Harlem Shake Shake

Please enjoy this video I made. In total it took me twenty minutes and zero dollars, which explains the watermark in the middle of the screen. I know you were all thinking that it was because I'm being sponsored, but alas, this is not true. It's just free, and the first option on Google when searching "video editor". Also I got a shake out of it, so that's always a plus. 

Have a nice day! 

Can't You See?

Just, bored. 

Despite my efforts to put down my phone and search for more "real moments", I just spent another hour and a half on Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, Youtube, and Candy Crush. Not in that order. Actually it might have been, it all sort of becomes a blur after about twenty minutes. Granted, my "efforts" haven't been incredibly solid or hardly existent. And with the recent surrender of my immune system after a battle with whatever it is that I've won (it involves a scratchy sore throat, stomach ache, and headache. Doctors, do your thing), an entire day in bed didn't help matters much either. I'm a sucker for justification, and an illness was all I needed to pull up the covers, download once again the forbidden apps, and pass the hours one tap at a time. 

It's an addiction. And because I'm ashamed to admit it, I thought that sharing this fact with others would help the matter. So I talked to my husband about it, for starters. But the only thing that changed was that I stopped trying to hide the fact that I was swiping sweets or tweeting tweets. (Actually, Twitter hasn't been a huge temptation for me, I just thought it would go well with "swiping sweets", and it fits the theme. I still don't really understand how Twitter works. It's generally a last resort, after I've scoured the entirety of the rest of the medias) So heck, let the whole world know. I'm going to have to move on to other tactics. Or any at all I guess that would be. 

So, to anyone else out there who has a similar issue and is unsuccessfully trying to quit, call 555-MY-PHONE-IS-EATING-ME-ALIVE. 

Actually, try watching this video. Things As They Really Are 

True, so true. But I like the full talk better, which I read first in a Spanish Liahona, I think, and I was absolutely intrigued, specifically with the fact that one of Satan's tactics is to keep us from ourselves and our lives by getting us to plug in to a lesser reality. THE INTERNET. (Dun dun DUUUN!!!!) 

And that, children, is why the internet is the spawn of Satan. 

Okay, so I don't put it as well as Elder Bednar. Maybe you should just read his version. Truly intriguing, even in English. 

I did do other things today. Like go to work, cook/reheat dinner, and read five chapters and three fourths of the Introduction of Helen Keller's The Story of My Life. Three fourths because, really? You're gonna spoil the best parts of the first three chapters in the intro? This is a published introduction to a renowned autobiography, not a middle school book report. C'mon Jim Knipfel. Honestly. 

Actually he looks like a pretty cool guy. 

Also he's blind, and I've never written anything blind so what do I know. Also he's wearing a pretty spiffy hat, so points for Jim. 

Anyway, speaking of Helen Keller, I thought you might be interested to know that she was actually my idol when I was little. I don't know how I found out about her. I believe my mom actually started reading The Story of My Life to us, Jessica and myself I think, and I became enthralled. I researched her, I read more about her life, I walked around the house blindfolded for half a day to see what it was like, I read and researched Anne Sullivan (Helen's teacher), and Louis Braille (who invented--you guessed it--braille). I also remember meeting with my mom and dad one day and telling them that my goal in life was to become a teacher for the blind and/or deaf, and started learning sign language with little kid books and videos. I didn't get very far with that, and my life goals have been revised several times since that first draft. But anyway, it's always been fascinating to me.   

I still get a little offended every time I hear a Helen Keller joke. But I also laugh because, I gotta face it, sometimes they're pretty funny. I hope Helen understands. 

So I guess this is the part of the blog where I come slowly to a stop off the freeway of my thoughts, and the roar of the engine becomes incredibly absent, and the sleepers yawn awake, and after a few more stop lights I roll into the driveway and bring it all home. 

But I either missed the exit, or I was never on the freeway in the first place, both of which are a problem and require a U-turn, if not three. 

So this might be my foot on the gas rather than the break, but, just allow me this while my GPS is rerouting. As I was reading Helen Keller, I tried to imagine her blind, deaf, and, for many years, mute. You would think the autobiography would easily lead to that kind of conclusion, but reading the way that she describes things, I'm finding it really hard to believe. She writes about herself when she was a child, walking through the garden, examining the flowers, feeling them, enjoying them, and she calls them beautiful. How can she know that? I don't mean that in an accusing way. It's just so incredible to me the way that she sees the world. I will never be able to experience flowers the way that Helen Keller did. Or people, or conversation, or family, or laughter, or mischief, or learning. How did she do that? Like the passionate little girl inside me, trying not to peak through the slits of my blindfold, I yearn to know. 

Then here I am plugging my eyes into a candy kingdom, filling my ears with the repetitive bell and flute theme and occasional "Delicious", desperately trying to burst all the jellies with my finger in 36 moves. 

I won't say I'm an idiot, but I also won't deny it. Maybe that's too harsh. Trivial. I'm being trivial. And what I would give to sit even one hour with Helen, just to see her, and talk with her, and absorb some of her passion, her depth, her strength, her desire. 

Maybe then I'll have the courage to quit. 

I Don't Get Out Much

My brother told me the other day that no one blogs anymore. Which of course summoned my pride from the depths of my being, chest high and muscles bulging, to chop his nonchalant comment to bits with a machete. Actually, my pride never has to be summoned from very deep. In fact, I don't know if it even submerges much. More like drapes itself by the side of my pool of conscious, one foot dangling in, the other planted on the cement for quick entry into my daily life.

And here we are. If only to subdue Mr. Pride Inside, consider this my silent, stuck-out tongue. No offence.

And wow, has this site collected some dust? Excuse me while I blow it your way through the world wide cobweb. If you must sneeze, bless you. Spring cleaning right here, wowza.

So, what can I say? I've been busy. And if I haven't, I've been otherwise occupied. And if I haven't, I've been sleeping. And, there's my life.

And here is my life.
What is my life?
What is life?
What life?
Life?

That's a deep and inspirational little poem I wrote for you. It's called, "To Life, Live".

An inspirational song just came on my Pandora movie soundtrack station, so that means this post is about to get good. Buckle up kids.

So I work at a call center, doing customer service things. I'm a supervisor now, so I don't spend as many hours on the phone, but I still do take calls, and listen to calls, and listen to the agents take calls, and basically I work a lot with calls.

So today I get home, and my husband is napping. So I figure I'll get some things done that I've been putting off for a while, one of those things being call the pharmacy about my prescription. I dial the number, and ask what they need, which is my insurance information. I put them on speaker so I can look it up on my phone while I talk, but I can't download it from the email, and it won't let me open it, and I finally just let them know I'll drop by once I figure it out. I get it downloaded and readable, and after a few moments of lazy-inspired second-guessing, I put on my sandals, pack my survival bag with all the can't-leave-without-ems (keys, wallet, peppermint chap-stick, a pen, my current book, tic tacs), and start the one block journey on foot. I could have gone in the car, but I was feeling the need for fresh air, and also I thought it sounded daring. It wasn't though, just a little windy, and I had to stop a few times to dump the rocks out of my sandal. I never understood how a rock could get stuck in a sandal. I understand that there are a lot of entry points, but there are exactly as many exits, and somehow those little buggers just would rather hang around just under the bridge of my foot, in just the right tender spot of my sole.

So together with the walking and the rock-dumping, I total two minutes from house to pharmacy. And there I am getting some help from the pharmacist lady. It wasn't a difficult issue. It didn't take long to do, but there were some moments she left me to my thoughts as she worked. During these moments I'm thinking, these things are so much different on the phone. It's another world. There are so many things that happen in person that just don't read when you're on the phone. Like a smile, or happy demeanor. Or being able to see that the pharmacist is working on something on the computer, rather than sitting in silence only knowing that they're doing something when it's verbalized through the earpiece. There are so many senses taken out of the equation that we don't realize make a difference.

And then I'm back on my life rant about how technology is annoying, and gets in the way of life and people, and I make a stand by dramatically ignoring my phone and computer for hours because they lack that sense of real. And then I forget that I was in the middle of a conversation with my visiting teacher, who was expecting a prompt response.

But I really do need more of those real moments. And I've been spending so much time in technology that a walk down the block to the pharmacy gets my adrenaline going. Heck, even taking out the trash has become adventurous.

And last week when I was doing just that, I heard some kids laughing and playing outside, and once again, my think-muscles get going. It brought me back to those spring evenings when we would play and play, our fingers and toes stiffening gradually from the cold, and the light slipping slowly into darkness, afraid to go inside for socks and sweaters for fear of being sent instead to bed. Those evenings would last forever. But maybe it wasn't just that I was still learning to measure time, or my perception of it has been skewed with years. I think instead that I relished every moment with my eyes, my ears, and nose, and filled each minute to the brim, so that few passed by unused, forgotten, or pushed aside.

And that was easier to accomplish with a less-encumbered mind, and three check-box to-do list (eat, sleep, and play), but the concept is the same. So back at it again, untangling myself string-by-string from circle of social media, to weave more color into the canvas of my life.

And hopefully some more blogging material? I've missed this place.

Have a good day, and go play outside.

A Brief Survey Back

First of all, I've never had my own room.

Well I guess there was that time I started sleeping in the oversized closet we used as our toy room. One night when I was nine and feeling poetic me and my stuffed pig Kelsey moved onto the extra mattress we stored in there with my sheets, blankets, and floppy, case-less pillow. I was a lone ranger for less than a week until someone tattled on me and my parents shipped me back to the bunk above my sister. 

And then there was that one time when I was ten I asked for my own room for Christmas and my mom gifted me a coupon for the privilege of one night in next-door grandma's guest room. I slept in the middle of the bed with seven tasseled toss pillows stacked up behind, legs spread to either side, and watched I Love Lucy late into the night, to regret in the groggy morning. 

And every other night for over twenty one years it's been half the closet, permission for lights-out, and never a private doze or dream. 

My point is, I don't really have much experience with quiet rooms or homes. And with a family of eleven, and now with some nieces and in-laws that bring the total to fourteen here at the house, no one here really does for that matter. 

Whenever there are fewer than seven people here at home, "where is everyone" echoes through the house, not only because it's so empty, but because the silence is so weird that everyone who is at home has to bring up the phrase at least once. 

A few nights ago was one of those quiet nights. Just me, my husband, my brother, and his wife and two kids. My sister in law was kind enough to make dinner and bring it up from their basement apartment to share, and afterward my husband cleaned the five bowls, and I walked around the uncomfortably quiet room. 

The phone rang. 

There's a thing about our home phone. We never answer it. It rings and no one even flinches. I think I've touched it five times since I've been home and four of those times were because my niece had been playing with it so I had to pick it up to put back on the hook. By this point I think we've forgotten it's a phone and have started believing it's an ambient tune that happens at random times in the week. A complementary jingle the house provides to brighten our day. Or just annoy us. 

That night, for some reason I decided to answer it. 

"Hello?" 

Some telephone survey company. "Is Emilyn Gil available?" 

"Uh...yes, this is her." 

"Would you like to take a few minutes to do a brief survey?" 

I surrendered, for three reasons. One, I was caught by surprise because he used the name that has only legally been documented as mine for less than a month. Two, what are the chances that the one time I decide to pay attention to the notoriously ignored, almost non-existent house phone, it happens to be a call directed to me? (Some math geek, do your thing. I bet it's like, a really low number.) And three, because I used to work at a telephone survey company, and I thought, why not help a poor kid out. Up his PR a little. 

He starts the survey, and I'm already regretting my choice and starting to think of different ways to bail out. But then it's about my recent visit to the doctor's office, and I start to recognize the survey. Luckily, as I remember, this "brief" survey actually is one of the brief ones. 

"In your most recent visit, was the doctor understanding of your needs? Would you say definitely yes, somewhat, or no?"

I had asked these questions a hundred times. I wanted to recite the words with him as he said them, just to confuse the guy, but I didn't remember them well enough. I'll have to brush up for next time. 

I was an A+ survey-taker. I waited until he was completely finished with the questions and answers, clearly stated my desired answer exactly as he recited it to me, went through each question, left good comments for him to record, wished him a nice night at the end, and hung up. 

It's been, let's see...a little over two years since I was on the other side of the phone giving surveys. And since I finished the survey I've been pondering back on those survey times with fondness. Waking up in the late morning, dreading for when the hour hit two thirty and I'd have to go to work, sitting in my swivel chair bored out my mind, talking to rude and swearing people on the phone, having to stay till 11 sometimes to finish the surveys we needed, and what about this is fond again? 

I envy my past a lot. It's just so hard for me to leave it behind. When the present is hard I whine and pout at the door of my memories, wishing I could thrive again and again in the familiar moments. Even the hard ones. Because although in the moment it's confusing and terrible, looking back, I know just how to deal with it and would much rather take on that challenge again than the ones I'm dealing with today. 

But this time, looking back, it wasn't so much a sporadic, tiresome run down the up escalator, tripping and crying and trying to go back. It was more of the quiet page turn back in the photo album, curled up on the couch, in a fuzzy sweater, sipping hot chocolate through smiling lips.

So I learned something from this survey. It's okay to look back. Of course it is. Remember what it was like, ask some questions, let out some sighs. But when the survey is done, you hang up the phone. Get back to the present and give it your best. The hard things slip through the gaps with time, and you'll want to make sure there's enough good moments in your now to hang up in your gallery of life so there's something left to live for. 

This Is New...lywed

So I'm married.

And with all the things that come with marriage, like trying not to elbow his face in the night, or remembering halfway through the physics quiz to tag Gil along with my other two names, I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be a wife and mother, and what kind of each I want to be.

And I have to say, I see both titles as so superior. As if they're displayed on the highest shelf of the spice pantry, and me hands-on-hips below the counter like a little kid, looking up and wondering how in the world I'm supposed to get to them. They sound like a Nobel prize, a doctorate degree, or a couple Olympic gold medals. And at the same time, as much as I esteem the occupation of Mom, it also comes off completely alien to me. Like the opposite side of the Timpanogos mountain, the back roads on the construction detour, or the whole-foods option on the bottom shelf of the cracker isle. I just can't see myself under the umbrella of these descriptions, really.

Well, I mean, I'm getting better. "My husband" easily drips now into my stream of conversation when describing him, and the fingers on my left hand have now fully acquainted themselves with the sapphire immigrant. And all in all, exploring the married life has been enjoyable to say the least. Any words I use to explain the joy, drastically underestimate the true value of being married. But I'd say "grand" is one of my favorite explanations.

But still, thinking of wife-ing and mothering basically stresses me out. A little bit. Maybe a lot, if I really think about it.

And I know I shouldn't stress, that it will be fine, and that when I get right down to it, I'll naturally be good at it survive. So I'm okay. One step at a time.

About a month ago I went to the Orem library. See, I'm trying to do more leisure reading, so I keep checking out interesting titles from the library to get myself back into the habit. I really do enjoy reading and every time I give myself the time I love it, but I just usually spend my days doing other things. So instead of reading I'm paying late fees because the book fell under my bed forgotten for three weeks. I am a sorry, uncultured case, and I'm ashamed of myself.

So anyway, aside from my state of declining literacy, I went to the library a while ago. As I was walking across the parking lot toward the entrance, I passed a small family. A mom and two little kids under the age of six. The mom was wearing jeans and a flowery blouse, and was holding a grocery bag of books in one hand, and the chubby fingers of one of the kids in her other, giving the closing statements of a very serious lecture. "So next time we come to the library are we gonna run around crazy and sit on statues?"

And while browsing the adult section in the ominous library silence, I saw another small family. This mom was wearing cargo pants paired with a small classy leather purse. She was also accompanied by two younger-than-six kids, one little girl on her back, and a little boy following behind. The piggy-backer had a coloring page, and the little boy was intently focused on his mom's i-phone in his hands. They were playing the library's Pokemon scavenger hunt that the staff had set up for that day. The boy intently whispered some critical discovery something to his mom as she came up close to the wall so her little girl could use its hard surface to color on her page.

So in thinking about wife and mother, maybe the most helpful to me for the moment is to look at the examples of mothers around me. And I don't want to downgrade the first mom by saying that I aspire to be the second. I'm sure the second mom's kids have had their run around crazy and sit on statues days, and I'm sure every mom has the necessity to give the hilarious-if-it-weren't-for-the-seriousness-of-the-moment lectures. But as much as I can, I want to be the mom in the cargo pants, with enough pockets for every flower, paper plane, and stick preceded with "look mom!". I want to compete with my kids in the scavenger hunts, and the playground races, and put the greatest effort toward keeping mom and friend synonymous. And, well, lots of other things that I wish to be and do in motherhood, as seen in the mothering of all those around me. (Shout out to my sister and sister in law! As well as my mom friends, neighbors, acquaintances, and most importantly the amazing angel mother of my own.)

And yeah, I know that's probably what all new mothers think, and then when the children come I let out a big "Ooooooooooh" and take my list of What Mothering Is off the fridge, fold it up, and send it in the next batch to D.I. for someone else who may find it useful.

So here's to all you D.I. shoppers I guess. Take what fits. At least it's cheap, so no hard feelings if it ends up in the back of your closet after one read. Thanks for shopping! Have a nice day!

A Moment from the Optimistic

I attended a baptism today. It was beautiful and joyous and lovely as always, and I was happy I had taken time from my busy life to add it to my list of life experience.

At the service, I heard a story about a the best watermelon in the world. It was large, chilled, a deep pink, and dripping with juices. But actually, it was just a regular watermelon. What made it special were the long moments beforehand sweating and struggling on a desert hike, thinking and craving just that, a great watermelon.

I really don't care too much for watermelons, but I've been thinking about this one all day.

One week from now I'll be married, and my fiance is currently outside the country. And that can only foreshadow the experience in which he, I, and our close ones have found ourselves.

So I've learned a bit about weddings. Really, you only need three things. The girl, the guy, and the temple. So we're two out of three for a bit longer. But he's getting here.

And I'll tell ya, I'm not always an optimist, and maybe I tell my story a little more woefully than I mean to, but for the moment, I'm appreciative. And I'd like to share a few less-told details that I love. Like getting a good-morning call from yours truly at 6:00 am before I go to work.  Or living in an age where my beloved and I can see live video of each other at a large distance, speaking and hearing and everything, almost like regular conversation, and all free of charge. As much as I hate Skype, it's pretty dang awesome. Or knowing that someone exists in the world who is handsome, charismatic, funny, sweet, adorable, strong, and intelligent, and he loves me. Or family and friends who sacrifice time to get the yard reception-ready, buy 50 bags of popcorn, hang lights from the house to the tree, paint jars and blocks of wood, and a million other random things that have to do with the 17th of September. Or lying in my bed at night, closing my eyes, and hearing Jorge's voice come through my headphones telling me he loves me.

And I'd like to think that this story will end like the watermelon. That thanks to all the waiting and wishing and hoping and praying, the result of all this will be nothing but the very best. And I believe it will, for a time. But I also realize that time will pass, and as human beings, we forget, grow accustomed, and take for granted.

So this is a shout out to all those who have the luxury of looking their loved ones in the eyes, hearing their real, actual voice, and giving them a literal, physical hug. And if you please, I'll include the Emilyn and Jorge of the near future. Do those things. Look with your actual eyes into their actual eyes, and really see them. Use your actual voices to speak sweet somethings into their actual ears, and really listen. And use your actual arms to actually hug them, and hold them as close as you can for just a moment. And then another, and another, and another. Just because you can.

That's all. Now who's up for a good, sweaty hike?

A Rant on Writing Promts

I´ve come to find my most frequent blogging times fall almost precisely when I should be doing something else. And the something else is most often writing. Like now, for instance, where I have two google docs saved with titles, word counts, and scholarship essay prompts, followed by a whole lot of white. 

There´s just something so un-engaging about being told to write something. It´s like wandering through the women´s apparel section at Target with five dollars and fifty cents. I mean, why even bother? If I wanted to browse clothing I can´t buy or wear, I would have stayed at home with Pinterest. 

But then, of course, improvisation just is never quite as good as structured, deadlined, bluprinted labor. Who´s Line Is It Anyway will never be anywhere near Shakespeare´s Iambic Pentameter. A public pool in mid July isn´t quite as thrilling as the Olympic Swimming Trials. So maybe a 500 word essay on pride or ice cream flavors can beat a day-in-the-life-of-Emilyn blogpost? 

Well, let´s see what I can do with my Five-fifty.