Guide to scary movies

They say everyone likes to get scared – but they’re wrong. Oddly enough, most sane people actually prefer to live their lives without terror. But, if for some reason you insist on watching a scary movie and don’t want to deal with the consequences, this how-to guide is for you.

Step 1: Don’t watch the movie. Really, don’t watch it. This method is safe, reliable, and has a 100% satisfaction guarantee. Frankly, I’m surprised more people don’t choose this option.

Step 2: Have the right equipment. If for some reason you chose to ignore step 1, or, like me, you have friends who don’t take "no" for an answer, keep your handy dandy blanket with you at all times. During freaky parts feel free to hold it over your head and plug your ears. If you can’t see or hear it, it doesn't exist. Food is also nice. Instead of screaming, you could eat.

Step 3: Kill the mood. During those high-stress parts of the movie, find some kind of distraction and remark on it. This could be a strange facial feature on one of the actors, a joke you just thought of, or what you logically would have done in their place. Your friends might find it annoying, but considering they liked you enough to make you watch the movie instead of telling you to leave, they’ll probably forgive you.

Step 4: Watch something harmless. As in, not next week or even the next day but right after the movie gets over. Staying up until three in the morning watching Winnie-the-Pooh is preferable to staying up until three wondering if you’ll wake in the morning. It is also a good way to avoid nightmares.

Step 5: Don’t go home alone. You will imagine every possible scenario from the movie – it’s inevitable. The presence of another person is very calming with the added benefit of having a human shield should any of the movie’s plots actually be true. However, a phone call is an acceptable, but not preferable, substitute. Call someone older/wiser than yourself who has not watched a scary movie recently and doesn't have a twisted sense of humor. They may find it funny to freak you out, but you’re the one who could potentially be abducted/possessed/eaten/mutilated/whatever else was the content of your movie.

Step 6: Don’t sleep alone. Have a sleepover. Or sleep in the same room as a sibling, or your spouse. Or on your parents’ bedroom floor. Or in your dog’s kennel. Really, anything is good. That way, when you wake up from the nightmares you could have avoided by following step 4, you won’t be alone. It’s hard to worry about a zombie apocalypse or alien abduction when the person in the room with you is snoring.

Step 7: Remember, rethink, and revise. Remember the terror you felt. Imagine how happy you would have been without all those terrifying images in your head. Regretfully consider how much sleep you would have gotten had you not been up late thinking about the movie. Shake your head as you recognize that you made a bad decision and your time would be far better spent watching something a little happier. Decide to make better choices in your life from that moment on.

Step 8: Never watch a scary movie again. Case closed.

Protector

Me, I'm a protector. It doesn't matter what you say to or about me; I will move on. Sure, I hurt like anyone else, but I'm quick to forgive - especially if there are cookies and/or chocolate involved. :-) However, when it comes to my family and my friends I'm a little less forgiving. I wish I could take all their pain away. I wish I could be somebody who's depended on, who can make things better just by being there. Even if it's not me, I just don't want them to hurt anymore. I guess that's where this next poem comes from.

Protector

If I could, I would wrap you

In a blanket soft and warm

I would hide you from the monsters

And all those memories which do you harm

If I could, I'd protect you

I would stand up in your place

I'd do battle with the demons

To keep the smile on your face

If I could, I would hold you

In my arms and hug you tight

We'd sink into the depths together

Emerge in a world full of sunlight

Poem

She slept while dreaming of the world

She left behind some time ago

And thought her heart would break again

From weakness to internal foes

She put her heart into a letter

Sent it off, no looking back

She faced the day of her defeat

And cried at the same time she laughed

Wake up from your dreams now, sweetie

You've got a grown-up life to lead

We'd all like to live in dreamland

Reality's not all we hoped it would be

Problems which won't wait forever

Are calling you back down to me

When it all seems dark, just remember

The real world's deeper than you can dream

Life continued as it should have

Most her dreams are different now

She aches a little at reminders

She had the light and took her bow

All her life she'll remember

What she loved and what she lost

Though her life can seem so bitter

She thinks it all was worth the cost

Wake up from your dreams now, sweetie

You've got a grown-up life to lead

We'd all like to live in dreamland

Reality's not all we hoped it would be

Problems which won't wait forever

Are calling you back down to me

When it all seems dark, just remember

The real world's deeper than you can dream

I showed this to my dad and he said, "I have no idea what it's about, but it seems deep." Haha. Thanks Dad. I wrote this poem at two in the morning when I couldn't sleep. So feel free to critique (or speculate, whatever). But really, I'm curious. What do you think?

Boston

I remember exactly where I was during the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. I was in fifth grade on my way to school. The bus was turning a corner and I was staring out at the golf course when my friend, who was sitting beside me, informed me that her parents told her a plane had crashed into a building. I didn't understand the significance until I got to school. My teacher was watching the news coverage on our classroom TV, which showed videos of planes flying into buildings and the buildings crashing down. Images of bloody people. The news that some people had jumped from their windows to escape the destruction only to die on the pavement. Other planes were aimed for other locations. Pretty soon the television was turned off due to our young, impressionable minds. I don't remember much more of that day, but I remember the feelings of devastation and disbelief. The absolute horror. And the one overarching question: why?

Today, I was reminded of those feelings. After all, this is the most violent attack against my country since 9/11. Bombings in Boston. At this point, everything is still up in the air. How many explosions were there? Were they all connected? How many bombs didn't explode? Are we in danger? Two deaths, one an eight-year-old boy. The injury count gets higher and higher with every update. Who is responsible? Will they come forward? Is this a terrorist attack? Will we ever know?

And again, why?

I was ten years old when I first began to struggle with this question. It was incomprehensible to me that anyone, no matter what they were fighting for, would deliberately try to kill innocent people. What kind of hate drives people to murder people they've never known? Just how deranged does a person have to be to decide to place a bomb where everyday citizens are simply living their lives?

The news says New York is on high alert. ABC news station, which I live next to, is constantly updating its live feed. I went out after work, and the city just didn't feel normal. Cops were out on the streets to keep an eye on the well-known areas of the city. The news was on every television in every restaurant and bar. I caught snippets of conversations from people walking by, discussing the probability of this being a terrorist organization outside the U.S. and whether we were in danger too. Talking about family or friends in Boston. As I sat on a park bench beside Central Park, a police car drove down the sidewalk not one foot from me. A helicopter hovered over downtown Manhattan for over an hour, likely watching for danger.

They can talk politics. They can talk religion. Whatever they want. But nothing changes the fact that today, people died. Today, people were hurt. My nation, my world was invaded. Someday, whoever did this will face the consequences. But today, pray for Boston. Pray for all the people who were hurt or affected by this awful, awful tragedy. Today, stand together.

Boston, we love you.

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's . . . opening a window?

There's something about New York they never really tell you. When you live in an apartment building, you don't get to control your own heat. You can have a stable job, a family or even own the stupid building, but for some reason nobody thinks you're capable of choosing your own temperature. The gods that be (namely the second floor, where all the important decisions are made) decide just how warm/cool you get to be. Usually, they choose wrong and I end up keeping my window open half the night in the middle of winter.

A few nights ago was such a night. I had borne the insufferable heat all evening and found my apartment comparable to a sauna. I opened the window and resettled on my couch when I heard the sound of dripping water coming from outside. Well that's odd, I thought (in an English accent, I might add. Dr. Who and I have become mates in the last few days). I moved my screen and stuck my head out the window to try to pinpoint the noise.

It was dark, so I listened as hard as I could. It seemed to me that the dripping was coming from an apartment building right beside mine. I knew they had a mini water tower on the roof, and what else could it be? It's not like they have rivers in the middle of Manhattan. 

I was then faced with a dilemma-do I stay or do I go? By then it must have been 1:30 AM. Was it worth alarming someone for a problem I thought was happening? Or should I just stay in my apartment and hope nothing was wrong? My mind flew through a hundred possibilities. Perhaps the tower had somehow sprung a leak, and all the water was pooling out onto the roof. Pretty soon they would know because it would start dripping into the top floor's ceiling. Perhaps the people living there would be relocated for a while and it would be all my fault for not telling anyone!

Chill, Chels. Breathe. You don't know this city well yet. Perhaps that's a normal sound. What do you know? Do you really want to embarrass yourself by telling someone you heard the sound of water and you think that's a problem? Admit it, that sounds a little stupid. And who would you tell?

Well, I could tell one of my doormen. He wouldn't hate me, right? Okay, so maybe I'd get teased. What else is new? I'm leaving in a week anyway.

So I went down and told the doorman on duty. He thought it was a little amusing, but said he'd get someone to check it out. One of the other doormen came up with me and stuck his head out my living room window to check the location. "Yep," he confirmed. "That's the water tower." He left, promising to let me know if anything happened.

Two days passed before I saw him again. By then I figured that nothing had ever been wrong and had buried that memory in the corner of my mind where I keep things I'd rather not think about. So it took a minute to figure out what was going on when that doorman stopped me when I came home from work. "Hey Chelsea!" he said. "Remember that water tower you told me about? Turns out it did have a leak. I talked to some guys who work over there and they said they'd get it fixed."

Look at me, ya'll. Saving the world one water tower at a time.

Some tears are worth the joy

Today, I cried.

In public too, which has always been an embarrassing thing for me. I sat there with a missionary couple on one side, my best girl Sarah on the other and two Buddhist monks sitting behind me. Not the most ideal place to break down, but at least the majority of the watchers wouldn't think anything was wrong.

But hey, when the Spirit calls you don't have much of a choice.

I had formed my "conference questions". I had set my goals. I was ready to have a good experience. What I didn't expect was the overwhelming feeling that, among all the people in the world, this talk was meant for me. I felt like the speaker had peered into my soul, dragged out all the lonely and hurting portions, and patched them up individually. He said the most comforting words I have ever heard, then gently steered me towards a path to happiness.

Then, I was reminded that my Heavenly Father loves me. I'm not always emotional, but even I couldn't hold back.

I remembered just how much I love General Conference.

If you're struggling with anything, whether you're Mormon or not, the words of the apostles and prophets will find a way to help you. Find the hope that only the true gospel can bring.

You will never regret it.

lds.org

Me, myself and marriage

What is it about marriage that makes LDS people (girls especially) go, well, a little crazy? Oh yeah, maybe it's the whole YOU CANNOT BE A GOD/GODDESS WITHOUT IT. Slightly important. Not to mention the I-don't-want-to-be-alone-for-the-rest-of-my-life outlook. And it's good to focus on marriage. After all, when our entire religion is based on going back into God's presence with our eternal families, you might want to spend some time discussing that.

Still, all this marriage talk is starting to drive me a little crazy.

As you may know, I'm not exactly looking for marriage. I'm not in love and haven't seriously dated anyone in a while. So it may come as a surprise for you to know that I deliberately went to a marriage discussion today.

I know, I'm shocked too.

I was with the girls from my ward. All of them great, attractive, leading fulfilling lives, etc. The topic of conversation: what is wrong with our ward? Nobody dates! And . . . we spent 2 1/2 hours discussing that fact. Oh, there were relationship stories thrown in, people asking for advice, and the occasional hilarious comment, but really. After an hour I was ready to be gone. Now obviously the girls there were amazing people. I look up to them. They're very intelligent and wanted to make a change. But I was curious. Where was the planning? If we didn't like how things are, shouldn't we put together a game plan? A few suggestions were brought up, only to be shot down or left to die without discussion. The overarching conclusions: Dating in the ward could be better. Things need to change. Everyone's relationship is different. The end.

And I thought, did we really need to get together to come up with that?

See, here's my perspective. I'm a single 22-year-old who is happy where she is. And I see nothing wrong with that. Now, I understand that, as you get older, marriage becomes a higher and higher priority. I get that. My bishop gets it too. In fact, he gets the people in my ward better than they get themselves. During ward conference, he remarked "I have never seen so many unhappy people who are so unwilling to do anything about it." The man should write a book.

So if you're not dating and you want to be, do something about it. Getting a bunch of girls together in a room to bemoan the fact that the men in the ward need to step it up isn't going to help. Men always need to step it up, in girls' opinions. Instead, how about the girls do something? Invite the guys over. Make them food (fastest way to the heart, ladies). Ask the guy on a date. You may not get married, but at least you'll be dating and doing all you can do to get to that goal.

In the meantime, realize that it is possible to be happy without being married. Of course we're always working towards the best life we can imagine for ourselves, but there's nothing wrong with being happy with the single life. Or the dating life. Be happy wherever you are, and then life can only get better.

And if you're still not satisfied, please take into consideration the words of a former roommate: "If you don't like where you are, change it. You are not a tree."

So who's BYU playing again?

I went to it. The big one. The one everyone was so excited about. That's right folks, I saw BYU play in Madison Square Garden! Everyone in my office was excited. Every LDS member in New York was planning on going and bought their tickets early in the morning before any other time zone thought about waking up.

And I, of course, had no idea what the big deal was. My sister called me and said, "BYU is going to the semi-finals! We're buying tickets. Do you want one?" And I replied, "wait, which sport are we talking about?"

My fellow office mates were astounded (and I don't use that word lightly) to find that I didn't much care about the game. Especially Sister Jones, who could tell you the stats of every BYU player known to man. "Well dear," she said, "try to look like you're having fun at the game. You don't want to disappoint your family."

Unfortunately, my family already knows. My dad pinpointed me exactly. He called me the day of the big game to chat (about the game, of course). "So what time is the game, Chelsea?"

"I don't know. I'll have to ask Torie."

"Where are your seats?"

"Somewhere in the stadium. I don't think they're nosebleeds, but I'm not sure."

"Do you even know who's playing?"

"BYU?"

"I didn't think so."

Hey, at least I'm trying. I even had my sister teach me some basketball terms. I can now add "free throw", "foul shot" and "Brandon Davies" to my vocabulary. Maybe next year I'll attempt to understand what the heck all the fouls are about.

Confessions of a shopaphobic

I wear clothes. I like to look nice. But when it comes down to it, I'd rather take a midterm than shop for the darned things. Walking into a clothes store can make me more ornery than three consecutive nights with no sleep. Due to this irrational reaction, I still have clothes from my high school days simply because I can't bear to shop to replace them. On my days off, you may have difficulty telling the difference between me and a homeless person. I don't take credit for the crazy hair in this picture though, humidity really is out of my control.

My older sister gave me my first experience with 'What Not to Wear'. You know, that show where they take people who couldn't dress themselves if their lives depended on it and turn them into stylish gurus. "Chelsea!" she said, "I watched this episode and thought of you." Ouch - or it would have been, if I even knew that the show existed. As if a girl who hates to shop would watch a show about shopping. So I sat with her and watched it. The poor girl was bullied into giving up ALL her clothes, even the ones she loved. Then she walked into a store and reenacted my entire life story. "Ugh, look at that. That is so ugly. This is pointless. I'm going home." I was right there with her. Or I was, until my sister looked at me and said, "you know, that was the part that reminded me of you. You act exactly the same way." And she was right. Her "casual" comments throughout the show got through to me - this was a threat. If I didn't want Stacy and Clinton to toss my pathetic wardrobe, not to mention be humiliated on national television, I had better get some better clothes.

So I went shopping. Found a few outfits, started caring more. I based everything of the thought, "if Stacy and Clinton saw my clothes, would they be mocking me?" I got compliments on my style, and for a while all was well with the world.

Then I started to slack off. After all, the new clothes high can only last for so long and my hoodie was much more comfortable. My main motivation became, "would Stacy and Clinton mock me that much?" Bag Lady Chelsea hadn't returned, but Informal Chelsea was making an appearance.

Then I applied for an internship in New York and, by some miracle, got it. Welcome to round two of shopping for hours, getting "internship appropriate clothes", so said my mother. I now wear a skirt six out of the seven days of the week (work and church). I look respectable and even have some great outfits. Still, my style is somewhat lacking.

"But you live in New York!" basically every girl on the planet cries. "Go find something!" But see, here's the problem. While I know HOW to dress, I just don't want to go shopping for it. In fact, I am probably the only female on the planet who was not excited about all the shopping options of the big city. Welcome to my life's dilemma. I did go once, and found this lovely gem. Valued at $5860.00, you could own this coat for the generous price of $2109.97. Why didn't I buy it? Let me count the ways . . . .

No worries, I did find a dress with a much more suitable price. But that's not the point. To me, most clothes look like that coat up there. Gaudy, overpriced, and completely unnecessary. Find me a subtle-looking shirt and I'm happy. Lucky for me I have an older sister and mother who know me well and can coerce (or threaten) me into submission. Really, I love you both.

My shopaphobia isn't going to end anytime soon. Neither is the need to look good. I just have to grit my teeth and bear it - unless anyone knows of a Shopaphobics Anonymous I could go to?

Hitting the wine

When the conversation lags, I like to ask a somewhat controversial question: what would you do if you weren't Mormon? I'm not really looking for an honest answer, just an interesting conversation. Until recently, I would answer with, "I would drink wine with dinner. And maybe champagne at parties." See, wine was an unknown existence. It's always gorgeously colored, and people talk about its hint of fruit or heady aroma. And really, who wouldn't want to drink out of a wine glass? They look so elegant!

Notice the past tense in the last paragraph.

I was in my apartment reaching for a pan in the back of my cupboard. That thing could rival Mary Poppin's bag with all the miscellaneous junk I've found in there. I stood in front of it, searching by feel for something I had put away only yesterday. Where was the stupid thing? Finally, my hand grasped a handle. Success! I pulled it out, unintentionally bringing random Tupperware lids and the last tenant's wine bottle along with it. Next thing I knew I was standing in the middle of shards of glass and a dark red, sticky puddle that was quickly growing.

Have you ever smelled wine? I'm quite curious about the first person who saw rotting grapes and thought, hey, I should drink that mess. And the headache after is totally worth it!

Wine has the absolute most revolting smell. It's something like cleaning detergent mixed with the first whiff when you open the bottom refrigerator drawer and discover the fruit you forgot about for six months. I had to open all my windows and throw away each bundle of wine-soaked paper towels as I used it up. By the time my oven and fridge had been pulled out and cleaned under, I had already decided. It doesn't matter that I already don't drink alcohol. If I weren't Mormon, I would have made my resolution on the spot. I will never, ever drink wine. No amount of research can convince me that something I can't even bear to smell would taste any better in my mouth. Looks like I'll need a different non-Mormon fantasy.

Around the world in 80 minutes

Most interns get coffee, sharpen pencils, and are sent around the city to find obscure items. While there is that aspect of my job, I also get to do absolutely amazing things. Take this week for example. My office hosted a luncheon for female diplomats and the wives of female diplomats. And get this - I was supposed to socialize with them. Yes, I'm well aware that my job is fairly awesome. This was my first experience with such a high-class sort of event. First off, we were in a PENTHOUSE. In Manhattan. On the Upper West Side. I have to tell you, it was such a fun feeling to press the button on the elevator for the top floor and walk in to a posh (yes, I did just use the word posh) apartment.

Then, of course, was the view. The higher you are, the better the view. That day it was cloudy, but I've been there before when the sun was shining, the sky was blue, and birds and other wildlife would have been dancing had we been anywhere but New York City. It's an absolutely stunning, and slightly humbling, view.

Sarah played the harp as background music while the guests were arriving. Pretty classy, I think. We put on a fantastic spread, some of it catered and some homemade. I'd like to say I made the salad, but I had to ditch halfway through to go down to the lobby to welcome our guests. The fact that I don't particularly enjoy making salads is completely irrelevant.

Then, of course, our ladies began to show up.  I got to personally meet each one, shake her hand, and chitchat a little bit before sending her off on the elevator.We had a whopping nineteen guests! Only eight of them were diplomats, but that's actually a pretty good turnout. These women are from everywhere in the world (see, the title of this post does have a purpose!).

The woman on the left is Hon. Raushan Yesbulatova, Consul General of Kazakhstan. I didn't get to talk to her very much because she had to leave early for another luncheon she was actually giving. Still, she said she had wanted to come to ours because we were her friends. Mmm hmmm, that's right. The woman on the right is Sister Jones, one of my five bosses.

On the left is Claudia Bushman, our star for the day. She led a small discussion on why it was important for our guests to record their experiences here in New York. After all, they're living a life that most people will never have the chance to live. Their stories and feelings certainly are valuable! I don't know the woman in the middle. She was one of our non-diplomat guests, and I didn't get a chance to speak with her. The woman on the right, however, I did get to talk to. Her name is Madame Min, and she's the wife of the Chinese Consul General. She and I talked about education in China. She said it's becoming more and more common for Chinese students to learn English, as it's the business language of the world. From what I can tell, she's a very educated woman. I enjoyed our conversation.

On the left is Mrs. Louise Monyemangene, the wife of the Consul General of South Africa. She is an absolutely regal woman. After the luncheon, she sent us an email saying how much she had enjoyed herself. Mrs. Chandini Dayal is the woman in the middle with the beautiful green scarf. She's the wife of the Consul General of India. I didn't get to talk with either of them. Next time, I suppose. Isn't it great that there's a possibility of a next time? Anyway. The woman on the right is Mrs. Remedios Fe Cabactulan, the wife of the Ambassador of the Philippines to the UN. More on her to come.

These four ladies are the ones I spent the most time talking to. So, on the right again, is Mrs. Cabactulan. She and I were able to talk for quite a while.She made sure to remember my name, which is quite flattering. In her introduction, she asked us to call her Fe. I'm on a first name basis with a diplomat! We talked about journals a little bit and joked about what she could put in hers. She mentioned that she thought she might accidentally write the same thing each time. I suggested making a template for her entries. Went: (place). Felt: (bored, tired, happy, etc.). It doesn't really seem funny now, but at the time we laughed about it. Maybe you had to be there. Next to her is Mrs. Sharifah Fadhlina Bakri, wife of the Consul General of Malaysia. I had a fun conversation with her. I complimented her on her wardrobe because she was wearing very stylish, comfortable clothes. When she had walked into the lobby I wasn't sure that she was one of our ladies because she looked so modern! We talked about our families and the places we had seen in New York. She described the view of the city from her home and, at the end of our conversation, said she would like to invite us to come and see it. It probably won't happen while I'm here (since these things take time to plan, and I'll only be here for a short time), but I'm excited she thought to say something like that. Madame Endah Dharmaputra is second from the left, wife of the Consul General of Indonesia. She brought a friend with her, Madame Niken Tanita, also from Indonesia. They were fun. I rode up the elevator with them and they told me about how long they had been in New York and how they knew each other. Aren't they just cute and fun?

I was impressed with how gracious each of these ladies are. Not that I didn't expect it, of course. But it's always fun to feel like you matter, even if you are just an intern. :-) These are real women living real lives, and as I spoke to them I realized just how lucky I am to have these experiences. These women inspire me, and I'm very grateful I got to meet them.

If it seems sketch, you probably shouldn't go in

I just got home from an . . . interesting night. Sarah, my buddy out here, some new friends and I all went to the Met (that's the Metropolitan Museum of Art, for all you who were as confused as I was). We wandered around tons of exhibits. That place is huge. You could spend a week there and still not see everything. It's also very easy to get lost. I may have spent more time talking than looking, but hey. I had fun.

We decided to go get some dessert when the museum closed. One of the girls found a restaurant on her phone, but it turned out to be a swanky, upper class type of place (welcome to the Upper East Side). We figured we weren't dressed well enough to even get a table, so we wandered down the street looking for somewhere else. The wind was freezing and it was dark, so when we walked past an old diner we thought we'd give it a try. After all, we really didn't want to be looking much longer. Besides, diners are generally family restaurants, right? There were florescent lights, leather booths, and barstools. How American can it get? We walked in. I immediately regretted that decision. First off, there were only men in the diner. Old men at the counter, young men in the booths. We wondered for a moment if we had come to a gay bar. That theory was quickly discarded when we realized that every one of them had stopped talking and stared at us. I don't mean casually looking. I mean full-on, turn and watch the girls go choose a booth and sit down. Openly look at their bodies. Very creepy.


By the time we realized something was wrong, it was already too late to turn back. I don't mean that we couldn't leave, I just mean that we didn't. We had already ordered, and the situation wasn't exactly unsafe. It was just . . . strange. And a little scary. Good tip - never show you're scared. Ever. Act like everything will be okay and it generally turns out fine. We were talking in low voices about our experience so far, and realized that we each thought the same thing. I thought I was overreacting since I'm new to the city, but the other girls agreed that something was going on. However, it's unlikely something would happen to us there. There were four of us, and a big window looking out onto the street. We were okay. Just nervous.

You know, we probably should have left. After all, there was no reason to stay. The food was overpriced and not very good. The waiter reminded us at least twice that the restaurant would be closing soon. The guy two booths away kept interjecting into our conversation. We ignored him, but he literally watched us the entire time except when he was yelling at the management for overcharging him. As we were paying, the guy at the register told us the kid needed help and was schizophrenic. And the whole time, the men kept staring at us. Barely even talking to each other. Listening to our conversation. Obviously, we ate fast.


As we left, I checked behind us several times. Not like I thought they would follow us, but still. The whole situation was a little strange. We talked about it afterwords, and one of the girls said that there was this weird vibe as soon as we went in. I have no idea why, and I really don't care. But I can tell you this: I will never go into that restaurant again. NEVER.

And I say to myself, what an insanely big world

Anyone who knows me knows that I love politics. Not domestic politics so much, but the international stuff is so interesting! I love knowing what's going on in the world. So you can imagine just how excited when I visited the UN yesterday. As in the United Nations. As in the place where important people meet everyday to try to change the world. Whether or not it's completely effective is debatable, but still. The UN is an amazing place to be! First we (being me and Sarah, the other intern) went to get our grounds passes. That isn't exactly an easy process. You have to have a letter of recommendation, a form, an organization, and a dang good reason to be there. But we checked out and were given passes which expire in December. Then we walked across the street to the UN. It's HUGE. There are areas visitors can go, but people with passes get to go to more exciting areas. Like the United Nations Security Council room.

Okay, so maybe that doesn't look terribly exciting. But go google image "United Nations New York." There's like two pictures of the room I was in! Yes, I know just how impressive that is. You have a friend/family member who was in that room! What, you're not impressed? Well, I was excited. No worries, Sarah teased me so you don't have to. We got there right after the delegates left. Lucky and unlucky, I suppose. I wouldn't have been able to go in the middle if they had been there, but I might have seen someone cool! As in someone famous. Politically famous. So maybe "cool" isn't the right term. But hey, a celebrity is a celebrity.

Then we went to the General Assembly Hall. None of you care, but I thought it was interesting that it was the largest room in the UN. Sarah said it reminded her of the meeting room of the Republic in Star Wars. You know, I can kind of see it.

After that we went to a building that was insanely restricted and insanely boring. Apparently it's where all the other important meetings happen, but there was nothing going on so I didn't waste time taking pictures. Sorry y'all, but you'll have to live.

I also met my first Ambassador! Earlier that day, we went to the Botswanian Mission (they call them missions here, not embassies). His official title is Ambassador Charles T. Ntwaagae, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the Republic of Botswana. Try saying that ten times fast! If you can pronounce his last name, that is. He himself ushered us into his office (definitely not the normal treatment - we were honored!). He is very knowledgeable about the history of the UN and of American history, and probably knows more than most Americans. I found out that the moment I stepped into the Botswanian Mission I was technically on Botswanian soil. Now I can say I've been to Botswana! Speaking of which, the UN is international territory, not American. So while I was there, I was really . . . somewhere. Everywhere? Nowhere? Anyway, the Ambassador was very gracious, enjoyed talking, and was willing to take pictures with us!

Afterward, we took pictures outside with the sign. Perhaps we're a little picture happy, but when else do you get to take pictures with fake zebras? (Lee Ferrin, that is for you.)

That night we went to a screening of several short films for the Athena Global Shorts Event, by invitation only. There was a guard with a gun at the front, and we had to give our names to the receptionist and show our ID. Then we went through what could be compared to airport security. We had to take off our coats and any metal we had, then go through a metal detector. We got to keep our shoes, though. It would probably be a little awkward to know the diplomats you're meeting with have smelly feet. The movies were interesting, loosely based on the oppression of women across the world. I didn't take any pictures of that event (it just didn't seem appropriate). When we got up to leave, a woman came up to me and thought I was a member of the Women's Organization because I was dressed so well. I was flattered. Thank you, Mom, for insisting I get the suit!

Awesome day? Yes. I met an important person, went to important places, and pretended I was important too. It'll happen someday. Watch out, UN. You haven't seen the last of me!

The best apartment in Manhattan

My elevator does not have a 13th floor. The elevator skips straight from the 14th to the 12th. It doesn't stop on the third floor either, but there's ample time between the fourth and the second so I'm guessing that there is one, I just can't access it from my elevator. Every time I use it, I feel like I'm in an old-fashioned movie where the 13th floor is bad luck.

I had groceries delivered to my door last night. I ordered them online and had them delivered to my building. Oh the convenience of the big city! My doorman signed for my delivery and brought it up to my door, so I don't even have to deal with the delivery person.

Speaking of doormen, have I mentioned how much I adore mine? Of course there was my friend who helped me out last Friday night, but there are several more. This morning as I was leaving, the morning doorman, Tom, opened the door for me and told me, "goodbye princess! I hope you have a beautiful day." I grinned. See, there's a story behind that. Growing up, my dad would call me and my sisters princesses. At work, I have five bosses (it's kind of a fun set up). They often tease me about being a princess because my parents are so worried about me being here in New York. So when Tom called me princess this morning, I was reminded of all these things that make me happy. I had to run back to my apartment for lunch, and I saw Tom again. He said, "Oh! I get to see you twice in one day!" I laughed and informed him it would soon be three times, as I was coming right back down. When I did, and I was leaving the building, he put his hand over his heart and said, "goodbye my love!" No worries, it's not anything awkward. It's just, well, princess-like treatment. I think we're going to be friends.

There are 37 floors, give or take the missing 13th. Still, the residents are kind to one another. I struck up a genuine conversation with a couple when I came home from work. They have lived in their apartment for 37 years! Yes, I know that's the same number as there are floors. But that's unimportant. Can you imagine living in an apartment for that long? In Utah, it's normal to live in an apartment when you go to college, and then for a little while after you get married, but most people go on to buy houses. Here, it's completely normal to live in apartments and pay rent for the rest of their lives. But they said they were happy to live there. They asked where I lived and how long I'd been here. They were excited for me and assured me I would love it here.

Yes, yes I will.

Layover adventures

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Chelsea. On her travels to New York she had all sorts of small adventures.

Like getting her shoes shined. Who knew that could be an entertaining experience? During my layover, I got my boots shined by some guy named Ramon. He started off our interaction well. We did the whole 'where are you going, why, have you lived in ____ long, how long have you been shining shoes,' etc.  Then he asked, “how old are you?” I answered, “22”. He looked up to say something. “Wow, you have gorgeous eyes!” Tips coming your way, man. The rest of our conversation went with me giving a little, him giving a little. Eventually, I found out he has a three-year-old boy who he wants to spend more time with. Unfortunately, he works two full-time jobs. “My dream,” he said while looking over his shoulder to make sure the other shoe shiner was a suitable distance away, “is to own my own shoe-shining business. I'm gonna leave here and be on my own.” Isn't that an interesting dream? Maybe some people would think he isn't dreaming big enough. But you know, it makes him happy. And if he can earn enough money doing it, I see no reason why he shouldn't be able to. His shoe-shining skills are fantastic, by the way. My boots look completely new.

Same layover, in a corner. I was watching a show on my laptop under the pretense of waiting for it and my phone to charge. The show finished and I was packing up when I realized that my little corner on the second floor had another occupant. There was a man kneeling on a prayer rug, murmuring a prayer to himself. I continued to put my stuff away. I would have liked to watch (that was my first experience seeing a Muslim person pray), but I felt it would be disrespectful to him. After all, I would be a little uncomfortable if people watched me. I noticed another man standing awkwardly near, watching the praying man. That man, I decided, lacked manners. Then I felt stupid when they greeted each other like long lost friends. Oh well. That'll teach me to judge. But really, I was more amazed with the Muslim man's actions. In the United States,  ever since 9/11, there has been such a negative connotation with all things Islam. How much courage would it take to stay true to your religion when you knew that the people around you could have that perception? Furthermore, I think it would be hard to pray so openly, even if it was just for the embarrassment factor. I admire him and I hope I will never be afraid to show my religion. If he can do it, so can I.

On the plane ride to New York, I met a very interesting person. A guy guy about my age sat down next to me on the plane. He smelled like he had just been smoking and he looked a bit scruffy. The stewardess got mad at him because he wouldn't turn off his phone because he wanted to send a text, then when she left he pulled it back out again (don't worry, he turned it off as soon as we started moving. No violations). I figured I had been put next to a troublemaker. About an hour into our flight, drinks were being passed out by the same stewardess. The guy next to me stopped her and apologized for the way he had acted. He explained that he had a medical condition so he had to take medicine that made him a little loopy, and he realized that he had been rude. Once again, shame on me for judging. We got to talking and I asked him what he does. He replied that he's going to school, but as for work he grows medicinal marijuana. Yeah, it surprised me too. He lives in Colorado, so it's okay. He said that he has a medical condition, so he was always allowed to grow a couple of plants. Then a company who grows medical marijuana (legally, folks) contacted him and asked him to grow for them. We talked about it for a while. The curiosity got to me and I asked him if he was ever hesitant to tell people what he did. He replied that yes, it was something he had to think about. For people older than him, he just told them he worked with growing plants for medicine. He felt like he would be judged for what he did, and he's probably right. But for people his age (he said "our". I was happy someone finally recognized me as a college student without me having to show my drivers license) he would tell them if they seemed like they would take it the right way. I was honored, and told him so. It's always nice when people deem you worthy of knowing the truth. At the end of our flight, he showed me the way to the checked baggage pickup (what's the word for that?) and went on his way. Nice guy.

I think I've been lucky in my interactions with other people. I got to meet/see people from entirely different worlds than the one I'm from. Coming from Mormonville Utah, I think they impact me so much more than they do for people who have lived in diverse areas. Everyone is interesting, and I love seeing the differences.

Constant happiness

Friday, I flew into New York. I didn't know anyone, I had never been to the city, I hadn't even seen my apartment.

On Sunday, I went to church. Do you have any idea how comforting the institutions of the can be? It doesn't matter where you go, they will always be the same. I've learned this before, but I had never realized just how much I depend on the relationships we have in church. The girls in the elevator realized they didn't know me and, in the time period between the first and third floor, I had been introduced to all of them and been assured that they were there if I needed any help adjusting. The bishop came up to me right after Sacrament Meeting ended to introduce himself and make sure I was invited to the new member's meeting. The relief society president came to the meeting, asked questions about me, and actually cared. I met people at church who I'm excited to see again. God is always there, and I trust my relationship with Him. But sometimes, it's really nice to have mortal confirmation that I exist and that I'm important.

Today, I went to work and was greeted by name by six people I just met and already trust. We had a meeting for several hours. We went out to lunch and talked on subjects from the new Les Misérables movie to the Arab Spring. The director knows my name and teases me and Sarah, the other intern. I went home thinking, wow, that went fast! And I can't wait until tomorrow!

That, my friends, is living.

People is people

It doesn't matter where you go, there's always someone willing to help you out. Like in California when we locked our keys in our rental car and my dad couldn't come pick us up until his work was done. A guy on the beach adopted my entire family and took us to his favorite restaurant. I've been lost in Paris with my mother, and a complete stranger came up to us and asked if we needed directions. And now, in New York, I find that the tradition continues.

When I arrived in New York, I went to my apartment and asked the doorman for my key. He found the key but no new resident paper. Unfortunately, he couldn't let me in without it. It was after eleven on a Friday night, and I was exhausted from a long day of traveling. So I looked at him and asked, "what can I do?" He looked at me a moment, as if he couldn't believe I was being polite about the whole thing. He said, "wait a second" and called the guy who supervised him. The other guy claimed I would need to submit a form and they would get back to me on Monday morning. My favorite doorman wasn't going for it. "What, do you want her to wait here for two days? She's just sitting here, and she asked me what she can do! I can't just tell her to leave!" After a fair bit of arguing, he got off the phone and told me the other guy wasn't going to let me in.

I have to tell you, I wanted to cry. I was in New York. I literally knew no one. And although I knew I would be able to find a hotel or something, that was an added stress I really didn't want to deal with. So I said, "let me make some calls." And who did I call? My daddy. Because he can fix everything. Within a minute the phone of the doorman was ringing, and the person who subletted my apartment to me was on the line. She argued that she had submitted the form days ago, and it wasn't her fault no one had brought it to him. So my guy made another call to the super unhelpful guy and made a case for me you wouldn't believe. "Can't you just open your email for two minutes? The form is there! Of course it isn't a scam. I have caller ID, and it says it's coming from her! It's right here on the computer, you can check. This girl will be homeless if she can't get in! You won't? You're gonna make me the bad guy? Well, that's not right and you know it! Wait, what's her name again? Okay. I'll call her." Another call was made, and I had my apartment key.

Moral of the story: I have an awesome doorman. I have an awesome father. If you're polite about it people are more willing to do what you want. And last of all, I'm going make it here. I'm going to survive. Because I have the world on my side.

This is part of the view from my window.

Toto, I've got a feeling I'm not in Utah anymore

New York is definitely different. Of course, I expected that. I come from a town so tiny there are no streetlights, stores, or lines on the road. Stop signs were huge when they were installed a few years ago. Then this small town girl came to New York City. I've been to big cities before, spent a couple weeks in Paris, seen pictures and TV shows. But New York, well, it just has a life of its own.

(pic of the Apple store in the Upper West side, from apple.com)

Today was my first full day here. I've heard more sirens than I can remember, there are always people on the street, and my neighbors in the apartment above me make this odd tapping sound. It could be how they walk, or someone trying to send a message through Morse code. Jury's still out. I'm across the street from the Lincoln Center. If you don't know what that is, look it up! I live next door to the NY temple and when I look out my window, I see the Angel Moroni statue from the top back. Yeah, that's right. Be jealous. I also have a great view of the temple roof. Nothing happens there, I checked. See that building right behind the temple? The big huge one? That's where I live.

(pic from lds.org)

Being an actual resident of the Upper West Side, I had the privilege of going grocery shopping. Imagine going to Wal-Mart, or Costco, in Utah on a Saturday night. All the Mormon families are everywhere, trying to stock up on supplies before midnight. That's what it's like here. All the time. I went to Trader Joe's, the best place to get food at a decent price. There isn't a ton of space, so there are escalators leading you to the different floors. Unfortunately, there is a bit of segregation. You and your cart are NOT allowed to ride the same escalator. It has to ride by itself in one designed specifically for shopping carts.

(pic from breakitandlearn.com)

I stayed mostly in my area today, exploring and trying to memorize where everything is. Imagine. The streets are littered with paper and napkins from hot dog vendors, and there's always the smell of cigarette smoke. Policemen hang out on street corners or watch tourists take pictures of each other at the Lincoln Center fountain. It's getting dark, and everyone is bundled up in coats and scarves and boots, although there's no snow on the ground. Families walk around, perhaps on their way home after some suitable Saturday activity. One such family has couple of small children. The kids start to run into the crowd and their parents yell "Red light! Red light!" The children stop and laugh, seeing it all as a game. An older, gray-haired businessman walks dog so big it came up to his waist. He stops and waits politely for an elderly man and woman to go by.  A crowd of well-dressed people walk out of the Metropolitan Opera, discussing plot lines and actors and if they should go get something to eat now or wait until they get home. People talk in languages I've never heard and have no way of recognizing. Everyone has a story. The people you see for one instant are people you will never meet again, but have entire lives and dreams and have the potential to change the world.

(http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/10/20/surprise-most-new-yorkers-say-they-like-the-city/)

Welcome to New York.