie. I'm ignorant about things far more important than that, as I am reminded on a daily basis by relatives close and not-so-close, both physically and biologically. At least my very cloeest biological relative, my twin brother, seems to have quit (or at least to have placed himself on the injured reserve list) of the team of relatives whose dedicated purpose is to remind me on a regular basis of just how stupid, ignorant, or otherwise thorough a waste of space on the planet I am. Thanks, Matthew, for no longer being one of those people.

Becky Sherrick Harks or vice versa wrote somewhere that she had originally considered naming her blog "Mommy Wants Vicodin." I actually like that name better than the one she ultimately chose. Someday when I am a parent, I may ask her for permission to use the name. She probably won't answer me, though.

Becky Sherrick Harks (or vice versa)'s column has a feature, "Ask Aunt Becky." There's a space where readers can write questions. Somewhere I read that the questions are answered on Sundays. I wrote her a question that needed sort of a timely answer, but answers to questions on her column did not appear yeasterday. That may have been because it was a holiday. It also may have been because answers appear somewhere else and I don't know where that place is. The bottom line is that I don't know if Aunt Becky answered my question already, if she didn't get to it yet, or if she never will. Some question/answer formats are so impacted that getting an answer is a million-to-one shot. I have no idea how it works in Ms. Sherrick Harks' (or vice versa)'s case.

I'll ask people here. I get a very limited number of readers, and an even more limited number of responders. If you're ever going to respond to my column, please respond now. I really need input, and I need it in the semi-anonymous format from which I'll get it here. I can't afford to position myself in a kiosk at my local mall with a clipboard to seek opinions of passers-by. Help me! PLEASE!

My old columns allude to a prom date from last year that apparently wasn't meant to be. I was in a wheelchair with a mangled leg and a broken clavicle at the time of the prom. The guy who had invited me to the prom uninvited me, though not personally, or by phone, email, text-message, Western Union, singing telegram,smoke signal, or anything so direct. He announced it in the school cafeteria. Those who heard it, including his new prom date, actually delivered the message to me in person.

I was invited this year, but that invitation fell though, though not through the fault of the guy who invited me. I won't give any details, but I really don't blame him for the mess. Now another guy has invited me. I know nothing of his intentions. I don't know him well. I don't know if he invited me on a dare, and he's going to do a grand no-show. I don't know if it's a bet and he stands to collect tons of winnings if he shows up in public with me. I don't even know if my parents bribed him with cash to get him to ask me.

My mom tells me if I do not attend my senior prom I will one day regret it. Maybe she's right. If I do go and find out that I was somehow on the wrong end of a joke, I know I'll regret it a lot longer and harder. My brother says he'll kill anyone who sets me up in any way, but that won't undo any of the actual public humiliation.

There are people I could trust to ask this, but they're dealing with issues in their own lives right now, so I can't bother them with my petty problems. I could make myself sick and not have to go, but if the invitation happened to be for real, that would be cutting off my nose to spite my face.

As realistically and objectively as I can, I'll try to describe my own social schema. I'm a very nerdy girl. I don't think others see me as ugly, but I'm small and underdeveloped. I'm an academic overachiever. Generally speaking, I'm not picked on or targeted by bullies. I was once physically assaulted, but it was in response to a situation where a person was punished for stealing a paper I wrote; he and his friends retaliated against me. The instance was isolated and not ongoing. I really don't think what happened to me falls under the umbrella of bullying.

I'm sixteen, but I'm finishing high school this year, so it's my final shot at my own prom as a high school student. There is life after high school, so I know that I'm not doomed to a life of complete failure if I miss this prom. Still, I want to make the best decision. If I were in possession of a crystal ball, the decision would be an easier one to make.
All I have, however, are an invitation that at face value seems a bit suspicious, my mom's insistence that everyone who's anyone at all goes to her senior prom, and a gut feeling that something here might not be on the level.

People who don't usually respond, please respond. The more opinions I have to bounce around, the more educated my final decision will be. If you are not yet a high school senior, you will oneday be one, and may find yourself in a similar situation. If you were once a high school senior, have a little compassion and give me your opinion even if you don't normally bother with such things.

PLEASE!

My Twitter Followee Khloe Kardashian

Through some mysterious process unbeknownst to me, I became a Twitter follower of Khloe Kardashian. I do not recall ever clicking on a
"Follow" icon anywhere near her name, but stranger things have happened. Perhaps I've become a somnitweeter, or whatever would be the correct term for someone who uses a Twitter account in a state of sleep. Maybe my computer is possessed, and Satan or one of his minions clicked on the Khloe Kardashian "Follow" icon for me. Perhaps I clicked the icon in a momentary lapse of judgement or awareness, or maybe I left my computer unattended and someone else clicked it for me. Perhaps I've developed a seizure disorder (I've notice from my viewing of the TV program "House" that seizures are far more common than one might think), and one of the things I do during my seizures is to randomly click Twitter "Follow" icons. Whatever. I'm now a Twitter follower of Khloe Kardashian.

The logical course of action would be to click on the "Unfollow"
icon next to her name. For some reason I can't explain, I haven't done so. I don't usually even read her Tweets, which are many. She's a prolific if semi-literate Tweeter. Many of her Tweets pertain to publicizing upcoming "reality" shows featuring her or other members of her family. At other times Khloe Tweets about Laker games, which is logical, as her husband plays for the Lakers. Khloe Tweets to and about members of her family in such ways that would be considered inappropriate by my own family or, for that matter, almost any family I know.

Khloe recently Tweeted a criticism or complaint about her brother Rob, if I recall correctly, and his use of wax for hair removal from various body parts. In a moment of stupidity eclipsing even my normal stupidity, I responded via Twitter, "Why do you even know? I haven't a clue what my brother does or doesn't put on his private parts." I know that response from me was both stupid and about as futile as attempting to convert a Jehovah's Witness who shows up on one's doorstep to Roman Catholicism, Armenian Orthodoxism, Presbyterianism, or just about any ism more conventional than that form of worship which takes place at the Kingdom Hall. (If you tried interesting any of them in Branch Davidianism, you might actually have a shot at success.)

Khloe gave no response directed specifically to me. I don't think she customarily responds to fans' Tweets except on very rare occasions to those Tweets of an extremely laudatory nature. Still, not long after my Tweet to her, the following Tweet was posted by her: "Fake people really put a damper on my whole mood."

It may be that her Tweet and mine were parallel and not in any way interactive. If, however, there was a cause/effect relationship between her Tweet and mine, I am loathe to report to my 8.5 readers that those of you who are unaware and/or do not discuss what, if any, forms of hair removal your siblings use on their private parts, are fake people and you put a damper on Khloe Kardashian's whole mood. You, as well as I, should be ashamed!

Public Nudity, Breastfeeding of Children Over the Age of Thirteen, and Related Topics

I've noticed something ever since I've been tracking viewing of my blog. This may come as less than a news flash to most of you out there who are slightly less clueless than I, but certain headings attract more readers to click on them, if only initially, than do others. If I didn't have parents, or if I had ones who were less "involved" in my daily life and who let me write about whatever I wanted for my semi-public readership of roughly 8.5 hits per blog, my titles could feature topics such as "Kama Sutra and Student/Teacher Interactions" or "Breastfeeding of Children Over the Age of Thirteen," or even "Discreet Non-Coital Sexual Relations in Public Locations Including, But Not Limited to, Places of Worship." On the other hand, my parents are "involved," and chances are that my mere mention of these hypothetical topics upon which I neither have touched nor will touch will result in, at the very least, a lengthy discussion that may or may not result in the loss of at least one privilege and/or the imposition of an undesirable consequence.

What I've really tried to say in entirely too many words is that more people would click on my blog if the headings alluded to topics of a more-or-less erotic nature. If the blogs themselves actually covered the sex-related topics implied by the headings, I'd have even more people actually reading past the first sentence. If I were allowed to or even wanted to write smut, far more people would be interested in reading what I have to write than have any interest under present circumstances. This, as was mentioned earlier, is not exactly one of those "stop the presses" bits of information.

Beyond those areas that fall under the umbrella of of "explicit content," some headings or subjects in general garner more attention, more hits, or more readership in general than do others. If I were to write tonight of Lindsay Lohan's upcoming legal battles, more readers would be attracted to this blog than if I were to write about my own upcoming court case. (For the few of you who care, it's comming, and once it's settled I'll have the freedom to write about it within certain constraints.) Anything I've written about Judge Alex has attracted greater-than average readership. When I discussed Dr. Phil's guest, Jessica Beagley, of hot-sauce-in her-adopted-child's-mouth-as-a-form-of-discipline infamy (What in the world has happened there, by the way? That was supposed to have come to court in March? Does anyone know the outcome?)the same was true. When I referred to the massive size of my boobs in a title (I was being totally sarcastic, by the way) the number of hits was nearly double what it typically is. Almost anytime the LDS church makes it into a heading for one of my blogs, the number of hits jumps, although I auspect these results may be skewed by relatives from my father's side of the family snooping to see if I'm taking cheap shots at all they hold sacred and dear.

So how does one achieve the balance of writing about what readers want to read as opposed to saying what he or she really wants to say? This depends in part on one's reason for writing. If one is writing professionally, unless the writer has attained the stature of, say, Stephen King, one needs to write about what interests the reader. If a person is a newspaper columnist, the newspaper or syndicate has ways of tracking the interest level of an author's column; failure to maintain a certain level of interest among readers will presumably result in unemployment. If a person's writings are for the purpose of academic assignment, the instructor is God, for practical purposes, and thus determines whether the subject matter is sufficient to meet an assigned topic. If one is writing for pure pleasure, one may write about what he or she chooses, keeping in mind that under that present framework, parents and others have access to what is written and may manifest dissatisfaction in ways that negatively impact the writer.

What is my purpose for blogging? It's essentially a school assignment. I'm given few constraints beyond what my parents and teachers impose both for the confidentiality necessary for my well-being and for the decorum otherwise known as censorship that keeps school administrators as uninvolved as I desire for them to remain.

Why do I really do this? I'm presently in the Mountain Daylight Time Zone, where it is roughly 2:00 a.m. Shouldn't I have better things to be doing now, namely sleeping? Am I really sitting in bed with my laptop open because I'm obsessing about my grades when I've already been accepted into and have committed to the university of my choice? The answer is probably no. Something more intrinsic must be compelling me to do this.

If this is what I want to do as even an avocation (I'll probably pursue another career avenue, although it may be one that involves a considerable amount of writing), I'll have to find the happy medium of finding topics that hold both my attention and that of my potential readers. While there's a certain allure in trashing the Kardashians in print on a daily basis, or in making inflammatory comments about things that are sacred to half of my family, doing so would be taking the easy way out. There has to be a nobler cause. What it is I do not yet know.

Less Than a Week!

Prince William and Kate Middleton will be wed in less than a week! I, for one, amd truly excited at the prospect, and I'm not even British, even by ancestry. I can scarcely imagine the anticipation with which the British are viewing the upcoming nuptials.

Judge Alex's Facebook Page Revisited

I should give credit where it is due. The "others" who frequent Judge Alex's Facebook page have shown civility, perhaps even kindness, toward each other in the past week or so. When I'm finally eighteen and am declared by my wardens to be mature enough to own a Facebook page, I plan to click the "like" button on Judge Alex's page to officially become an "other." Until then, I'll just read the page. When I come across something truly profound or noteworthy, of course, I'll feel free to comment about it here. Nothing's ever stopped me from doing so in the past. Why should that change?

Judge Alex Ferrer himself was, is, and will presumably continue to be a class act. He is a true gentleman who takes time from a schedule that has to be hectic at the very least to offer words of comfort and encouragement to fans who have little or nothing to offer him personally; in most cases, they're not even members of Nielsen ratings groups. He just performs random acts of kindness (I've developed a fodness for the use of trite and hackneyed phrases, but my point is sincere) because he's a decent and honorable human being. He was a good man before the tone on his Facebook page took a turn for the worse, and he continues to be one now that the atmosphere there is again one of appropriate decorum. He even makes time occasionally to answer my sometimes inane questions or to comment on my observations, the acts of which serve him in no conceivable way other than perhaps to weight karma ever so slightly in his favor.

I'm seated several chairs away from my parents at my Auntie's law school convocation, which is why I'm allowed to type on my blog while the featured speaker is droning on about a topic that interests probably no one in this building, including even the speaker's wife. My uncle understands and is blocking my parents' view of me so that this thirty minutes of my life that I'll never get back may be used at least semi-productively. I wouldn't for the world have missed seeing my aunt be awarded her Doctorate of Jurisprudence, but the featured speaker is a total bust. Being allowed to blog has at least turned the featured speaker's portion of the event from an ordeal into a mild waste of time. My uncle is at times a savior to me, in a minor sense, of course.

Judge Alex should be speaking at this law school convocation instead of the bloviator currently hogging the microphone. The wisdom Judge Ferrer shares with the public every day on his court show holds more value than anything that's been blasted over the microphone here in the past thirty minutes.

My Aunt Graduates tomorrow

It's that time of the year for universities, high schools, middle schools still in the dark ages (Middle school graduations, or commencements, are rapidly going the way of those who believe Ann Coulter has anything worthwhile to say, and under the the "Jethro Bodine Clause," which offers the practical reasoning that since even Jethro of "Beverly Hillbillies" fame made it through sixth grade, there's no legitimate purpose for throwing bashes complete with caps, gowns, and limousines to commemorate the successful passage of students from eight grade, similar to the logic that certificates and awards aren't usually presented for learning the proper way to flush a toilet.) Even preschools to hold ceremonies commemorating successful passage from one phase of learning to the next.***

Medical issues forced Auntie Jillian to pass on tonight's university-wide commencement ceremony, but the truth of that matter is that she really didn't want to be there anyway, and if the real medical emergencies of pseudomonas aeruginosa-induced pneumonia and perforated ulcers requiring two separate surgeries to remove and resect portions of her intestines hadn't materialized, Auntie Jillian would have invented a hangnail or cramps as an excuse to pass on the opportunity of hearing just one more member of the LDS church hierarchy bloviate on the virtues of integrity, regular class attendance, and the blessings associated with giving generously to the various alumni associations when telemarketers call at inconvenient hours to hit up recent graduates still deeply in debt with student loans, using their most effective guilt-inducing techniqies to wrangle donations from the near-destitute.

Tomorrow evening is the Law School Convocation, which is considered the "real" graduation among law school students. That ceremony Auntie plans to attend. The logistics of her attendance and participation haven't entirely been effectuated, although her father-in-law has many of the details hammered out. He's a former professor with the university who still maintains ties, so the Powers That Be at least pretend to listen to most of what he has to say even though he probably has no more knowledge than the family dog about the best way to get a young woman who is for practical purposes temporarily either an invalid or a cripple (take your pick of which term you find less offensive) and whose record number of post-surgery steps is, as of this evening, twenthy-eight. Her father-in-law counted the number of steps needed to reach her seat on the stage from the point at which the graduates begin their procession. His total, with his stride that is probably at least 1.77* times greater than hers, was one-hundred=ninety-seven steps. If you believe in miracles, please begin praying for one immediately. If you have any direct connections with Benny Hinn, please persuade him to fly to Provo and heal my aunt before tomorrow evening.(It would be ideal, incidentally, if he didn't make her fall to the floor in a state of unconsciousness immediately after being healed, as do most of his subjects, as there will not be enough time to clean and re-press her gown prior to the ceremony, much less to re-style her hair and makeup.) Any way we configurate the data, someone needs to alert Houston to the existence of a problem.

A wheelchair has been recommended as a way to transport my aunt from the point at which the graduates' procession begins to her seat on the stage. This isn't, all things considered, necessarily a bad idea. My aunt, however, was an NCAA Division I athlete, and has always taken pride in her strength, endurance, and vitality. She feels that people would be judgimg her because she is not a member of the majority religion, and the people judging her would henceforth reach the conclusion, spoken or otherwise, that her failure to follow the LDS "Word of Wisdon," which is a set of rules governing what can or cannot be eaten, drunk, or smoked, and would conclude that by her failure to follow the "Word of Wisdom," she herself had brought upon herself her physical misfortunes. That's what she says, anyway, even though, as a non-Mormon, she actually adheres to more of the tenets of the "Word of Wisdom" than do most practicing Mormons, and, on a non-sick day, can "run and not be weary, and walk and not faint" better than almost anyone, whether Mormon or Catholic or Branch Davidian (if there are any Branch Davidians left). This is all just what my aunt says. Her real worry is that people will look at hr funny if she is pushed in a wheelchair or somehow makes it to the stage any differently than anyone else. She's a girl. So am I. That's the way we think. I'd feel exactly the same way under identical circumstances.

Several of her law school classmates offered to piggy-back her or to carry her up to the stage or to transport her on one of those shairs (were they called litters?) on which royalty used to be transported by underlings. The university nixed both suggestions and other similar ones.

Her brother suggested that she sit in the front row of the audience and join the procession as it reached her. This idea has nor yet been rejected, which means that it will probably be the plan finally adopted. There are still concerns about the length of the ceremony and her ability to sit through it. A member of the law faculty who is also a doctor suggested placing her out of alphabetical order. (This would be a serious breach of protocol and might even require a signature from some head honcho Mormon, if not a vote from the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles of the LDS church, for it to be even considered, much less allowed.) Anyway, the idea would be to place her on the back row so that she could be discreetly removed from the group and placed on a stretcher or couch nearby for portions of the proceedings that don't directly require her input or participation. She might not receive the full impact of the messgage of just how important it is to continue to give generously whenever the annyoing phone solicitors call during the dinner hour demanding a pledge and a credit card number, but she at least stands a chance of still being conscious when it is time for her to traipse across the stage and to receive her piece of paper that others are supposed to believe is an actual diploma. Real diplomas will not be mailed out until sometime in June, after the university's equivalent to the CIA has investigated sufficiently to know that she hasn't publicly denounced any church or universitiy authorities, hasn't acted in any way to effect a veto Proposition Eight, or has not accrued any library "overdue" fines.

Even traipsing across the stage is more of an issue for my aunt that we would like it to be. Is she capable of walking across the stage unescorted or unsupported? Under optimal circumstances the answer would be yes, but nerves, temporary weakness, and the possibily of a jealous classmate sticking his or her foot out to trip her remain real possibilities. My uncle has offered to excort her, but since no one else is being escorted across the stage by a spouse, my aunt is concerned about the appearance of this. My advice to my aunt about this matter is that she most likely has a better-looking spouse than anyone else in the entire law school class. Why not take advantage of a legitmate excuse to show him off and make others jealous? She is at least considering my advice. Other members of the class have offered to be on standy-by, and to walk more closely ahead of and behind her than would normally be done so that they can support her, catch her, carry her, or do whatever is needed.

My final bit of advice to my aunt was somewhat controversial and, I'm sad to say, wasn't taken all than seriously, although I hope that she will rethink the matter and reconsider. Because of her unique situation, all eyes will be on my aunt, for better or for worse. Why not use this attention as a platform to make a statement. She could speak of Jessica Beagley and of her mistreatment of sweet little Kristoff, or she could briefly air her view about Donald Trump's unfitness for any political office, including that of the Mayor of Wasilla, or could address her views about financial assistance for university students, or could even offer her views concerning Rebecca Black's talent or lack thereof. It isn't every day that one has a platform from which he or she will be heard. When everyone is looking at you, use the unwanted attention to your benefit.

* 1.77 is a figure I came up with totally arbitrarily, but it sounded good, so Im sticking with it.

*** In my opinion, preschool graduation ceremonies are acceptable if for no reason other than that preschoolers are inherently cute, and any opportunity to display their cuteness is a worthwhile endeavor.