Testimony

I have four blog posts just sitting in my drafts pile and I wasn't planning on publishing any of them tonight.

Nor was I planning on publishing this one.

However, tonight, at 12:52 a.m., which is really 11:52 p.m. because, you know, daylight savings and stuff (leaving me kind of between-days here) I feel compelled to share my testimony.

Which is weird because that is not what this blog is.

There are blogs meant to share people's personal religious feelings and there are blogs meant to share the embarrassing story about the time you walked across the entire BYU campus with the back of your dress accidentally tucked up behind your backpack and everyone saw your undies.

This blog is the latter.

I am very grateful for the former kind of blog. I am grateful that people have space to share and answer questions and share beliefs and hope and messages of Christ. Personally, I choose to share my religion in a different way than this blog.

I also don't ever (ever) want this blog to turn into the type of blog where I portray my life as anything but messy and ridiculous. To be clear: my life IS messy and ridiculous. I have some serious beef with any blogger (or person) who pretends their life is otherwise.

Alls I'm sayin is this:

I have a testimony of my Savior Jesus Christ.

And when I use the word testimony, which can mean so many different things for so many different people, I mean that I believe He is a real person who came to this earth and died for each of us.

I mean that I know that He is my literal brother.

I mean that I believe that Jesus Christ is my Savior in the sense that because of Him I can grow and change and one day live with my Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother again.

I mean that I know if I try my hardest to be the best person I can, He will make up the rest.

And trust me, with me there is going to be a lot to make up for.

The best part is, I believe that because of Jesus Christ I can live with my family forever, including my best friend Cj (who also happens to be my husband. BONUS.)

If you have questions about why I believe this, just ask. You can also go here: lds.org

Because of the community I live in, I assume the majority of my readers (though not all) are, like me, LDS.

I do not assume that the majority of my readers think or feel or believe the same way that I do. I love discussing belief. I'd love to hear about yours. I am very open to the ideas and beliefs of others. I find them interesting and extremely personal and close to the heart in the best way. I like to get close to people's hearts because that is how we love each other best.

I hope this post comes across as nothing but my desire to share a part of myself with you. You are more than welcome to share back.

I just wanted to put this out there so you know who you are dealing with.

Amen.

So I was at Target this weekend...

...because Cj and I had time to kill between dinner (Wingers) and our movie (The Way Way Back).

We had already finished doing what we always do at Target, which is decide to buy everything in the store, and we were making one last stop in the dressing rooms to make sure we definitely wanted to buy everything in the store. (We did.)

There I was, trying on a cat-print dress in the stall next to a mother and her 8 yr. old daughter, who I knew was named Stella due to the  3,000 times I heard her mother say it.

Stella: "Pants, Pants, Pants. Why do I have to try on so many pants????" (She would have appreciated those pants if she had been through the pantspocalypse that I just experienced.)

Mom: "Because you have to wear pants. Everyone has to wear pants."

Stella: (I hear her begin to play the drums on the wall) "I could wear dresses."

Mom: "Stella, stop hitting on the wall. You can't wear dresses. You show everyone your underwear when you wear dresses. Put these pants on."

Stella: (Begins drumming on the ground) "But those are normal pants. I only like sparkly pants."

Mom: "Stop hitting the ground Stella. We're not buying sparkly pants. We're buying normal pants."

Stella: (Begins kicking the door) "Can I get a sparkly dress?"

Mom: "STELLA, STOP KICKING THE DOOR. WHY CAN'T YOU JUST ACT NORMAL??"

And then Stella began to whimper.

And then Stella began to cry.

And then Stella yelled from the depths of her sparkly, little soul:

"I'M TRYYYYIIINNNGGG TO ACT NORMAL. IT'S HAAAAARRRDDDD." 

And all I could think was: I hear ya Stella. I really, freaking hear ya.

The Pants Story

There has been a lot of pants stuff going on in the last few years. 

First, there was the whole pants-at-church thing:

Then there was the time the one-and-only Lohan forgot to wear pants. (Props to her for representing us pale-skinned women.)

And we can never forget the classic VeggieTales song "Pants" that includes such hilarious lines as "They're pants if you're short and shorts if you're tall" or "It's a verb for a dog and a noun for a kid."




(Admit it: You loved VeggieTales.)

However, no pants story is so great as 

THE TALE OF THE URBAN OUTFITTERS FIASCO PANTS. 

Day #1: It was 2 a.m. and I (being the insomniac I am) was online, checking on a pair of pants that I had been looking at alllllll summer. They were the perfect pair of high-waisted, black skinnies and, to my surprise, they had gone on sale that day. HOORAY. I clicked the button to place my order. The screen froze. And then 1 minute later a screen came up that said the pants had been shipped. 

Weird. I didn't click the submit button. But great, I skipped a few steps. 

Katie, Katie, Katie. By "skipped a few steps" I think you meant "added hours of endless torture and frustration." 

Day #2: I check the confirmation e-mail only to realize that when the website "skipped a few steps" it sent the pants to my pre-set address which was MY OLD ADDRESS!!!!!

I e-mailed Urban but to no avail. "Your pants have already been shipped," they said. "Try dunking your head repeatedly in a large tub of water until you are too dizzy to realize you will never receive your favorite pair of pants you never had."

Day #3: Realizing that I don't have a single family member in Provo at the moment to try and track the pants down, I call on my favorite friends Spencer and Michelle to help me out.

Day #4-#26: Spencer goes to our old apartment. They are not home. He goes again. They are not home. He finally contacts them and tells them to contact him when the pants come. He goes back. They are not home. My sister gets back to Provo and goes to check. They are not home. (Do these people actually even LIVE there?) The pants come in the mail. For unknown reasons the people take them upstairs to where they thought my brother and sister are living. They are not living there. I call the landlord. They have the package. They look for it. They lost the package. I cry. I call Urban. They say they can't do anything for me. I cry some more.

Day #27: I get a phone call from the old landlord. His wife has found the pants!!

"Great," I say, "I will send my sister over to get them today."

"Oh." he says, "My wife just told me that she just took them to the post office and sent them back because she didn't want to deal with them." (What?)

I swear to never wear pants, or call people or like my life ever again. But then...

Day #30: ...Urban e-mails me and says that my pants have been re-shipped to my house. It's a pants miracle!

I honestly don't think this should have been as dramatic as it was. But the sheer frustration of having to track down an expensive pair of pants (that I got for half-price) every day for over a month was too much. I hated that I had to rely on multiple people to go out of their way for me, including the people in my old apartment who turned out to be super nice and just as concerned about my pants as I was. I think everyone realized what a serious issue pants are. I'm really proud of our generation for noting that.

Day #36: My pants FINALLY came in the mail. They are great and I kind of resent them for everything they put me through but we are working through our issues.

I think the real moral of the story is this: Online shopping at 2 a.m. is always a bad idea. But it might lead you to a really funny VeggieTales song.

(Shout-out to Spencer and my sister Rachel for caring enough to repeatedly and awkwardly knock on someone's door for me. That is true friendship right there.)

I'm a changed woman.

For the first time in my life I can feel myself changing significantly character-wise and it is really freaking me out.

Up until about a year ago I could fairly easily define myself by three main characteristics:

#1. I was generally happy, bubbly and social.
#2. I hated change with a burning passion.
#3. I thought I was going to die a thousand deaths when anyone was mad at me.

(Based on #2 and #3 maybe I should add #4: I was incredibly over-dramatic. But never fear, dear reader, that has not and never will change about me.)

FOR THE LIFE OF ME I can't seem to figure out what has happened, but I have recently found myself in nearly the opposite position as a year ago.

#1. Lately, I am possibly the least social person on this earth. I spend long days in a dark room grading papers and making lesson plans. I imagine I developed these habits in my last awful months of graduate school when I found myself essentially begging the universe for a zombie apocalypse so I could have some pals to commiserate with (the zombies, obviously.) The problem is, it has carried over to my St. George life and living in a non-apartment setting has only made it worse.

I knew things were bad when I posted this picture as my profile picture and received 56 "likes" in a matter of hours:

"This is it." I thought. "This is who you are now."

 "You are the girl who gets 56 likes on a picture that was previously saved as 'ugly face' on your desktop." 

But it is fine, really. I have accepted my fate. In fact, whenever I see children outside our front window I try and ruffle the curtains a little and let my shadow move past the opening. I'm hoping that soon the legend of "ugly face" will spread until it incites terror in the hearts of the local children and I will know that my transformation is complete. 

#2. I like change. That is all there really is to it. Where before I wanted to live in one place for my entire life with my 20 closest family and friends surrounding me at all times, eating tacos for every meal....I now want to live in a new place every month with thousands of new friends and family members, eating tacos for every meal. (Don't underestimate my love for some good guacamole.) 

I have become obsessed with any travel or job website and I spend hours searching for places to live and things to do. If I don't have 100 college degrees before I die then I will probably just delete this blog post so nobody remembers that this was my goal. But I will also be really disappointed in myself. Also I will be dead. 

#3. I don't care who hates me anymore. 

Let me explain. Cj and I recently started coaching a 7th grade volleyball team. You might wonder what this has to do with people being mad at me but then you would remember parents. PARENTS. 

I just catholic-crossed myself that I will never be the kind of insane-sports parent that keeps coaches up at night. The only thing is...it DOESN'T keep me up at night. It is really some kind of miracle. It used to be that if anyone in this world was mad at me, life-as-I-knew-it would literally cease to function. 

EXAMPLES: 

- I once fasted every Sunday for nearly six months because I heard that a girl on my soccer team was mad at me. 

-I once bought two dozen Pepsi's and left them on a friend's porch every night for a week because I thought he was mad at me. 

-I once drove from Provo to St. George and back in a day and a half because I thought the boy I had just broken up with was mad at me. (Of course he was mad at me. I just broke up with him. I want my $60 in gas money back, dumber version of Katie.) 

The thing is: Last week, when like five moms were ragging on me on the bench behind me for not playing their kid...nothing. I couldn't even remember what they had said by the time I left the gym. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?? 

Ugly face, you've got some definite perks to being you. Now get off my porch, ya meddling kids. 

"D as in Dog"

I went today to get my DSU parking sticker. The booth is outside in the awful St. George heat. 

"What is your license plate number?" the lady asked. 
 
I told her the six-digit code ending in I-L-Y. 
 
"Y-L-Y?" she said?
 
"No," I said, "I as in...eyeball." (It was REALLY hot outside.) 
 
"So.......E?"
 
"No....I.....oh I get it....I as in....eyesore....oh wait.....ice cream...." 
 
She got it. 
 
Feeling like an idiot I walked back to my car in the blistering heat, looked down at my license plate and realized it ended in 1-L-Y instead of I-L-Y. I turned around and walked back. 
 
"Excuse me," I said, "When I said it ended in I-L-Y I meant 1-L-Y." 
 
"One?" she asked. 
 
"Yes," I said, "One as in...wonderful."
 
"Soooo.......W?"
 
Sigh. 
 
In other news, I hated today.

Because a blog post seemed like a less-annoying place to say this than a Facebook status.

I like to do a lot of things that many people consider to be "man things."

A few of these things might include: playing sports (any sport, always), eating until I want to barf, climbing things, wrestling with my brother, wanting to play football every night ever, watching Sports Center, building things, punching people, talking about sports for hours, not showering, eating things off the floor, watching bloody war movies, watching bloody zombie movies, hitting things really hard, not being scared of bugs (except cockroaches, I'm still human), setting things on fire...the list goes on.

I like this stuff.

Maybe this is because I grew up around mostly boys, maybe this is because my mother is like this in a lot of ways, maybe this is because I'm Katie freaking Wade-Neser and this is just the way I am.

This isn't to say I don't like certain things that are considered to be "feminine" as well. Namely: Pinterest and mustard yellow.

It's just that little things lately have gotten me thinking about the idea of gender roles and why they often bother me. Now I'm not talking about the whole "man works, woman stays at home" idea. That might be a conversation for another day. I'm looking more at interests. Like...the things we do when we aren't at school or work (which, for me, is never), or the things we talk about in casual conversation.

I saw a few things on social media today that got me thinking about all of this. The first was something I saw on my twitter feed:

For some (or obvious) reasons this really irked me, and I spent a few minutes wondering why. I knew it wasn't just the fact that this person was claiming that something as simple as having a commentator of the opposite gender could RUIN something they previously viewed as "awesome." It also wasn't just the fact that I am a woman, and a statement like this is obviously demeaning. I eventually realized that the root of the anger or slight pain I felt from this statement was this:

When this person said something was wrong with a woman talking about sports, it felt like they were inadvertently saying that something was wrong with ME.

Why can't it be normal for a woman to talk about sports? That announcer probably really likes sports. She probably really likes talking about sports. In fact, she has probably worked countless hours and long nights trying to find a legitimate job in a field that is generally seen as a boys club.

Things like this make me sad, which will probably be seen as a feminine reaction.
In reality, I think it is more of a human reaction.

Does it ever feel good to have someone tell you that the way you are is wrong?

I don't think it is bad to have certain things that allow you to bond with your gender. I often have really positive experiences empathizing with other women over the difficulties and joys of womanhood. Men and women are different and that is just fine by me. I'm just thinking...what if we worked on making a little more room for social exception? A woman being interested in sports has very little to do with eternal roles and a lot more to do with social ideas and constraints.

I know I am not the only person who feels this way. There have to be other girls who don't like pink, or glitter, or who have never seen the movie "The Notebook" all the way through. There have to be other girls who know so little about celebrities that they still get Tyra Banks and Beyonce mixed up (I know, I know, not even close to the same person...and yet it always happens.) There have to be other girls who wrote "punch someone in the face" on their bucket list they made sophomore year.**

And so, because I know you are out there (and I know there are boys out there as well who don't like the stereotypical "male" things), I'm going to say this:

Think about the things you are saying. I know I'm going to try harder to do so. If something you are going to say might make another person feel like the way they are or the things they like are wrong...don't say that thing. Easy to write, not easy in principle. But I know we can do it.

Just now, as I am writing this, a teenage kid with crazy hair, a t-shirt to his knees and huge headphones just walked past our house and accidentally knocked over our trash can on the curb. Instead of walking away, he stooped down and slowly picked up each piece of trash and then righted the can. I'm sure he thought nobody was watching him as he walked away.

People surprise me every day.

I want to be more open to the surprises people have to offer.

Katie

P.s.- If you want to see a phenomenal movie that gives a much better perspective on the way we should treat people, you should check out this movie:

**I don't see all the examples in this post as strictly "feminine" or "masculine," I just recognize that large portions of society do.

Moral of the Story

Cj and I text all day long. This is the first time in our relationship that we haven't had the same schedule. So, to make up for not seeing each other like...ever....we talk all day. Here was today's conversation: 

Katie: At the store. Any requests, yo? 

Cj: All the things!!

Katie: Got it! But whoops, I spent all of our monies. I'm really good at that. Sorry! 

(I DID spend a ridiculous amount on groceries today.) 

Cj: ...All of them? :/ 

Katie: Yeah, its all gone. We'll have to try and implement some kind of bartering system now to survive. 

Cj: Just like that TV show!

Katie: What TV show?

Cj: I watched some TV show once about bartering, on the History Channel. 

Katie: Ahhh, I see. Oddly enough I never saw that one. I propose that we start with your trucker hats and bro-shorts as collateral. Someone out there is bound to want those. 

Cj: ....Lay off me. I can bro if I want to.  

And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen. He can bro if he wants to. 

Which reminded me of a song. So I looked that song up: 

And it was the strangest music video I have ever seen. 

This is where our texting conversations get me. 

Worse things have happened. 

Katie 

Jokes on me.

Don't get me wrong, I am a girl who can take a joke.

BUT, this one has gotten a little out of hand:

Two days ago I posted this status update on Facebook:

Just to clarify: I have not posted anything on Craigslist since the nanny-job fiasco of 2012. I was clearly pranked. This was funny to me. Like...status update funny. I love a good prank as much as the next girl. 

BUT THEN...

....today happened. 

It started around 12:10 p.m. when I received a text from an unknown number that began "Hi, I'm Becky, I saw your ad on Craigslist, I don't sleep much either" and ended with a short haiku that she hoped I would "consider." 

When 4 more texts from 4 separate numbers followed quickly after I knew we had a problem. After some serious digging and, at one point, deceiving a poor woman into thinking I was some kind of poetry editor, I found my way to this: (please note that this was posted in the MANHATTAN craigslist) 

It is now 12:08 a.m. 

If Craigslist posts could go viral, then this post was Gangnam Style. 

In less than 12 hours I received 62 texts and 11 voicemails from numbers across the country, every single one accompanied by some form of dramatic, emotional or overall horrendous poetry. 

Part of me feels tickled. This has got to be the best prank ever. 

However, part of me has felt horrible all day long. See, there is a big problem with all of this. A problem I don't think the prankers foresaw. 

Currently, there are 73 people in this world who have given me a part of themselves, no matter how ridiculous and awful that part was (BAD. SO BAD). And these 73 people will spend the next few weeks waiting anxiously for a response. 

I know this because this is what I do every day. I spend hours poring over poems and then sending them out to literary journals and workshop groups and peers and I spend a good chunk of my time wondering what they will think and how they will respond and if I am good enough. All day I have felt the weight of knowing that a response will never come for these people. 

And then I remember that there are 73 people in the world who are using Craigslist to find their big break. And that they responded to an ad that asked them to text a poem. 

And I also remember that one of them sent me his poem one line per text until I had 22 texts from him, and that the last line of his poem was "the soft melody of the dusk of a smile." 

And then I don't feel that bad. 

The point is: FESS UP PRANKER. YOU GOT ME. YOU GOT ME GOOD. 

I have a list of suspects and I will find you. 

Katie 

How Saturday Morning Went

I woke up with the sun.

And by that I mean it was 9:38 and the sun was shining in my eyes. Annoying.
I blindly smacked my hand on the other side of the bed a couple of times before I realized my husband must have left for work already.
I felt lazy and awful that I was still in bed and he was out working hard (spouse's guilt is the worst, sometimes I wish Cj would be more lazy).
I know! I thought, I'll go running. What an idea. 

I lay in bed for another 20 minutes thinking about it. I decided my best route would be to run right past Cj's work so that he could look out the window and think to himself "who is the hottie out running?" And then he could think "whaaaaaaaat? my wife??" And then I would throw him a peace sign and an air-five and keep running like it was no big deal until I got around the corner and collapsed from simultaneously trying to suck-in and jog at the same time.

It all seemed a lot cooler in my head.

Either way I got up, got dressed and ready to go, practiced my air-fives, got on my computer to check the weather...and realized it was only 7 degrees outside.

In despair I did the only thing I could think of. I poured a bowl of cereal, grabbed a blanket and started reading blogs on the couch.

But it gets worse. Because through the course of my blog reading, I somehow stumbled onto a blog written by a young, LDS girl whose husband died this year. So sad. The problem: her husband's name is Cj.

MY husband's name is Cj.

The end of the story: It is now 10:25 a.m. In less than 50 minutes I have been through the entire spectrum of emotions, beginning with annoyed and ending with me quietly crying on the couch because someone who has the same name as my husband died over 11 months ago.

It is a really good thing my husband's name isn't a more common name, like John.

I may actually consider making him go by his middle name, which is Ballou. (That is real.)

Let's be honest, I'm never going running.

Katie