NYE- Sober, At Home, And With Mr Darcy

My oh my. Don't you just love New Years Eve? A time to get all glammed up, see equally attractive friends, take pretty Instagram pictures holding bubbly beverages, celebrate the old, welcome in the new. It's a time for glitter and giddiness and who knows...maybe a passionate kiss from an incredibly handsome mystery man?

I guess that is one option.

As for me, the Empress of social hermitage, I am at home, bra-less, and blogging.

But! I am re-reading my ALL TIME FAVORITE book, Pride and Prejudice. Who needs a drunken debauchery when you can have fuzzy socks on and read about a chaste, slow-paced, love affair with Mr Darcy?

Some people unacquainted with my recluse-like tendencies may say that it is natural for a recently returned missionary to shy away from youthful and lively entertainment. But these hypothetical people do not understand my New Years Eve history. People. I have NEVER gotten a NYE kiss. I have never been to a real NYE party. And it is a rare occasion that I even make it to the New Year. Let's all face the facts, you hypothetical and overly optimistic , uninformed people.... I am just not New Years Eve material.

So. Happy New Years! 2014 was the kind of year that has no equal. I went from living in the jungle to the high mountains of Cusco to rainy Oregon. There were adventures and laughter and many loserish moments. There were also times when my "soul did expand...and sing redeeming love." (Alma 5:9) It was a year of dedication and consecration and pure bliss as I preached the gospel of Jesus Christ. 2014 was the best year I've had yet.

Welcome 2015! You won't be starting off with an ardent kiss or a festive social gathering, but you're with Mr Darcy and in pajamas... Great things await you Alex! School, skiing, climbing, Netflix Instant Play... And practicing for spinsterhood.

Bring it 2015.

Pita Pit Madness. NYE with The Ostler Family.

The Game Of Sweet Revenge

Have you ever wondered how Beyonce feels whenever she enters a room? What would it be like to always be walking into a light and sultry wind or to have people bow down as she coos, "all hail Queen B"?

I really don't know the answer to that very abstract question, but I do know what its like to win a cut throat game of Sorry, which is basically the same thing.

Evidence my friend. Evidence.

My family is not really of the board game stock. In fact I literally thought that it was "bored" game for years because that is what my father always told me. I don't even know how to shuffle cards and we have an "abbreviated" Ostler version that condenses Clue down to a mere 7 minutes.

But there is always an exception. And the game Sorry is our Achilles heel. We get into it. I am sure that if a family feud begins it will have been the spawn of a heated battle of Sorry. My mother, the sweetest and most gentle woman on the face of this planet turns into a blood ravenous heathen during this so called "family diversion".

As for me, I don't consider myself a competitive person. I would make daisy chains in the middle of my soccer games and was always the last one picked. (True story to this day.) I would consider myself a Bronze personality, I just don't have a winners heart.

Except for tonight. Victory was mine and it felt oh so gratifying. I testify that it truthfully is a game of sweet sweet revenge. The looks of my lowly and base opponents as I threw my cards in the air, triumphant war shriek jubilantly echoing through the house... There just aren't words to describe such emotion.  Life is better as a winner, and even better as a gloating one. I dare you to challenge me, if you want a smack down to the mud!

So I not one to boast, but you may all bow down to Queen A. I am the Beyonce of Sorry, hear me roar.

Korean Pedicures And An Existential Crisis

You know those discreet comments that in reality are not all that sly at all and usually insinuate or indicate that something needs to happen? The typical beat-around-the-bush-to-scare-the-rabbit-out kind? You didn't understand that poorly constructed sentence? Example time.

Comment: ''My oh my, those brownies smell DELICIOUS. Wow. I have been craving brownies for w e e k s."
Insinuation: Give me the brownies.

Comment: "Have you ever thought about the benefits of getting a job? I mean, they're pretty great! Let's talk about jobs."
Insinuation: You're a lazy idiot and I am tired of paying your credit card bill.

Comment: "You have the cutest style. So many clothes. You probably give them away to poor people who can't afford such attire. You are the sweetest. Seriously, I just want to be you."
Insinuation: I am poor and you are not. Be charitable and give me hand-me-downs.


So when your very own MOTHER comes up to you and says, "Such a rainy day. I think we m.u.s.t. go get a pedicure. The car is started, no other options, we are going."
Insinuation: You have nasty feet from endless walking in dirty streets for 18 months. It is time we get those things polished up.

aaaannnndddddd. She had a point. I think I spent my first two weeks at home in socks. Constantly. Like, I went out with the sister missionaries and gave a post-mission presentation in socks and sandals kind of problem. I mean, I had fungus and in-grown toenails and callous' the thickness of double stuffed Oreos. I was in desperate need for a pedicure.

So! Off to Studio Spa! Sounds like the end of the story, right? Wrong.

We are forgetting that this is the same person who ate week old bread and took bucket showers for an overly long period of time on her mission because money is money and who has that anyways? In other words, I was not ready for a pedicure and Studio Spa. We walk in, I have muddy mountain biking shorts on and of course, the socks and sandals combo. My hair has not been washed for several days, flaky and crusty poison oak blisters on the face....the usual. A tiny Korean man comes swooping out of the crimson curtain in the back and yells, "Pedikerr? Peek yur cula." (That is an extremely bad attempt at writing in a Korean accent. Mark Twain and Huckleberry Finn are way out of my writing forte.)

I sit down in the plastic massage chair that rattles my spinal cord as the man starts rolling up my dirty pant legs. BRO. BACK OFF. He attacks my blistered little foot with his sharp toe tools, leaving little trickles of blood to taint the peppermint water (over-exaggeration). My mother tries to start a conversation, ''my daughter just finished her mission in Peru. Cool, right? That's why her feet look like ostrich talons." The Korean man nods and says, "nice weter. not much rain. nice weter."

And then it happened. My Existential Crisis at a Korean Pedicure. It was like my whole world crashed down and I am choking back sobs. SOBS I TELL YOU. What am I doing here? How can I spend money for a man to touch my feet? People are starving. Why do we live with such unneeded and silly little luxuries when millions of people walk around worrying about what they are going to take home for their kids to eat? What is the point of it all? What is the purpose to live so fancy when others have nothing at all? Why??

That is when I realized how much of a culture shock it is for me to be in The States again. We have so much. So much excess and abundance in all things. So much commercialism and this greedy need to have and buy everything. Like, come on Google! The whole, "how much time do you have to buy presents count-down? Is that so necessary? How lucky we are and yet, how blinded we live, thinking that everything should be easy and comfortable. Badly done America! Badly done! (Emma reference..Jane Austen <3)

My mother, the kind, wise, and angelic person that she is, took me home, comforted me in my existential crisis and lovingly rubbed and filed my rough feet. I didn't need to pay her a single dime to feel that she truly loved and cared for me. It made me think of the Savior and His infinite love for His Apostles when He too washed and anointed their rough and dirty feet. Life is so much more than indulgence and pleasure; my little melt down at Studio Spa taught me what really is important. It's service and love and modesty in all things. Also, not reading too into small things like pedicures and stuff. Deep thoughts are so dangerous my friends.

And a Merry Christmas to YOU.

P.S. My feet are now fabulous. Sock free indeed!

To simpler times, before I had the mental capacity to have freak outs during post-mission pedicures.

The Passionate Rise And Fall Of My Downton Abbey Obsession

I said I wouldn't. It was too long. Too old fashioned. Too over rated and dramatic and sad. I was too young and free to get hooked on something so addictive. I would rather watch all of Taylor Swifts music videos or look at wedding blogs. Productive things, mind you.

But my mother was insistent. I was to watch just one episode. Just one meesly hour long episode. I think she even wanted to do a blood oath to promise that I would get hooked.

Oh Downton Abbey.

Within the first five minutes I began to think it was kind of cute. "Oh! How quaint! Servant drama!" But little by little the cuteness transformed into a raging, wild, passionate love. The clothes, the love triangles, the smoldering look of forbidden love. One episode after another, I had no control. Bloodshot eyes, sweaty hands (from the suspense, don't judge), feverish emotions; all I could keep doing was press the next button time after time. It was like I had closed my heart to everything on my mission. Men, hundreds of frantic butterflies in my stomach, entertainment in general. My heart was opened and I could finally FEEL.

Oh Downton Abbey.

But alas, passion is like a cheap sparkler, it always dies. I played the role of suspicious girlfriend and smelt a dead rat in the whole affair. Rumors began to swirl. It just all seemed too good to be true. The love, lack of real problems....something bad was bound to happen . So I did what all true cinema fanatics consider to be the unpardonable sin.

I looked up the ending on google.

WHO DOES THAT KIND OF THING? Well, I do. On a regular basis. I read the last page of Harry Potter The Deathly Hallows to see if it was worth reading. (Let's be real, what's the point reading 607 pages if Harry dies?)  I am the biggest hater on sad endings. Indie films need to go rot in a dank and musty hole. I am flat-out at the end of  my patience with tragic twists.

And that blasted Downton Abbey had to go all Indie Hog-Wild on me. You're going to kill WHO? Nuh uh. Crossed the line on that one.

So now I am the burnt lover, nursing old scars and yearning over what might have been. Oh Downton Abbey! I can never watch you because all the passion and fire is a lie! Oh Downton Abbey! How I would have kept losing sleep watching hour upon hour of witty banter and almost-kisses, if you hadn't killed Matthew Crawley!

Oh Downton Abbey.

This was before I found out that the main character dies in Season 3. Such a waste.

HE Is The Gift

Christmastime means picking a tree, decorating it, and watching it slowly die. It means presents and stockings and full refrigerators and braggy Christmas cards and ugly sweater parties and plates on plates of cookies. It means thinking, ''when will it ever snow?" and ''where did those new gloves go?" and "do I really have to pay that much for postage?"

Or so we sometimes begin to think. There are times when I am so focused in on if I forgot to buy enough things and I start to forget the why of it all. Why am I even worrying about which wrapping paper has cuter reindeer on it? Why am I fighting with Pandora, trying to make a radio station of PURE Micheal Buble songs and not tainted by wannabes?

Why do I celebrate Christmas?

I remember my last Christmas. I was living in the deep, wild jungle of Puerto Maldonado. It was hot. About 95 or 100 degrees. We had a 6 inch plastic tree with about 7 ornaments. We had bought one present each, about 2 dollars value, and we had seen our companion buy it already. We sang all the Christmas songs in the hymnbook, every single verse, with such joy and happiness. I remember I had a thin Santa hat on and trickles of sweat were running into my eyes. We read the story of Christs birth in the scriptures and prayed, thanking God for such a wonderful day to celebrate the birth of our Savior. That was it. We then went out and started to preach the gospel, and it was like a normal day. There were no lights or decorations or parties or self-indulgent pleasures. It was the most simple of days, but it was filled with a special awe and wonder.

Christmas in Puerto Maldonado with the most beautiful Lidu.

 Over 2000 years ago my Savior was born. And 2000 years just isn't enough time to thank Him for it. I will spend eternity after eternity at the kneels of my Redeemer and my Rock, with tears of gratitude on my cheeks, because He came to save me. He not only came to save me, but to save every one of us, whether we believe or follow Him or not.

He gave us everything. What will we give Him in return?

This Christmas I am giving Christ;
~ The gift of my time. Time to stop and talk to people. Time to make the effort to be friendly. Time to serve.
~ Reading the Book of Mormon in one month. Every verse in that book testifies that Jesus is truly the Christ.
~Going out to lessons with the Hermanas here in Hood River. Really trying to help those people feel my love and feel welcome at church.
~Throw out a little pride and take in a little more humility.
~ Trying to do my stupid family history. I WILL CONQUER AT THIS I DON'T CARE HOW LONG IT TAKES ME.
~Go to the temple every week.
~Invite others to learn more about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.

What will be your gift to the Christ Child this season?

Merrrrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyyyyyy CHRISTmas!

Social Ineptitude

These last couple of days have resulted in a plethora of awkward social encounters that made me realize that just like before and during my mission, I will always suffer from the all too familiar Loserish Syndrome. Let's just talk about phone conversations to start.

Looking like this does not help in any way, mind you.

 I don't remember the name of the man who invented the phone.... But I AM NOT A FAN. We already have to struggle through uncomfortable encounters with old high school classmates in Walgreens when you haven't washed your hair in two or three days and you have oversized crocs on.

It's already enough to tell your little brothers friend that he looks like a woman with long hair... 

It is sufficient for me to try and kiss everyone on the face.. All is just plenty without adding phone conversations as well!! 

So, in reality, this blog post is more an open apology to a few friends who went so far as to call me my first couple of days home. I am sorry for the formal tightness, the lifeless chuckles and the overly long, silent, pauses. Sorry that I probably wasn't listening all to well and that my mouth was more occupied chewing frantically on my knuckles than responding. I AM SORRY OK?? It's just that I am not used to phone calls that involve more than me calling to schedule appointments or pick up sick sisters to go to the hospital. I will not promise to be cutesy or charming, it seems that is not my fate, but I DO promise to be a little more socially refined. After all, being a return missionary does not require one to be a full out cave woman.

Although the adjustment to normal life has been far from smooth, there are various things that do not involve me being completely socially inept. Mountain biking and backcountry skiing do not ask us to be witty or pretty or even poison oak free, and I really can say that these outdoor adventures, along with a lot of cuddling with my mom, have saved me. Life is good, but it's even better when it's an adventure. 

Apparently I don't have a neck but who cares?! Backcountry skiing means that I can count to a 100 a million times without talking to acquaintances or strangers.

"My name is Hermana...I mean Alex... and I can't talk on the phone but I CAN enjoy an outing on my new mountain bike."

Who needs friends when you can run around in a Panai costume and antagonize little brothers in the comfort of a cell phone-free, social gathering-free home?

To end this I would like to point out that after my very own MOTHER read this she told me;
"Alex. It WILL get better. You will become normal. It won't be like this forever.''

Thanks Mom. That's the only hope we have.

The Life Of A Return Missionary

Coming home from a mission is strange. Just take a socially deficient loser, put her in a third world country for 18 months without TV or dating or speaking English and than make her come back and try to be normal....it just isn't going to work.
You ask for examples? A few to satisfy your curiosity.

- Not knowing what to do when my parents asked me to sit down and eat a pancake breakfast. I don't have appointments? I am wasting time! Isn't there something I should be doing? Relaxing is a sin!
- Wanting to kiss and greet everyone I see. Its always a little strange to go in for the kiss when the other person doesn't want it. Post-mission dating scenario?
-Me: ''Who left this soggy lettuce in the sink? We need to put that in the garbage, okay?''
 Shannon: We have a garbage disposal.
Me: What is that?
 -They tell you that once you learn to ride a bike, you will never forget. LIES. ALL LIES.
-''Wait....Who got married? How did that happen?"
-Getting so shocked when people say that there is food in the house. ''What are you talking about?? I have eaten hard bread for breakfast for the past 2 weeks.''
-Chattering in Spanish unless I really think about speaking in English. My brother has gotten many a sassy response in Spanish and my mother doesn't understand why I always say ''Que rico. No hay pulgas en mi cama.''
-Taking my little brother to school sounds like a simple task. That is, if you know how to back up in the driveway. My Dad watched me from the window for about 15 minutes as Bruce impatiently gave me indications. "You're good. You're good. You're good. I SAID YOUR GOOD. JUST GO."
-SHOWER PRESSURE. SHOWERS. GROCERY STORES. HEATING. CELL PHONES. STOVE TOPS. GREEN GRASS. GARBAGE FREE STREETS. MORE THAN ONE POWER OUTLET EACH HOUSE. HOT WATER. CLEAN WATER.  Its just too much to handle.

And the loserish adventures have begun again.

The main problem with being a return missionary is that it is hard to know what to do with ones day. Where are my appointments and  contacting cards and Joseph Smith pamphlets? Where does one fit in when one is just too awkward to function?

Of course the nice perk is that we supposedly look more attractive after the mission. Because who needs social skills when you have a nice face? But we all know that my life is just not conducive to being normal or polished in any of its forms. Heme aqui.
-My hair is falling out in giant clumps.CLUMPS I TELL YOU. Buy me a cute little headband with a big flower on it and you can put me in a stroller to go have a nice afternoon and the park.
-Jungle fungus. There is no need for details on this one. Let us just say that it is DISGUSTING.
-Very very very white

And the worst one of all is a result of our little hike to Mitchell Point yesterday. This place is notorious for its abundant poison oak. But lets be honest, who expects that to be a problem on a rainy day in Oregon? Every little plant was covered in 2 inches of solid ice! But ti's a shame, I woke up like the Grimm Reaper with a pollen allergy on a Spring day. Eyes swollen shut, puffy face, and oozing itchy oil running down my face. Because having poison oak face wasn't enough every first day of Middle school. Which so happens to by my most loserish phase after coming back from a mission. Coincidence? I think not! 

Thin hair but poison oak free. Before the tragedy. 

The results. I love being an RM!