Life Facts According to Baymax.

For anyone still not in the know, Peter and I are dog owners.

I'm assuming most have figured out that I have anxiety, due to the title of this blog, so this isn't a surprise, but guys... I have anxiety. (whew, so good to get that off my chest!)  I am also a heavily medicated individual. Since 2010 I have been on Effexor with sometimes other pills being pulled into the mix. This summer I started having multiple daily panic attacks, and so when we got to Utah I met with a psychiatrist who added Gabapenton to the routine. Through our meetings he found out that I have always had nightmares, which recently had been triggering middle of the night panic attacks. Thus a new pill was added. Welbutrin was also added to balance out some bad side effects of the Effexor, and now I'm a pill guzzling junkie.

Before all these pills were added, my psychiatrist and I tried to decrease my Effexor to see if I would be able to function on a low dose. This experiment crashed and burned very hard. My racing thoughts, panic, deep depression, and compulsive hair pulling doubled, so we put me back to my original dose.

There is a purpose to all this, I swear, even though I am getting very distracted from the point of this post.

Peter and I are not trying for kids; we really can't right now. My high doses of multiple medications mean that any pregnancy would be very very dangerous for that foetus. We have decided we will start trying once we finish our Masters and I begin my PhD. Doing so means that I will need to be off my pills, and that means I will likely be a mess. I am terrified of doing this, but I want to be able to give Peter a child that he so desperately wants, and I know I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I chose to stay on meds that significantly hurt a baby.

Enter Baymax. 

I adore dogs. If you don't know this about me, you probably are a stranger that just somehow stumbled onto my blog. Through the help of my therapist, the university accessibilities office, and Wymount housing, I was approved to get a dog as an emotional support animal. Animals and tending for animals, has been linked with lessening depression, anxiety, and also PTSD, (although I do not have that). Our wonderful puppy Baymax, who we adopted last month, is stepping in to help me both with my current issues, and the ones that will arise when I go drug free. Peter says I already seem a lot better.

Wow, okay, so I did not intend to write any of that, but I figured I might as well explain things. Why not? I'm gonna be a therapist, and we're always encouraging people to own their mental health struggles. *Power fist!*

Life with a puppy has been wonderful. The dog we brought home from the store was timid and did not like us touching him, but now that Stockholm syndrome has fully taken affect, he is a happy and playful puppy. Every day Peter and I learn a new life fact according to Baymax, and in honour of his first bath, which he’s still mildly upset at us for, I present to you some of his top ones.

• Leaves are awesome. As many as can be collected should be chewed on and brought inside where they belong.

• Hair is equally as important as leaves, whether on the floor or on the head of a person, it is the same.

• People cannot know that you love them unless your tongue goes all the way up their nose holes. The farther up, the greater the love. Do not allow them to resist. 

• Humans must be tended while they use the bathroom. You may either sit and wait until they are done, or check in every 2 minutes. Either is sufficient.

• When you poop or piddle outside, you get a treat. To make sure the human knows you need your treat, maintain eye contact and lick your lips while you go. It isn’t creepy.

• Anything put in the food bowl must be avoided at all cost. Food is good when it is held by a human, but in the bowl it is useless. Only if you are close to starvation can you touch what is in the bowl.

• When you greet someone, you must touch their face. All faces should be touched frequently. (**Touching the face also helps them stop resisting the tongue in the nose.**)  

• If someone has an easy time using a thing, they will not appreciate it. Steal brushes, socks, curlers, papers and computer mice (while they are being used) and run around until they catch it. Now they will appreciate what they have.

• When someone is doing the dishes, help out by licking their ankles.

• No one can make you take a walk when you don't want one. Straining against the leash long enough will help you slip out of the harness and run home. They will respect your decisiveness.

• Deer poop is excellent for sniffing. Maybe even a tentative lick.

• All strangers want to pet you and they need to be able to. If you see a stranger on a walk, sit down until they are close enough to run to (with your paws up and ready for face touching). Even if the stranger is walking in the opposite direction sit and wait; they could come back.

• Vacuums are satan, but brooms are friends. Chase the broom whenever possible and scavenge the piles it makes for leaf bits and hair balls. Both are toys that should not be disposed of.

• If a toy has been purchased for your use, ignore it. The true toys are plastic bags, ball pit balls, soft hair curlers, toothbrushes, clothes, leaves, and hair. 

This is definitely not my best picture, but I love how Baymax looks like he's saying, "Who meeee?" in a Betty Boop-ish voice.
Work it, boy. 

Now I can stalk everyone and drink soda.

A few weeks ago I did something bad. I allowed myself to get heated on a Facebook post and say something mean. The problem with mean words is that, even if you regret them as soon as you have formed them, once you have sent them out into the world, they cannot be fully recovered. I didn't call anyone any names, or attack someone's mother, but I snapped at someone very rudely, and was called out on it immediately. And thus, my Facebook privledges were revoked.

I mean, no Facebook gods stole my password or anything crazy like that, but I had clearly shown I was not able to handle the adult responsibility of stalking every person I've ever known. After discussing the situation with Peter, and recognizing that I have a serious Facebook addiction, I deleted Facebook off of my phone and iPad and vowed to finish Lent without it. (My original Lent sacrifice was soda. Just so you're aware. It was a big thing.)

My problem with Facebook was that it was dictating my entire life. The only daily social interactions I was having, besides Peter and children under the age of 5, were those on Facebook. Every day I was seeing the worst of every one I know. Facebook is like attending a party with hundreds of people, but the party lasts forever, and everyone is telling you everything that they think, do, and eat ALL THE TIME. Most sane people would become lunatics if trapped in a situation like that. However, most sane people would also just hide the people they can't stand updates from on Facebook, but NO that is just TOO EASY for Ms. Melece to do. Instead, I hide those people and grow increasingly anxious about what they may possibly be posting. What if they are poisoning others with their aggressive political views and rants about their spouse??!! If I can't see it, HOW CAN I STOP IT? 

Well, the reality is, I can't stop anything anyone says or does ever, but I can give myself a time out for bad behaviour. 

Someone told me I was stupid for giving up Facebook, because any social interaction is better than vegging out in front of Netflix. I have to disagree. When you allow your social (*cough* online) interactions to become toxic as I had, those conversations don't really allow you to improve or grow. They just live in your brain and fester until you're unable to do anything else without steaming over what someone said. For now, I am back, and I have very much enjoyed reading the wonderful things friends have shared on my wall in my absence, but this whole situation has been very enlightening to me. If I want to become a successful therapist, I need to be able to manage my own emotions and seriously reconsider how I interact with the people around me.

He's all about that Bass

Sometimes we overlook aspects of people we love because we do not want to acknowledge they are real. Even when the facts are blaringly obvious, we refuse to recognize what is staring us straight in the face, because we would rather live in our blissful ignorance than admit what is true. 

Peter has always been different. With his long lashes and aggressively blue eyes, his perfectly sculpted eyebrows and ability to cut his own hair, he stands out from others in a mildly feminine way. He dances more than he walks. He hums show tunes and 90s pop, and regularly compliments others on their appearance. He loves suspenders and writes eloquent poetry and prose. I've known him for almost 5 years now, and I have found that it is time for me to embrace his true identity. To face what it is that drives Peter's passions. 

Peter loves boybands.

He loves boybands fiercely. I tried to ignore what was in front of me, but after almost a year of marriage, I cannot. He religiously updates his Spotify playlists to finetune his listening tastes, tastes that are centered on the talents of young boys (who are actually several years older than us), and their harmonizing, lyricism, and beatboxing (at times). While N'Sync is his cherished favourite, Peter has a diverse palate for all things 90s-00s boybands. In fact, he has a very real dream to form a Japanese singing boyband of five white men, himself included. While he sings and dance, I look on and know that even though I never dreamed of marrying a boyband member, touring Japan while young girls scream at my husband sounds only mildly terrifying. 

Since embracing my husband's true identity, my life has only become better. We are both able to rejoice in our respective loves: Peter in his songs, and me in watching him dance like a goon while he sings his songs. As for the initial shock, I know I am coming back from this. I may not be the same person I was, my view is expanded, my perspective more broadened, and I now know what is important, and what isn’t. I don’t want any boys to grow up feeling they must hide who they are, mask their identity, and live in denial. It is okay, no, it is great, to love boybands. It is wonderful to enjoy the talents of Lance Bass and Nick Carter dancing and creating magic with their respective posse. If you know someone who is hiding their passion as though ashamed, I hope you will be there for them. Support them in being who they are. 

P.s. I'll send you a postcard when we're touring Asia. 

Times in which I am enraged even though I have no right to be.

I originally drafted up this post the week of Thanksgiving, but then I thought it probably wouldn't be a good time for me to post about all the things in my life that I hate.

This isn't even necessarily an "I Hate Things" list, so much as it is a "Things that give me a disproportionate amount of rage when they really are small things" list. You can judge me. I totally understand.

1. Parents choosing to be illiterate when naming their children.

I have a strange obsession with names, this is no news to anyone. Sometimes I wonder if I am similar to adults who go through a traumatizing experience when they are young, then go on to be great ambassadors of change for others going through the same experiences. (See Elizabeth Smart and others.) I suffered through having an unusual name as a child, and now I use my (very limited power) to rant about bad baby name choices.
There seems to be this trend to slaughter common baby names beyond recognition in order to make the baby different from its peers. This bugs me much more than new, made up or unusual baby names, for the specific reason that you make your child look illiterate. Put yourself in the child's place: verbally, your name is exactly the same as many others, but then as soon as you try to spell it, you reveal your parents as adults who have never seen the English language written out.
Is this none of my business? Absolutely. Does it bother me? IT DRIVES ME INSANE.

2. Signs that stay up past their relevancy

Reading a flyer that tells me to "Come see the school play on October 14th!" when it is December, gives me an incredible amount of rage. Who in particular am I angered at? Surely not the sign, it is not its fault that it has been taped up and abandoned for months. Maybe the people who abandoned their signs. Even though I am sure that person has a job and a schedule and important things to do, removing their sign when the information it is offering is no longer pertinent apparently needs to be their #1 priority when asking the rage monsters in my brain.
Shockingly, this rage extends to decorations that stay up past their holiday. Forget your holiday cheer. Whether it be valentine's day, st. Patricks, halloween or christmas, as soon as that holiday is over, you better be taking down your celebrations.
Knowing this, one year my coworkers lovingly decided to decorate the entire Reading/Writing Center with paper hearts, jack-o-lanterns, shamrocks, flags, and christmas trees in order to try to coax me through this hatred through some sort of demented flooding therapy. Amazingly, they also managed to do all this within an hour, while I was in the center working on homework, and all without me realizing. When I got up from my computer, I rage-screamed and tried to tear everything down. It was traumatizing for everyone.

3. When apps aren't one defined colour, and other colour tragedies.

My apps on my phone and iPad need to be organized by colour. No other way makes sense to me. You think that app designers would realize that this organizing concept is the one true way, and thus all apps should be ONE COLOUR. Where am I supposed to place an app which is 5 colours at once? Tell me that, designers. Riddle me this terrible life decision of yours.
Recently my Heads Up app went from being blue to red, which was probably a smart marketing decision because now that app gets to be bumped up to one of the #1 slots, but having it change was a spark of immense anger in me. Who do you think you are, Ellen Degeneres?! Changing your colour on me! Geez.
Similarly, when colours of the rainbow are all present but not in their God given order, I blame the patriarchy for destroying America*. Where is the logic in having things going orange, green, yellow, red, purple, blue?! My heart rate is going up just considering it. I need to move on.

4. Click bait and Facebook like ifs.

Frequently I hold back likes on Facebook out of spite. I see a picture or a post that I enjoy and go to like it, then those fatal words hold me back, "like if you..." I don't care if that last word is "agree" "enjoy" or "love puppies" I am not your puppet and I will not like this! Disregard that moments ago I was ready and willing to use my mouse to tell you I enjoy your Facebooking, you are not my mother! You can not tell me what to do! Granted, if my mother were to post one of these things, I probably wouldn't like it either, because my rage at being told when and when not to like something is that unreasonable. Sorry, Mommifer. I hope you can potentially forgive me in the case this hypothetical situation occurs.
I also have a deep rooted hatred for click bait. "This happened and then YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED NEXT," "This post changed my life," "What happened in this video blew my mind," "You've gotta see to believe!"
Click bait leaves me feeling cynical and bitter. "I GUESS I WILL NEVER FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT" I yell as I forcefully scroll past, proving my point to no one but myself. "I bet I WOULD believe what happens next! Don't tell me what I wont believe!"

All these things indicate that I have not quite yet made it to maturity. Or perhaps they show that I'm mature beyond my years? Older people are more likely to be grumpy and particular. I'm probably just super mature. Be jealous.

Shortly after this picture was taken, a psychological break was manifested. 

*while I do, in fact blame the patriarchy for many things, incorrect colour order is not one of them, but rather this is a hyperbolic statement intended to bring amusement and laughter.

I'm sorry, but Kanye give it a rest?

At the 2009 VMAs a new pop cultural moment took place. Kanye West famously interrupted Taylor Swift during her acceptance of Best Female Video of 2009, and thus was born the social phenomenon "Imma Let You Finish" (or Kanyeing).

An Urban Dictionary entry of the custom explains it as such,

"What you say too look polite when you interrupt someone, put them down, and are not going to really let them finish.
Kanye West: Now Taylor, Im really happy for you, and imma let you finish, but Beyonce had one of the best videos of all time. One of the best videos of all time! (shrugs and walks away.)"

Obviously, this isn't a good thing to do, but there are certain times in my life where I find myself faced with the incredible urge to Kanye, and usually I do so, quietly to myself, in my head, or in a message to a friend so they can appreciate how important I am. I'm sure the suggestion that I do this at all has now revealed myself as a hideous person to all of you, but in an attempt to deter myself, I imagine gaining a characteristic of a (metaphorical) douche bag each time I choose to Kanye. So... that's something, right?

Times when it feels acceptable to Kanye

1. When someone tells me that their husband is the greatest. 

Me: Now, I'm really happy for you, and imma let you finish, but PETER IS THE GREATEST SPOUSE OF ALL TIME. Peace out -dons sunglasses even though it's night- 

2. When someone posts about selling Itworks, Mary Kay, Doterra oils on Facebook. 

Me: I'm really happy for you, and imma let you finish, but lemme just unfriend you real quick, cuz PUPPY POSTS ARE THE BEST FACEBOOK POSTS OF ALL TIME. *grillz magically appear on my teeth*

3. If I am told a certain new offspring is so talented and magical. 

Me: I'm really happy for you, and imma let you finish, but Jesus was the best baby of ALL TIME! (Polo collar pops) 

4. Any suggestion that a fiction book series is more worthwhile than Harry Potter.

Me: Yo, I'm so happy for you, and your limited IQ, but that boy wizard defeated the most powerful evil sorcerer of ALL TIME. -showers using only cologne-

It's hard to fight these things, but I try.

To make me feel like a better person, please comment with instances in which you think it's appropriate to Kanye. 

I was a normal child.

Marriage brings out a lot of secrets. You've bound your life to someone else's and, in spending so much time with this new human instalment, a lot of conversations happen.

If you're like me and you marry someone who you met as an adult, there is all of childhood and adolescence to discover and share. To me, this is a beneficial thing; although I share embarrassing facts of my past with him, Peter was never truly privy to personal crises I experienced as a youth.

For example, Peter did not witness the unfortunate year of my life which I spent as a Twihard (2007-2008, it was a dark time. I had just left my home town in England AND the Harry Potter series had ended. I think you can forgive me). Even though he now knows this terrible, dark secret, he can make fun of me based only on what I have told him, and thus what I myself am able to mock. I can confess that I printed off those really terrible Myspace style quotes all about Twilight, that I was involved in online groups where we tried to cast the Twilight movie (this was before such a thing existed), that I had not one, but two different Twilight hoodies that I wore regularly.

However,  if he was there witnessing it all, I don't know if our relationship would be able to exist.
Let's take a gander at the us in the parallel universe where Peter and I were friends as teens:

Peter: Heh heh heh heh. Remember when you used to compare everything in your life back to Twilight?

Melece: it was not that bad. I mean, yeah, I thought Edward was perfect, but-

P: I tried to ask you out, but you told me 'Real men SPARKLE,' and threw body glitter at me.

M:Yeah... that was... I thought I was funny. It was just a book.

P: No, I'm pretty sure you said that you would knew when you found "The One" when you woke up to find him standing watching you sleep.

M: I would never! I mean, well, maybe? I think I also experimented with hard drugs that year.

P: Yeah, okay. Whatever you say.

Thankfully, none of these things ever happened, and, thanks to extensive Facebook stalking on my part while Peter was in Japan, I know that he once harboured a crush on one of the Twilight characters, SO WE ALL HAVE FLAWS.

Still, thanks to my terrible habit of overindulging, Peter is often loaded with a plethora of blackmail worthy confessions from childhood.
One afternoon Peter was able to join me at my second job as a nanny to a 2 year old boy. The three of us were playing with Play-doh. As I loaded the classic Play-doh contraption where you push a lever and different shaped tubes of Doh comes out. This thing:

I think once you buy one jar of Play-doh, this materializes in one of your cupboards. 

The magical contraption loaded with fresh Doh, I pushed down on the handle and gleefully watched a star shaped strand emerge out of the bottom.

"You know," I tell Peter, "When I was little, I wished I had a giant version of the shape slide thing. You know this part?" I wave it at him, "That you put at the end." Peter looks at me inquisitively, but innocently, listening to my anecdote. I continue, "I wanted one I could attach to my bottom so that my poo would come out shaped." 

"What?" Peter chuckles almost breathlessly, like I have sat suddenly on his chest, "I don't- I, wow." He rubs both hands over his face.

"Oh," I say, now a little unsure of myself and this new confession which I had not thought would be two-handed-face-rubbing worthy, "Did you... not... ever want that?" 

"That is both the most amazing and disgusting thing I ever head in my life, Melly. I just, don't even know what emotion I should be feeling right now. Why did you want shaped poop?"   

"It seemed a worthwhile investment to me." 

"Wow." 

For the rest of the time that we spent with the Doh, Peter would exclaim, "shaped poop!" to himself, as though he just had never heard of anything that revolutionary or strange in his whole life. 

I'm still waiting for his childhood revelation that will make me guffaw. Mostly, I'm just in awe of how cool he was. Did you know that my husband once made a suit, tie, and vest combo out of duct tape? I married so out of my childhood league it is inspiring. 

The media is a maternity ward of lies.

There is a pet peeve of mine which is pretty consistent and prevalent in my regular life. However, I have a deep rooted hatred for it, and I wish it would go away.

The pet peeve emerges as such:

I am sitting watching something online/on TV/in a movie theatre/in some other fashion hereto unlisted. There is a character who is pregnant and has gone into labour. This actually happens very frequently online/on TV/in a movie theatre/in some other fashion hereto unlisted; in the past two weeks of our Netflix watching, Peter and I have witnessed THREE babies being birthed. The baby is shown (having, only moments previously, imaginarily been pushed out of and delivered from this woman's baby-hole) as a sparkly clean, sleeping 6 month old baby, who usually is not crying in any fashion, and is neatly wrapped in a soft blanket, which is also free from any baby-hole goop.
"THAT BABY DIDN'T JUST COME OUT OF YOU" I scream at the screen, a wad of some snack food wedged between my cheek and tongue, "THAT'S A GROWN-BUTT BABY."

The fact that this is so important to me, is something I just can't understand about myself. Here am I, completely and wilfully suspending my disbelief in all other aspects of the show, but curse you to purgatory if you don't fetch a newly concocted child from some hospital ward, dip it in goo and show me a truthful and accurate birth.
The first show in which a baby was popped-out in this past fortnight was Lost. Funnily enough, I did not spend the first fifteen episodes of the show prior to this baby catastrophe yelling at my screen,

"YEAH, OKAY, SURE. I'M 80% CERTAIN THAT NONE OF YOU ACTUALLY SURVIVED THAT PLANE CRASH. YOU KNOW WHAT, I'M IN FACT 70% SURE THAT PLANE CRASH DIDN'T EVEN HAPPEN!

"OH, YOU'VE BEEN ON THE ISLAND FOR A MONTH? YOU HAVE?! I BET YOU JUST SPENT LAST NIGHT SLEEPING IN A COMFORTABLE BED. YOU'RE NOT EVEN LIVING ON THE BEACH AT ALL ARE YOU?! ARE YOU?!?!

"YOU'RE NOT MARRIED TO HER. I BET YOU'RE JUST PRETENDING. YOU DIDN'T EVEN KNOW THIS WOMAN UNTIL, LIKE, THREE MONTHS BEFORE YOU STARTED FILMING. STOP TRYING TO LIE TO ME."

Therefore, a new goal of my life is to stop yelling at my computer when it shows me someone giving birth to a baby that doesn't emerge like a flailing and goopy alien, but in fact one that looks like it could possibly be digesting solid foods already. Or maybe, perhaps, I should just steer away from all on-screen births, knowing as I do that they are a trigger warning for sudden and angry tirades. Really, either option is one best suited for everyone's sanity.

Soleless.

A fact about me and my life is that I hate shoes.

I had a roommate for a long while who loved shoes. She had a gorgeous collection of high heels and we loved playing in them. On a quiet evening, if we were bored and needed an activity to do, we would put all of her shoes in little rows and try each pair on while wandering/strutting around the bedroom and looking at how fantabulous our calves looked in the mirror (fun fact: my computer accepts "fantabulous" as a word. How neato is that? (Update: "neato" is not accepted.)). This activity I super enjoyed, because my legs looked awesome in those heels and I felt pretty and fancy.

Outside of the house, and beyond mirrors that I can admire my legs in, my love for shoes abruptly ends. In attempting to walk in heels I usually feel like a baby giraffe struggling to walk for the first time. Any other shoe that covers my feet up completely has me imagining my feet as victims to a kidnapping, one which includes a smothering chloroform soaked cloth-hug just for good measure. Sandals are the most acceptable form of footwear, however they seem like a lie: "Hey look, your feet are free-HA JUST KIDDING, YOU ARE TRAPPED FOREVER!"

Thus, my footsies have the daily uniform of being bare or in soft soled ballet slippers. The wonderful thing about ballet slippers is that you feel like you're not wearing shoes. The terrible thing about ballet slippers is that they get holes in the soles incredibly easily. The pair I have now have come apart from the sole just under each toe-pad (there's probably another name for such the thing). Peter and I have both agreed I need new shoes, but ughhh gag me with a spoon!

I wholly despise the act of shoe shopping. Sometime last year I was in a Payless waiting for a friend to try on some fun heels. I decided to try passing the time by measuring my feet in the little metal contraptions that store assistants like to force you into when you're little and easily forced into such things. I tried to measure myself over and over again in some sort of metallic hokey-pokey, placing my left foot in, and my right foot in, and eventually shaking it all about, (because that IS what it's all about). I finally called a shop assistant over for help because I couldn't seem to get it right - I was reading each foot as an entire shoe size apart.

She instructed me from afar, seemingly too afraid to get too close to my feet, which is kind of strange to me, cause YOU WORK IN A SHOE STORE, LADY, COME FACE YOUR FEAR OF TOES AND HELP ME. When she finally did she agreed - my feet were an entire shoe size different. My left reading at a 7.5 and my right at a 8.5.

This fact does explain why, in addition to my baby giraffe walking, heels have always been so difficult for me. I could never find a pair to stay on my feet, but instead one would squeeze and the other would flop, meaning I have to tense my foot and leg muscles in the most peculiar way in a hope to keep both shoes on both feet and the same time, resulting in a very "yesss masterrrrr?" minion-esque drag-shuffle approach to walking.

Luckily, I live in Hawaii. Shoes are never required here. I am free for a year more.

 

Peter doesn't share my hatred for shoes. We're more interesting than you ever thought!!

Don't mock me, I'm relatively new here.

I like to think that I am a cultured and intelligent member of society. I know a lot of fun facts and, having been raised in Europe, I have been blessed to be exposed to a life that I know many were not. That being said, there are some things that I am still learning regularly as part of my assimilation into American life.

In the public education of my youth (from the ages 4-18), I spent 10 years in British public schooling, 2 years in American, and 2 in International. There are a lot of things that British and International school systems don't include in their curriculum. One of these things is the history of the American people. Thanks to movies and television I patched up the history that occurred after the Puritans left England to find religious freedom (which was the spot where my education in regards to America ended). These reliable resources told me that the Puritans were greeted by friendly Native Americans who they dined with happily and shared a delicious meal of turkey, corn on the cob, and an offensive amount of pumpkin pie. Hello to the creation of Thanksgiving!

When I was 15 my family moved from England to Maryland. I began school at an inner city public high school which was overpopulated and a terrifying culture shock to me. One of my very first English classes contained readings of essays scribed by Native Americans in regards to their sufferings at the hands of the white man. In studying these, I learned that things weren't so hunky-dory between the new Americans and the Native ones, and my mind was violently and metaphorically blown. Somewhere in this new education, however, I learned of the term "Indian Reservations" and my heart was less heavy.

For those of you who don't know, Indian Reservations are a place where Native Americans live as they did before the invasion of white men to America. These lands have been preserved for them to maintain their heritage. They live in teepees, study smoke signals, harvest the land, and play lacrosse while they sing songs about life around the river bend and care for every living thing because they are one with nature. They wear gorgeous garb of leather and feather, with war paint, and headdresses, and fine turquoise jewellery. There is no electricity on the reservations, and no part of western civilization has corrupted the boundaries. There are no phones, no TV, no magazines, or any modern invention. They are a happy and peaceful people.

This was never explained to me, but I had seen Pocahontas, and I'm not an idiot; when I first heard the term "Indian Reservation" and was informed that it was land that was provided and protected for Native Americans I knew that exactly what they must be like.

I once met a sister missionary for our church who was Native American at dinner at my friend's house. I asked her excitedly if she grew up on the reservations. She told me she did. I asked what it was like to come to Maryland. Was it a huge culture shock for her? What did she like best about it? I was incredibly disappointed when she said it wasn't, and that she liked being so close to the capital. "Capital-schnapital," I wanted to scream. "Tell me about your teepee! Do you miss it so much?! How much do you hate wearing shoes? It must be such a transition." These questions went unasked, because I didn't want to command the conversation at the dinner table, and instead I quietly wondered, and wished I could visit an Indian Reservation some day.

Once I got to University I found I had a deep love for documentaries, and spent many hours searching for things to watch to educate me on things I didn't know. One search turned up a documentary series by Morgan Spurlock entitled "30 Days." One episode's explanation stated that "Morgan goes to a Navajo Indian reservation to experience Native American life."

OH MY LANTA, I thought to myself. THIS IS IT! I CAN LEARN ALL ABOUT THE RESERVATIONS!!!!

Never have my dreams been so heavily and abruptly crushed.

Every now and then a new part of American history or culture that I do not know will crop up in conversation and I will be teased for my ignorance, but I try to reason that I know a lot of things that others don't, and someday I'll know a lot more than I do now. That being said, I really did like knowing that Indian Reservations were just like in Pocahontas, so I'd like it if we could make that the case so I could be right again.

Also, Peter can't mock me too harshly, because a couple weeks ago he said the word "queue" for the first time in front of me, and he pronounced it "cue-you" so I got a moment to shine in the "I know something that you are grossly misinformed about" light for a bit. Granted, the mispronunciation of one word is a lot less embarrassing than a false understanding about an ethnic culture, built on a concept found in a Disney movie.

TO LEARNING! 

My deep, dark confession.

A great deal of the happiness of my everyday life comes from my deep rooted belief that everyone has the same sense of humour that I have.

My Freshman year of University I spent a lot of weekends alone in my dorm room with nothing to do. I used that time by journalling my angst and watching Hulu while I ate junk food. On one such Friday afternoon I decided to try watching a show which had long episodes and five already uploaded. The Bachelor. I first began to watch due to boredom and curiosity, but I continued to watch out of slow creeping horror. I found the show so addictingly offensive that I even took the time to post a blog about it:

"This television show was thought up by a deranged BYU student, I swear. to. high. heaven. Premise of show: make an engagement happen by the end of season - uniting two wonderfully in love people in marriage and happiness. How?: by taking an eligible bachelor and 30 beautiful and successful bachelorettes and putting them together in a show ... and let him take two girls on one-on-one dates and 5-15 girls on a group date then kick out the 3 he likes the least per episode. At the end of the season he will propose to the girl he likes the best.
Can you not even understand how many things are wrong with this show? First, you're assuming that all of these girls are compatible with this ONE guy and want desperately to spend the rest of their life with him. What if you met him day one and thought "gross... I really don't want to marry him..."? Then! You've got the issue of the fact that all of these girls believe they have a "special connection" with said bachelor and hoping desperately that he chooses them, getting insanely jealous when they have to watch him snuggling and flirting with 29 other girls meaning that cat fights a-glory are taking place. It's just gross. Don't even."

The points that 19 year old me makes are completely valid, and in fact are the foundation of the reason that I love the show today. What I once simply did not grasp was that the base of all great satire is to create a hyperbole of real and occurring elements of the society it wishes to mock. To me, I find the same fantastic hyperboles of amusement in shows like the Bachelor. You came on public TV to find "true love"? Awesome. You classify yourself as a "Free Spirit"? Nice. You think you have a true "connection" with this man who you have now spent 1 hour with while being surrounded by 100s of crew members? Neat. Let me grab my popcorn and joyfully laugh because I have not made these same life choices, but hundreds of people have, and have done so purely for my enjoyment.

I once had a roommate who understood this love of mine and allowed me to rant to her excitedly every Wednesday morning after I had watched the spectacular show "Bachelor Pad." It became our personal motto anytime life seemed to be taking a sour turn that "no matter what, at least we're not on the Bachelor Pad. We have made good choices." Man, I should get that written in calligraphy and paint on my home wall someday... I would inspire the crap out of anyone who comes to visit.

Truly, this all probably makes me a terrible person; I am finding intense joy over the misfortunes and bad decisions of others. Before you condemn me, however, let me redirect you to my very first point: "A great deal of the happiness of my everyday life comes from my deep rooted belief that everyone has the same sense of humour that I have." Surely these people are amused by their own unfolding lives! I am!

If, on the internet, I encounter incredible unfounded bias or someone who seems to have not been burdened with a great amount of education, I laugh because this individual has artfully mastered sarcasm and are sharing their humour with the world!  

I believe that you too can find the same joy from reality TV! And if you truly can't, I hope we can still be friends regardless.

My coming out story.

There are many people who I hold dear in my life that classify themselves as "Nerds."

Before beginning this post, I want to clarify exactly what these friends of mine love or do which causes them to associate themselves within the nerd category.

For the purpose of this discussion, nerds are those with a deep and intricate knowledge and love of any of the following either in combination or alone:

Anime
Comic Books (both Marvel and DC universes)
Dungeons and Dragons style role play games
Dr. Who (this is pretty recent, no one seems to watch the original Drs. that I watched on VHS in my home growing up)
Lord of the Rings (usually the Tolkien universe in general)
Pokémon (or is this also Anime?)
Sherlock Holmes (also recent)
Star Trek    
Star Wars
Video games

None of these things have ever been something I have enjoyed or sought out on my own (with the exception of Dr. Who when I was little). However, I seem to have a pretty extensive amount of information on each of these topics, due to the fact that I only seem to find friends who are usually themselves immersed in these cultures.

When I was a Freshman at BYU-Hawaii, a large portion of the group of friends I associated with was into a role play game called Realms of Glory. Many weekends they would gather and play tournaments for hours in the GCB. I had never been exposed to such a game, but luckily for me, many of the same friends hadn't either, so I always had someone to play with when these tournaments were happening.
Years later, most of those friends had left for missions for our church, or had transferred schools. However, I was still really good friends with the ring leader of the role playing group. In fact, we were coworkers, and a bunch of our other coworkers had gotten interested in role playing. We would meet for several hours on Saturdays to play. Well, I did like twice, because I really wanted to be included, but the activity held no interest for me at all, so eventually I stopped coming. Still! I know a LOT about role playing now.

Most of my large group social interactions throughout my life seem to function in such a way; I will try a bit of whatever nerdom my peers are passing around, indulge enough to know the way around it, and then excuse myself when I fail to find it appealing.
However, because these people are precious to me, I find myself defending their honour and ways.

Last Sunday Peter and I had our friends Dan, Sarah, Trevor, and Melinda over for dinner and games. We played the game "Celebrity" which is honestly one of my favourite party games ever. Educate yourself and thank me later.
One of the celebrities in question was Spock, a Vulcan from the Star Trek universe who famously salutes such. Throughout the game, Trevor and Melinda would Vulcan salute with their thumbs in, which is, in fact, an error. After doing it incorrectly several times, and having us all shout corrections, Trevor salutes, thumb in, only to have his wife yell,
"No! Don't do it like that!"
"Why?" he asks, confused.
"I don't know! But they all get very upset when we do!"

I do that all the time; I get involved defending a universe that I personally know nothing about, but have somehow picked up knowledge of through association.

Peter loves the DC world, and in looking for things to make our home more homey, I got very excited to see that someone was selling a Justice League rug, and tried to buy it for Peter. I have NEVER read a Comic Book in my life. I don't even particularly enjoy superhero movies, but I desperately wanted this rug, because I knew my husband would want it. I get excited over other people's nerdom, while quietly understanding something about myself: I simply don't care, and probably never will.

Somehow I feel like an A-Sexual person making sexual comments and joking about the topic even though privately holding the secret that I have no desire to mate.

Maybe my nerdom is nerds; I am attracted to those people who enjoy these things and want to be around them, even though I can't say anything about the topic being discussed, or do anything other than regurgitate shallow information I have heard from them previously.

So here I am, coming out to all of you, many of whom are probably super shocked by this: I don't enjoy Anime, Comic Books (both Marvel and DC universes), Dungeons and Dragons style role play games, Dr. Who, Lord of the Rings, Pokémon, Sherlock Holmes, Star Trek, Star Wars, or Video games. However, I like YOU. So, don't stop talking to me about these things, I totally wish I was interested, and I will fight valiantly to like it so that you'll still interact with me, but in my own time don't be surprised when you find me watching My Big Fat American Gypsy Wedding or any other truly offensive TLC show.

I hope you all can still love me. Even after this lame blog post.

P.S. To those of you who keep trying to claim that Harry Potter is a nerd thing. Shut your beautiful face. Harry Potter is a human thing. Everyone reads and loves Harry Potter. Those who haven't, just haven't YET. It's a natural occurring thing, and is quintessential to the age we live in. Stop trying to act like you're superior because you enjoy Harry Potter. You probably enjoy pizza and ice-cream just like every other sane person on the planet.