A Digital Death

I’ve started a morbid hobby that’s made me realize the digital age is changing the way handle death. When I hear on the news about a young person who’s died in a car accident or crime, I can’t help but check and see if they have a Facebook page, and often they do. There’s something unfinished about finding a dead person’s page, knowing their status will never be updated , that it’s possible no one knew their username and password so the profile will continue to exist longer than the actual person, almost like they never died to those who only interacted with them through cyberspace. The last two names I searched were young women, unique names, both engaged, both posting gushing wedding-related messages on their wall about their excitement for the big day and then, nothing- a story left unfinished, a promise never fulfilled. I didn’t know these women but from their info. page I learned one liked amusement parks, that she listened to punk rock and that the other loved Halloween and dining out. I often like to think that it’s a courtesy from God that we live to see the big events of our lives, but with one of these women dying days away from her wedding, it has me reconsidering this comic rule that I now sense I’ve made up.

Two weeks ago my hobby took a personal turn. The news that a high school friend had died came to me via a Facebook message. He had just returned to Iraq and for reasons unknown to me, committed suicide. When I logged on to find my newsfeed full of well-wishes from other high school friends, it was unreal, especially since we’d IM’d not long ago.

It appears no one knew his password so a message was left on his wall directing friends to a memorial page. Here, friends collected over the decades posted photos , memories, and video tributes. By joining the group I regularly received updates on services and was able to read his obituary from the local paper. Days after the funeral my newsfeed showed I could watch “highlights” from his hometown service. I admit, it was strange seeing someone my age lying in a coffin, someone who’d responded when I typed “Wassup?” into the IM box, but the funeral video finally make all the digital type about his death real.

I don’t know if I’m prepared for this new technological and untraditional reality of death. It used to be distant, something that happened to my parent’s friends or people I hadn’t spoken to in years, but now with the invention of Facebook I know about the major events in the life of anyone I’ve ever met-- even their dying, and sadly I’ve extended it to the death of strangers. So what happens to those pages of people who’ve died? Facebook does allow you to “memorialize” an account which removes sensitive information, but you must submit a news article or obituary, and that’s often not the family’s first priority, so for a brief window I get to glance into a budding life unfinished. In some ways the existence of a profile on a server somewhere makes if feel like they continue to life on, even if the “what’s on your mind?” is goes unanswered. It all seems a tragic tease, or is it a reminder that life often ends suddenly, when our last status update was what we ate for lunch.

A Harried Mom

Body hair on a women does not bother me, especially if it’s my own body. Growing up I wasn’t allowed to shave until I turned fourteen, but here and there if my mom left out her razor I’d experiment, resulting in some scars on my shins. When I could finally shave I had the goal of removing every hair from my body in the hope they would never return, but they did, just darker and coarser and a new daily chore was born-- made harder by my Baltic ancestry. Then one night in an Italian discotheque that all changed. There was beautiful female bartender (I of course was not drinking) and when she lifted her arm in some Tom Cruise “Cocktail” move a spotlight hit her armpit- illuminating in all its glory, a patch of wiry hair. I was repulsed and mesmerized at the same time, but then it hit me- body hair has nothing to do with cleanliness, instead it’s strictly about culture. A perfect example of how culture dictates beauty, hygiene, and attraction. When I returned home I tried an experiment over the winter and let me hair grow out, my boyfriend (now husband) was not amused, but thus began a cycle. Ever winter I go a little au-natural and come spring, like the lambs grazing in green pastures- the razors, wax strips, tweezers, and depilatory creams come out and I get fully sheared. I think it’s funny that some women try so hard to go against the social grain by getting tattoos, piercings, or Mohawks when all you have to do is grow a little body hair and Americans- male and female alike, are suddenly up in arms. My friends, female body hair is the last great taboo in American culture and I’m living on the edge.

My Silly Regrets

As another birthday looms closer, I find myself reflecting on my past in hopes that it will give me the wisdom to better navigate another year. I’ve always believed in living without regrets, but now I think they’re inevitable. Admittedly, mine are slight- I never missed the opportunity to marry the love of my life, murdered someone in cold blood (at least I wouldn’t admit that here or that would be truly regretful) or missed filling out a lotto ticket when I knew the winning number, but I still have a short list of things I feel remorse for:

1- That I didn’t dress sluttier when I was younger. In my early twenties I had an amazing body, but I never appreciated it and instead focused on its trivial flaws, never imagining it would bloom three sizes once I got married. Also, I never showed said body off, but instead hearkened to the bogus claims that I needed to be overly modest. Now I’m not saying I wanted to look like a $2 buck hussy, but maybe a strapless dress or cleavage flirting tank wouldn’t of been uncalled for—surely no man or rabid lesbian was going to haul me into the bushes for that and I think God would have appreciated me showing off the assets he created when they were still pointing ahead.

2- That I didn’t get more lovin’ when it was so wrong and felt so good. I also bought into the admonition that one shouldn’t have sex until marriage. Now I’m not saying you should go out and hump anything with goose-bumped flesh (especially before you’re an adult), but when you’ve been with someone for four years and you’re engaged, is some sex so deviant? And why when said fiancé touches your boobs two days before the ceremony should one feel compelled to run and tell his farmer neighbor turned bishop to ask for spiritual absolution? You may think, well, then is it regretful to only have had sex with one person? And I’d say no- I’m perfectly content to have sexually embarrassed myself in front of only one person.


3- That I married so young. Clearly regret number #2 lead to regret #3. I in no way feel remorse for who I married, just that due to the constraint of our culture we felt so obligated to marry before we’d even finished college. Sometimes I wonder about the opportunities I missed because decisions had to be made as a couple, but the flip side is that we enjoyed seven childless years where we traveled. I also would’ve enjoyed more of those single years when I was responsible for no one but myself, didn’t have to listen to snoring, and cherished that I alone could be the best company.

So those are the petty major three and what should I take from them as I enter into my 32nd year? I think Katherine Hepburn said it best, “If you obey the rules, you miss all the fun,” so this year I’m taking her advice and let’s see if this makes it a year without adding silly regrets.

A Mother and More

Last year the cover of what many women consider to be the pregnancy bible, “What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” was updated. Gone is the matronly woman sitting in a rocking chair, book in hand, arm across pregnant belly, while she stares into the distance contemplating what is about to befall her. The book’s new cover has a standing longhaired woman dressed in hip pregnancy jeans, V-neck T-shirt, and she looks like well, me. What people fail to see when looking at this symbol of modern motherhood, is how complicated her world is.

As a graduate student in 2003, I spent a summer in New York doing a fellowship with the International Radio & Television Society which brought together thirty of the most promising students in the field of media. Now, five years later, I keep in touch with them through Facebook. They’ve gone on to work for network and cable television, high-profile ad agencies, even the United Nations and media law firms. What am I doing they ask? I’m a full-time mother. The only person in the group with children. After returning from the fellowship that summer, my husband and I were surprised to learn we were expecting. We were elated; we’d always wanted a family. I gave birth to our first son three weeks after graduating with my Master’s degree.
We both thought a parent should stay at home while our children were young, and I wanted to do it, plus my husband’s income was three times what I made. My career as a news producer was put on hold and I launched into motherhood, recently having a second child. I’ve now been at home four years and with all the messages I’m receiving about how to mother, run a household, and the demands on my time, I often feel overwhelmed.

I’m still the creative woman who likes to see her ideas put into motion and goals achieved, but now they deal more with the production of finger paintings than news images. Gone are the bonuses, recognition, and adult conversation about current events. I now spend long days at home, sometimes “dumbing” myself down to sing rounds of Itsy-Bitsy Spider or joining in to imagine the laundry basket as a pirate castle. My business attire is now a food smeared sweatshirt and loading the dishwasher a major part of my job description.

To add to the pressure, every time I stand in the checkout aisle, magazines tout the latest celebrity who had a baby and got back to her pre-pregnancy weight hours later. Daytime television tells me I should be able to keep my home immaculate and organized, decorate like a professional, make earrings out of pinecones, all while preparing a three course meal in 30 minutes, and making sure that I’m “green” when doing it.

Some days I cry along with the kids when I’ve reached my capacity for listening to whining about the temperature of chicken nuggets, found make-up smeared on my drapes, had my fifth call to come and wipe my four-year-olds bum, and the baby’s diaper has blown-out on his third outfit of the day. Then my loving husband has the audacity to come home and suggest the boys need a dog that I will inevitably end up caring for. It's then that I rethink my decision to be a "homemaker," a word I choke on whenever I say it.

To go to the playground, I have to get three people bathed and dressed, make sure my mini-van is packed with diapers, wipes, a bottle, snacks, water, sunscreen, changes of clothes, a blanket, hats, and a stroller. Once there, I have to navigate the mommy clichés and know that they’re judging me when having forgot the baby’s sunhat, he’s left exposed to the elements.

With experts urging women to have babies before they turn “high-risk” at age 35, my husband and I are contemplating when to have our third child, which is now the new status symbol in many parts of the country (and not why we’d have a third). I realize another child would delay me from going back into the workforce until I was in my 40’s and further stunt my earning power. But, despite the agony of being a stay-at-home mom and feeling like my brain isn’t as sharp as it used to be, that will be my choice because for all their trouble, my children make my life more valuable than any workplace position I could ever aspire to hold.

While what I’m doing doesn’t come with any corporate perks or awards, it’s a gamble I’m taking that it will benefit my children and give me some sort of lasting satisfaction. And there are those moments when my baby laughs or my preschooler says something outrageous that I’m glad I was there to hear it and for me, it makes my sacrifice worth it.

Late at night, after I’m done being super mom and adoring wife, you’ll hear a clicking noise in the dark. It’s me, at the dining room table typing away on the laptop trying to maintain any vestige of education and intelligence I once had in hopes that one day, I’ll be able to step back into a job I loved and instinctively knew how to do.

So, when you see the new cover of “What to Expect” at the bookstore, or the next time you see a mother like me out in “mom” jeans and a dirty T-shirt, know that she’s much more complex than she appears and one day, using the skills she learned being home, she may even be your boss.

Writing Them Off

I no longer want to be a member of the LDS church. Period. I've known this for awhile, but I was thinking it might be a little more "fun" and point-making if I found a way to get myself excommunicated. Then friends pointed out to me that if I do this it would be on the LDS church's terms and they would get to pick the reason for my losing my membership and make me out to be a wild-eyed apostate. So, I'm back to writing a letter, especially in light of recent developments that I'll post shortly.

There's one catch--my celestial sex partner doesn't want me to. He wants to remain with the church though he's not your most devout member. He believes that if I write the letter, that will make him a target and it's better if we continue to live under the radar. He doesn't understand my need to end my relationship with the church because it's not like it factors into my life at this point.

I beg to differ. I think it will give me "closure"---how I hate that word, but for the first time in my life it's the only one that fits. At the age of eight I was deemed ready to join a church and with one letter I hope to undo a decision I wasn't mentally prepared to make at that age. Whenever people hear I'm from Utah they ask, "Are you Mormon?" I'd like to be able to say, "no" and know it's true.

The other things he points out is that it won't make a difference to the church if they get a letter from me. He's right, but from what I'm reading my letter won't be the only one they receive in the coming year---I think I'm at the beginning of a trend.

So, I'm waiting as I value my marriage and leaving the church just isn't worth the struggle right now. When Tommy Monson stands up in conference this April and brags about a membership of 13 million, just know it's minus 1.

Random Notes To Myself

I'm going to try writing blog entries again, but to be honest, I don't have the time to proof them like I used to, so they're going to be sloppy. Also, I think I'm going to use this more as a "journal" since I'm so awful at actually writing in one, but the desire is there.

Lately things have been shitty, but in a weird way. My husband lost his job, but that in itself isn't so bad, except now he's home all day and I find that irritating. It's like he's my new co-worker---you know the one who has no idea what to do, so you give him direction and he yells he's "suffocating" and "your not my boss," before he goes back to playing on his Ipod while you do the dishes. I guess I expected that if he was going to be home, he'd do half the housework...not so far, but we're still renegotiating our roles.

Next shitty thing- politics. I like Obama, I want to see him succeed, I want this recession to end, but sometimes it seems that the Rush Limbaugh's of the world are everywhere. You don't have to agree with Obama, but why can't they just give him a chance, after all, their guy struck out? I guess I just get frustrated that it's not always clear what the best thing to do is.

Final shitty thing is that I'm bored. Probably why I'm sitting here typing tonight. It's been one of those days when I resent what my life is--cleaning house, cooking meals, raising children. It just seems so predictable and common at times.
I also need to finish my book, but it seems like lately I just don't have the energy. Instead I end up on Facebook measuring my life against everyone I've ever known. Sometimes I wonder if I'd be better off just not being on there, not knowing that so and so just got a Mercedes (always with photo included), that so and so is the relief society president and that their little Johnny is pulling all A's in school. Often I'll type out some shocking and untrue "status" to post, "Holy snot, I didn't know you were gay" or "Man, if I'd known you were running a prostitution ring out of your house," they'd respond. But I always chicken out, not wanting to ruin the image I've created of myself for them to compare against when they're bored.

My Change IN Behavior

I thought I would bring this to your attention because if you're like me you've never thought about it. Today I had a student do a presentation on animal testing for cosmetics and I was surprised to see that MAC Cosmetics (my favorite), Covergirl, L'Oreal, Aveeno, etc all do animal testing because it's less expensive than doing non-animal testing and some other reasons. I double-checked her sources and she's right, these companies do test on animals! I thought I'd pass on this informative website and list (take with you when shopping) that shows companies that test on animals and those that don't so maybe we can make more informed choices when we purchase cosmetics/detergents/lotions. I was glad to see that Clinique, American Beauty (Khols), Aveda, Bath & Body Works, OPI, Bobbie Brown, Burt's Bees, Calgon, etc. do NOT do animal testing, so there are lots of alternatives.

http://search.caringconsumer.com/


Don't get me wrong, I LOVE to eat animals and understand animals tests for medical reasons, but I don't understand why we have to torture them just to test new cosmetics when there are other ways... especially because cheap CoverGirl eye shadow just isn't worth it.