ASCEND: a humanitarian alliance

I am currently interning at ASCEND alliance and one of our cute interns just got our main blog up and running so check it out here!!! It's a work in progress but you should be hearing a lot from all of the interns about current events in the humanitarian world as well as personal thoughts and feelings about the work we are doing.

Mad Lib written by the Hansen family a few miles from Lake Mead

On revisiting the waters for Memorial Day weekend, May 22 2009

FAIRY TALES AND ROMANCE

If a story begins "Once upon a Lake Mead," you know you are about to read

a fairy Nevada. It is amazing how these speedy stories remain indelibly etched

in our hands. Who can forget "Snow Purple and the Seven Weeds," "Beauty

and the Thuro Bailey," or "Little Red Texting Hood?" Fairy tales introduced us

to the magical world of wicked boats; big, wanting wolves; stubby wizards;

and dwarfs who wore funny numbers. These remarkable stories taught us that

good always triumphs over Papa Mac and made us believe in the unsightly

power of a kiss. Why not? One good smack on the nipple could change a frog

into a handsome sky, enabling him to marry the moon of his dreams and live,

as is written in all these romantic stories, hotly ever after.

"Being on a boat that's moving through the water, it's clear. Everything falls into place in terms of what's important and what's not." ~James Taylor

My life practically began on a boat. This boat actually . . .

Papa Mac and Nana's Orange Gulfstream.

Being first time parents, Mom and Dad decided to accompany the Hardings to Jackson Lake for a camping trip when I was two weeks old. Of course I didn't mind . . . I just slept in my little orange life jacket while the family played on the water, but my parents didn't understand why all the other campers were making such a big fuss. My life on the lake progressed nicely after that.

I found this picture of Mom and me on Jackson Lake. Obviously this isn't the Orange Gulfstream but my cousins' Grandparent's boat.

There were many times when Dad strapped me into the yellow-trainer-skis and threw me overboard, as I screamed and attempted to kick the skis off. "You can't get back in the boat until you've skied," Dad would tell me. Bribes were also involved. "If you ski you can get a new Barbie. Do you want a Barbie?" the adults would clamor. My aversion to the water didn't last long. Soon I was pouting if someone got to ski before me.

In 2000, Mom and Dad decided it was time to get a boat of our own and I was thrilled.

This is the first day we took the Chaparral out on the lake. Yes I'm wearing sweats, I had a fever that day. The Chaparral has been the best boat. It's been our baby.

But the past few years I've been bugging the parents for an inboard because it has a smaller wake for skiing as well as the added bonus of wake surfing. So, upon my return from London Mom and I went to work on Dad, because we know that Dad needs a lot of thinking time before a big purchase. I got online and designed my own boats, printing them out and placing them strategically around the house. When the boat show rolled around I grabbed my "boats" and dragged Dad around to the salesmen, letting the professionals do their work. But Dad's a salesman and knows the ploys. Mom and I never gave up. I began slipping my boat printouts under Dad's pillow so that he could "sleep on it" and the boat catalogs under the bathroom door for a little light reading. Dad wanted a new boat just as much as the rest of us but he had to be convinced that it was the logical and economical thing to do! To our delight Dad began searching for boats too. And I began to hope, this just might actually happen!!!

As the weeks past my hope began to fail. We couldn't find exactly what we were looking for and then there was the issue of money. Two Saturdays ago Dad and I were up skiing at Snowbird and Dad carefully told me that we would probably end up waiting a year or two before getting a new boat. Although I was sad, I understood, times are harder and we didn't want to settle. Later that day we were on the Tram and Dad got a phone call from a Malibu dealer in Texas who might have the boat we were looking for but I never heard anything further, I kind of backed-off the not-so-subtle reminders to protect myself when the boat thing didn't pan out.

The Sunday of General Conference we were watching Conference in the basement as a family. As the morning session ended and we got up to find some lunch Dad told us he had something for us. He disappeared into his office and reappeared with a gift-wrapped box for us kids to open. The three of us sat on the floor and I watched as Nate ripped the wrapping paper off and lifted the lid of the box to reveal a piece of paper that said: "Happy . . ." followed by a list of all the holidays for the rest of the year. But what really caught my eye was this picture underneath . . .

I thought Mom and Dad were playing a mean joke on us. I looked at the books underneath the picture in confusion but Dad said, "Those are just there to weigh the box down." I looked up at him and realized that it was no joke and I jumped to my feet and threw my arms around him as I burst into tears.

You know those clips on Funniest Home Videos where the little five-year-old boy bursts into tears upon opening his new game system?

. . .Ya, I had one of those moments. . . .

After I hugged Dad I ran to Mom and cried some more as the family stared at me in bewilderment. I was totally convinced that a boat was not in the cards for this year so I was more than surprised.

I will miss the Chaparral, it has brought us a lot of fun and many adventures, but I know it's going to a great home (my cousins) and we will get to see it at least once a year at Powell. I can't wait to see our new baby, the Malibu, in a couple of weeks . . . stay posted for more info and pics as we rock out the summer on the lake!

Discovery

The other night, as I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep, my mind was going a million miles an hour. Finally, after bouncing from a dozen worries and twenty different subjects, I settled on direction. Oddly, this is a subject I often turn to when I'm trying to get to sleep. Don't ask me where this stems from. It's just a part of me. I like to know what direction I face when I sleep. I can tell you that when I sleep at home my head is facing south and my feet are facing north, when I'm at our usual campsite in Lake Powell my head is towards the northwest, in Ghana I was facing the northeast, and in London my head was facing south. As I was going through my sleeping-direction-checklist my thoughts finally slowed and lingered on London.

My whole life I have had a great sense of direction. Sometimes I call it my "sixth sense." From a young age I could name all the canyons of Lake Powell from Bullfrog to the San Juan, without a map. When my mom would take a group of kids out on the boat to play in the canyon I would have to tell her which way was back to the houseboat. When we go backpacking I can easily navigate to wherever I want to go. While travelling, I quickly, and automatically, orient myself to the layout of our location and the corresponding directions. It wasn't until after my graduation from high school, when my mom took my cousin and I to New York City for our senior trip, that I first experienced directional problems. For the life of me I could not gain a sense of direction. Usually I orient myself according to direction without a thought; however, when I was in New York City I had to work to understand cardinal directions and I failed miserably, finally chalking up the experience to our short visit and the confusion of travel. I thought I was rid of that confusion for good.

To my dismay, my directional problems surfaced once again, this time in London. When I arrived I immediately began orienting myself to the city, my home for the next four months. The Tube threw a wrench into the process. I would descend into the flat light, wander through twisted hallways, enter a train, get shaken up a bit, and then wander through some more twisted hallways before emerging back into the fresh air. I struggled with my directions, a great frustration to me, though I would not admit it unless forced. Multiple times I was the one to get a group turned around, something my friends forgave me for . . . after they received the free gelato. Eventually I was able to orient myself in the main areas of the city in relation to specific buildings, landmarks, etc. But don't ask me for cardinal directions. I don't know. Something about being in a big city, especially one with a constant cover of clouds to block the sun's direction, disorients me in a way that nothing else can.

All this passed through my mind as I drifted between consciousness and sleep, and suddenly it occured to me that I just discovered something that has been a part of me for so long that I have never considered the possibility of its abnormality. Do others care what direction they face when they sleep? Or is this a rare quirk?

New Model in Town

Check out my gorgeous cousin at: http://www.layersclothing.com/shop.php !!!

Ode to my Ski

My water ski is beckoning me.

One of the saddest days in the year is the day that the boat goes into winter storage. It is painful to take all the toys to the basement, knowing that I won’t see them for a while. But I can’t bear to part with my water ski. Instead of taking it to the basement with the rest of the toys, I clean it of the watermarks of summer, place it in it’s case, carry it up to my room and place it behind my door—where it is easily seen from all angles of my room when the door is closed. The first thing that I see in the morning, as I reach for my alarm, is my water ski. It is one of the last things I see before I fall asleep. Often, as I lie on my bed and stare at my ski, I update it on the weather. “Soon,” I tell my water ski now.

And we both escape to our happy place . . .

where the air is hot and dry and where the glass was made to be shattered.

Good Intentions and Harry Potter

I grew up in a home where Saturdays were considered "Holy." Saturday was the one day in the week, free of work and school, that we could play as a family. Chores and any homework we had was to be completed on Friday before we could play with friends. We rarely sleep in on Saturdays, instead we are up early and heading to the lake or ski resort to fit in every moment of play that we can. So it is rare for me to have empty Saturdays, something I dread. But this past weekend was one of those Saturdays. Nate and Avery had a two-day swim meet that would keep the family occupied so I determined that I would spend the extra time I had working on French.

School has never really been a challenge for me. True, I work very hard to understand what I'm learning and to get good grades, but it comes pretty easy. French, however, has thrown me for a loop. It has been a long semester of hard work and frustration with mediocre results but I am pleased that, so far, I am still passing the course. I have to keep reminding myself that one bad grade won't kill me . . .

So I had good intentions for the weekend. I watched Nate and Avery in their events on Friday night before picking up Cafe Rio for dinner and heading home to buckle down. (The rest of the family was attending the high school swim team banquet). I turned the TV on as I ate dinner and was pleased to discover that the first Harry Potter film was on ABC Family. However, Harry and Hogwarts made me forget all about my good intentions for the evening. Instead I found myself in the basement watching the second film when my family returned home.

The next morning I decided to try again . . . and I actually got a little work done. However, Hogwarts was calling. Needless to say, the family ended up watching all five movies last weekend. Do you see what happens when we don't get our skiing fix for the week? We turn into couch potatoes. So much for good intentions.

Continue to Stare

I haven't always believed in the phenomenon known as "tights," in fact, when I was younger I refused to wear them at all. In recent years I have seen the light and have become a firm believer, even while most people around me are still skeptical. I lived in London for three and a half months. Of course I took my collection of tights with me but I soon found that I needed more. Tights are a fashion staple in London. Yellow, Blue, Black, Green, Red, Grey, Purple . . . Although I love seeing the bright colors on others, my style has kept me to colors such as grey, black and plum and I wear them whenever I can.

Returning to the "Dark Ages" of fashion in Utah has been interesting. Okay, it's true that fashion trends spread more rapidly today so I may be exaggerating a bit about the dark ages, but despite the Internet, international chains, TV, magazines, etc. it still takes a while for some states to catch on. One of my first Sunday's back from London I went to Church wearing a black lace pencil skirt, a tie-neck, polka-dot blouse and plum tights.

It was obvious that people just weren't ready for meat. People stared. I didn't mind. A few brave ones got up the courage to comment: "Your outfit is . . . um . . . (awkward pause while the girl tried to find the right word and then she just settles for) fun." I smiled and thanked her laughing inwardly because, honestly, I'm not a huge fashion risk taker but these people were looking at me like I had gone mad. I love to dress up but most of my pieces are classic.

Last week I wore this ruffle sleeved plum dress with grey tights and yellow heels.

Again, I got stares. As I was leaving a class a couple girls began snickering as I walked past. "Nice outfit . . ." they laughed. I just smiled and rolled my eyes.

Yesterday I committed two "fashion crimes." 1 - tights with shorts and 2 - tights with open-toed heels. (Que - Utahans gasp)

Katie Holmes in shorts with tights. So, my shorts weren't quite this short, I had to go to work and then down to BYU . . . I chose a pair of city shorts (definition: city short = tailored shorts) and paired them with black tights and open-toed, patent leather red heels.
Despite the controversy over open-toed shoes with tights, I like the look . . . as long as the tights are opaque and there is no seem at the toe of the tights.

Some examples of tights:

Colored tights AND open-toed heels! . . . imagine that.

Tights don't have to be "edgy." They can be pretty, feminine and classy. So, my friends who laugh and mock, continue to stare. Maybe you'll learn something. Give it a try. Leave the dark age of fashion. Enjoy tights while you can because we all know that it is only a matter of time until the trends change and you'll have something new to stare at.

On Quoting Shakespeare . . .

If you cannot understand my argument, and declare ``It's Greek to me'', you are quoting Shakespeare; if you claim to be more sinned against than sinning, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you recall your salad days, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you act more in sorrow than in anger; if your wish is farther to the thought; if your lost property has vanished into thin air, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you have ever refused to budge an inch or suffered from green-eyed jealousy, if you have played fast and loose, if you have been tongue-tied, a tower of strength, hoodwinked or in a pickle, if you have knitted your brows, made a virtue of necessity, insisted on fair play, slept not one wink, stood on ceremony, danced attendance (on your lord and master), laughed yourself into stitches, had short shrift, cold comfort or too much of a good thing, if you have seen better days or lived in a fool's paradise -why, be that as it may, the more fool you , for it is a foregone conclusion that you are (as good luck would have it) quoting Shakespeare; if you think it is early days and clear out bag and baggage, if you think it is high time and that that is the long and short of it, if you believe that the game is up and that truth will out even if it involves your own flesh and blood, if you lie low till the crack of doom because you suspect foul play, if you have your teeth set on edge (at one fell swoop) without rhyme or reason, then - to give the devil his due - if the truth were known (for surely you have a tongue in your head) you are quoting Shakespeare; even if you bid me good riddance and send me packing, if you wish I was dead as a door-nail, if you think I am an eyesore, a laughing stock, the devil incarnate, a stony-hearted villain, bloody-minded or a blinking idiot, then - by Jove! O Lord! Tut tut! For goodness' sake! What the dickens! But me no buts! - it is all one to me, for you are quoting Shakespeare.

Bernard Levin

Gilmore-isms

LORELAI: This building is one component of a thirteen million volume collection housed in more than ninety different libraries. It’s the oldest library in the United States and the largest academic library in the world. Breathe, breathe.

RORY: I’m a failure. I am stupid. I am uniformed and ignorant and… I can’t even think of a second synonym for uninformed. I suck. Thirteen million volumes? I’ve read like, what, three hundred books in my entire life and I’m already sixteen? Do you know how long it would take me to read thirteen million books?

LORELAI: But honey, you don’t have to read every one of them. Tuesdays with Morrie? Skip that. Who Moved My Cheese? Just stuff you already know.

RORY: Okay, but every kid coming to Harvard is inevitably reading books, and different books, and I want to be able to converse intelligently with each of them and I can’t do that unless I read books, at least a few from every genre and sub-genre.

LORELAI: Okay, come on. I’m getting you out of here.

RORY: I sleep too much.

LORELAI: No you don’t.

RORY: I’ve been frittering away my whole life.

LORELAI: You don’t fritter.

RORY: Did I mention I suck?

This past Christmas I recieved the first season of the TV series Gilmore Girls from Santa. I loved the series when it was still running new episodes and I still love it now. Gilmore Girls is an art, or rather, the dialoge of Gilmore Girls is an art. If you don't believe me sit down and watch an episode and see how many witty references there are. In fact, each season comes with a little booklet called "Glimore-isms" which defines each reference made in the season. My family laughs because when I get my Gimore Girls fix I sit with my "Glimore-isms" booklet in hand waiting to learn about each new reference. Some I get, such as the more recent popular culture or political references, and some I have no idea about. I'm addicted. I bought my sister the second season for her birthday. It wasn't entirely selfish, she mentioned she wanted it. I finished it within a week. Give it a try, I think you'll fall in love with Gilmore Girls just like I did.