My Top Ten Creepy Celebrity Crushes...

1. Alec Baldwin: Have you seen pictures of him when he was younger? I was taken with him the moment he told Liz Lemon she wore "gender ambiguous" shoes.

2. Billy Bob Thorton: Ok this one is perhaps inexplicable...Who hasn't liked a bad boy at one point? Plus I love to say "bad news bears" whenever the situation calls for it...

3. Bob Harper: His tats are perfectly placed, his abs are perfectly toned, and he poses no threat.

4. Jack Black: Panda Roll, Tenacious D, Nacho, need I say much more...

5. Joey Lawrence: He's always in my face... Disney Channel original, ABC Family Original. (Yes I watch both channels religiously...)

6. Derek Hough: He reminds me of my Utah home and all the peroxide permeated people dancing around me. He also knows all the best mystic tanning locations and tricks.

7. Austin Scarlett: First of all he sews, second, he is so pretty! He is my life size emasculated Ken doll who can make me beautiful dresses and teach me the perfect liquid line. 

8. Monte Durham: Southern Gentleman, likable reality television personality, sees no price point for dresses, beautiful silver hair, oddly reminds me of my childhood therapist.

9.Tim Gunn: I love his Golden Rules, he has taught me so many of life's little lessons on making it work...

10. Paul Johansson: He may have been the villain of Tree Hill, he may have directed the film adaptation of Atlas Shrugged, but lets not kid ourselves the man is a looker!

Allow me to explain through an Interpretive Dance: Exquisite Emily

I dislike the delightfully trite phrase “ You don’t choose your family but you do choose your friends.” I think it is bogus. I do not doubt for a second I chose my family. I know I chose my sister. People talk all the time about how they recognized their spouse instantly or felt they had known them in some other time and place. I am still waiting for that experience with a man but I have certainly experienced said recognition with my siblings.

I was enamored with Emily from the very beginning. Today my mom informed me that as a baby it was a Herculean task to get me to sleep. (It still is…fortunately for my mother and siblings, ambien is now the only thing burdened with the task of putting me to sleep) They tried everything. At one point they even flipped the crib to cage me, the wild insomniac baby. It wasn’t until I was moved into Emily’s Laura Ashley adorned paradise that I began to sleep. To this day Emily is the only person I can share a bed with. She is an easy person to sleep next to. She makes me feel at home in foreign places, safe, and completely free to be myself.

I idolized Emily but I was not an easy little sister. I thought she was the most beautiful, kind and interesting person on earth, but I had a funny way of showing of it… I desperately desired her attention and would do just about anything to get it. I would throw her porcelain dolls down the stairs and watch them shatter on the tile of the foyer. I would say wildly inappropriate things to her friends. At one point I became so upset with her diverted attention that I threw her best friend’s shoes into our toilet. On one particularly devious occasion I even attempted the lemonade stunt… Yes… I was practically the love child of Dennis the Menace and the frightening red head from the “Problem Child” movies…

As I got older we moved into more typical tensions. I would “borrow” her clothes. I would infringe upon her primp time in our shared bathroom. I would slightly “haze” her boyfriends. I would look through her signed yearbooks and call every guy who had written their number pretending to be her…(by the time I was 12 she and I had almost identical voices)

Not that Emily was completely innocent either… During her mildly alarming yet somehow endearing thespian phase she would write and direct plays to be performed on our back porch. She never cast me as the princess, fairy or anything remotely feminine. (not that the porcelain doll thrower seems the best casting choice for the particularly docile roles) I was cast as Gus-Gus and caked in gray stage makeup on more than one occasion.

Emily could always make me laugh. For those of you who know me, you know it isn’t hard to make me laugh, but very few can make me laugh to the extent of crying and vomiting in the same way as Emily. She had an interpretive dance for everything. To this day my favorite Christmas tradition is when Emily begins to perform her interpretive dance of the trees.

Emily is my hero. Not because she excels at interpretive dance or was once a great playwright. She is my hero because she is exquisite. There really isn’t a better word for her. She possesses a beauty and goodness that is rare. Even in her Blossom hat days she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. This exquisite beauty transcends her looks. She treats people beautifully. She writes beautifully. She speaks beautifully. She thinks beautifully and she mothers beautifully. She has fought her way through many heartbreaks, disappointments and challenges and has only come through more lovely and gracious. Most people if asked to encounter what Emily had encountered would have become jaded, cynical and apathetic. Emily has only continued to thrive and beautify.

One of the great joys of my life has been to watch my beautiful sister marry a man who saw how exquisite she truly was, and watch her become a mother. The only human on this earth I maybe love more than Emily is her daughter Grace. I love to watch Grace and Emily together. I love to watch Grace look at Emily. I can see in her sweet face that she knows everything I know about Emily. She knows her mother has a goodness and kindness that is rare. She knows her mother is brilliant and hilarious. She knows her mother has deep rooted faith and hope. And most of all she knows her mother was the perfect woman to choose in order to learn what it means to be exquisite. 

Love the bag, Love the shoes, Love everything, LOVE YOU: The tale of the “so close” soulmate…

Let me frame it this way. Of all the men I have genuinely loved, there are only two I no longer speak to. With the exception of the two I am no longer in contact with, the others have remained among my dearest and most cherished friends.

Yes, I am that girl. I have followed the course of every romcom plotline and CW television show and have fallen for several of my best friends on multiple occasions. Unfortunately for me, my life was not scripted by Mark Schwann. Producers were not merely dragging out the tension for ten seasons in order to keep the ratings up. There have been no series finales where all the loose ends have been serendipitously tied up. There have been no scenes where I have frantically tried to get off a plane in order to meet the man who has also experienced a magical revelation and is waiting for me in the airport terminal. If my personal plotlines of falling for the best friend were a movie, audiences would be far from satisfied with the conclusion.  I assume they would feel something akin to how they felt at the conclusion of “The Breakup” or “500 days of Summer.” Regardless of their poor box office potential, some of these experiences are among my favorite love stories. Though they have not ended in a romantic wonderment, a couple of them have taught me invaluable and beautiful lessons about forgiveness and unconditional love in its purest form. You know the scene at the end of “My Best Friend’s Wedding,” where George shows up at the end of the reception to dance with Julianne?  If you’re not familiar with the scene all you need to know is in that scene he meets her in the middle of the floor and declares “There may not be marriage, there may not be sex, but there will be dancing!” I am fortunate enough to have a best friend in my life who always shows up on the dance floor. He rivals Britney and Beyonce not only in moves but especially in friendship (which I guess is not the fairest comparison as neither Britney or Beyonce have invested much into our friendship as of late…)

As I was recovering from my first surgery (around the same time that everything fell through with “the perfect date,” refer to Lightning and Lotteries if you missed the scoop on him) I grew very close to my favorite dance floor companion, who I will refer to as the “so close soulmate.” We had become friends at school earlier in the year. He was in my art history and religion classes. He was the most eccentric, compulsive, hilarious, and brilliant human I had ever observed. As a result of watching him in an impassioned meltdown after having read Clement Greenberg’s Avant Garde and Kitsch, I became instantly intrigued by him. My “so close soulmate” was a fierce defender of beautiful things. Placing the perfect adornment to a kitchen or painting a picturesque landscape were thing he considered valid and lovely. He did not accept them to be “kitschy.” I, on the other hand, made loud conceptual pieces with poor execution and shoddy craftsmanship. As artists we couldn’t have been more different, but as creators I think our hearts were the same. My “so close soulmate” was one of the few people who genuinely understood the value of constant construction, the need to use your hands, and the life saving merits of creating. He accepted me fully, minus a few edits he made to my closet and wardrobe… In the beginning years our narratives were somewhat the same. We both intended to be doctors, just like our dads were. We both strived for perfection, because we were asked to do so. And in our own ways we both grappled to navigate whether we would become the version of ourselves that we intended, or others intended, or God intended. We laughed together more than any two people have ever laughed. We would have made phenomenal cohosts of a talk show. Seriously, Ellen and Oprah wouldn’t have known what had hit em. It is a rare thing to find someone who genuinely understands Michael Jackson levels of insomnia in the same way as you, so the day my “so close soulmate” told me he envisioned us married but could not date me was both perplexing and heartbreaking. I knew on some level why, but it was years before I knew for sure.

After he told me we couldn’t be together our friendship hit a tumultuous year. We would go through months of not speaking, reconnect, have explosive fights and then not speak again. Time progressed and eventually we were able to maintain a steady friendship.

When I informed my “so close soulmate” that I had been re-diagnosed with cancer, he was there. He brought me beautiful gifts (many inspired by Marie Antoinette…) and would sit and laugh with me every single day. Though all of my friends were incredibly supportive, it was difficult for many of them to know how to be present during that time. My “so close soulmate” was always present, we got through it together. 

We continued to grow up together and become truer versions of ourselves. He ditched his doctor ambitions to pursue a career in fashion and I ditched mine to become an art therapist.

It took a couple more years before my “so close soulmate” was able to explain why his only contribution to my wedding would be making my dress (and perhaps the bridesmaids dresses, and the cake and the flowers...) In that moment I was able to sit with him just as he had sat with me, and I was grateful for our every catastrophe. I was grateful he had taught me all the things a soulmate can be and all the ways they can manifest themselves in our lives. I was grateful he had taught me that life doesn’t always conclude the same way as CW television series do. Most of all, I was grateful to know I had a best friend who would always meet me in the middle of the dance floor. 

27 things I know for sure at 27...

1. One Tree Hill has a plotline for everyone. I guarantee you. Watch it and you will surely discover at least one character or story baring a spooky resemblance to your own life.
2. Texting, emailing, online shopping, or writing on any social media forum while on ambien should be avoided at all costs.
3. Chocolate from Whole Foods is still chocolate.
4. You really shouldn’t wash your hair everyday.
5. Being a Sephora VIB Rouge member is strangely validating. (Don’t judge me but I felt as strong a sense of accomplishment (maybe more) when I was handed my VIB card as I did when I was handed my graduate diploma from Harvard…)
6. The most brilliant women I know all have and desperately need a guilty pleasure television escape. (Pretty Little Liars seems to be a favorite)
7. Often times the worst potential boyfriends become your most cherished friends.
8. Everyone needs a Walden year where they really live “deliberately.”
9. Everyone should visit Walden Pond at least once.
10. Soulmates are all around us. Someone could be your soulmate for a minute, hour, year or lifetime. Specific people come into our lives at perfect moments to teach us poignant lessons.
11. God’s timetable is not our own.
12. In seeking a companion one should want a partner not a project.
13. You see the most comprehensive view when you use your peripheral vision.
14. If you really want to understand something, use your hands.
15. Sitting cross-legged on the floor is the only true way to sit.
16. Learning to actually listen is a lifetime pursuit.
17. Gratitude is key.
18. Write it down.
19. There is nothing quite as lovely as writing or receiving a handwritten note.
20. Platform flip-flops are a no.
21. Speak in “I” messages.
22. It is ok to agree with Ryan Seacrest’s Top 40 occasionally.
23. The people you initially assume will never “get” you are often times the ones who eventually understand you best.
24. If you closely observe and incorporate a child’s approach to life, you are sure to be a better person.
25. Vanity very seldom helps another life breathe easier.
26. Forgiving yourself is the most challenging and crucial thing you’ll ever do.
27. God never ceases to be a God of Miracles.

Millennial Musings: From Type A to Mid-Alphabet...

As of late, there has been a significant amount of griping surrounding the plight of the “millennial” generation. I figured as a millennial myself, I might as well throw my two cents in and share my reasoning for why I vacillate between semi-to-self employed, am 60,000 dollars in student debt, and have a credit score I feel uncomfortable sharing (ask me in six months…)

Some critics believe the plight of the millennial is rooted in their wild optimism, lofty expectations and over inflated feelings of self worth. I would contend that the millennial generation, though falsely accustomed to instant gratification, has actually mastered the art of self-deprecation more than any prior generation. I would also contend that wild optimism and lofty expectations are in actuality the silver lining of the millennial storm clouds. Let me reiterate that a “silver” lining must been viewed as “silver” rather than wishfully morphed into “gold.”

I started out as a Type A. Today, I would say my motivation and general person lingers more in the mid-alphabet. Initially, I mourned the loss of A. I began high school with one goal and one goal only, Stanford University. I opted to go to a different school than all my friends my freshman year in order to prep for this goal. I began rigorous SAT prep, I endured many itchy days in plaid polyester, I was a three sport athlete, I took AP/IB classes, I ate organic, I had a personal trainer, I participated in Model United Nations, yearbook staff, French club, etc. etc. I wanted the accolade and adornment of Ivy (or the west’s version of it) more than anything and I didn’t have a clue why. When the cancer storm hit my junior year I rationalized that I would only be out of school approximately a week to recover from the surgery and I would be able to do my schoolwork. One week became six, and I was unable to see for most of them.  When my vision was restored and I was able to return to school, I struggled immensely. I failed daily quizzes almost every other day. I went to see a neurologist and began to undergo evaluation from educational psychologists. It was soon revealed that I had suffered a TBI from the surgery and had lost my working memory. My IQ test results showed a 40-point deficit from where I originally had tested. I discovered I had lost my working memory approximately a week before I was supposed to begin AP exams and a month prior to taking the ACT/ SAT. I completed the year with several incompletes and spent the majority of my summer attempting to catch up. As I began my senior year I still held onto the hope that I would recover and somehow be able to generate the grades and test scores in order to attend my dream school. It didn’t happen. My neurologist assured me that I was young enough at the time of injury for my brain to recover. He said it would make new connections and create new neurological pathways, but it would never be the same as it was prior to the injury.

I was admitted to a good college not far from home and grappled my way through the first year with a compromised working memory. I completed my first year with a 3.1 GPA.

As I continued to study, I became more and more drawn to the arts. After the first semester of my sophomore year of college, the tumor returned and I had to take a leave of absence from school once again.

Because of the rarity of the tumor I had to seek out specialized radiation treatment at MD Anderson hospital in Houston, Texas. Not only did the radiation therapy provided at MD Anderson save my life, MD Anderson was also the place where I was introduced to art being used as a mechanism for healing in pediatric cancer patients. When I was given a clean bill of health I returned to Utah and began participating in as many arts related ventures as I could. I practiced as an artist individually and also began to do art with youth in a myriad of therapy and high-risk settings. I was amazed not only with the therapeutic benefits but also cognitive gains the youth I worked with experienced. I also saw significant changes in my own cognition and academic performance. I saw the new brain my neurologist had promised would begin to emerge.

It took me, the former type A, over six years to complete my bachelors degree. When I finished up my undergraduate studies, I applied to graduate school and hoped to pursue a masters of Arts in Education from Harvard University. This time as I pursued the Ivy, I knew my reasons for doing so. I knew art had changed my brain, my life and my perspective. I knew I wanted to bless the lives of others encountering the struggles I had previously endured. I knew I would receive best education possible for what I was seeking to do.

I was admitted to Harvard at 25 years old, over a decade after I had started pursuing Stanford. The day I was admitted was as beautiful and glorious as the day I was told there was no longer any visible tumor on my scans. When I begin to fret about my employment status, or student loans or that I am being underappreciated or unfairly compensated, I remember this day. I remind myself that sometimes things happen a decade later than we initially hoped, sometimes they happen differently, and sometimes in order for things to happen we have to be completely demolished, excavated and rebuilt. The education, opportunities, people and lessons that have come my way are worth every monthly loan payment. My advice to the millennial generation is to stop griping. Chasing a vision with integrity, purpose and passion is worth the moments of monetary discomfort. Trust that your brain, heart and life have the capacity to make all sorts of new connections and that life eventually will always rewire.

Lindsay on Ice...

I have some erratic fears. Among them are Michael Buble, Willy Wonka, Nicholas Cage, jaywalking, breaking traffic rules (not as a driver but a pedestrian), being late to the airport, rollerblading and black ice.

As a Utah native, I am accustomed to snow in abundance. Due to this fact I am not sure how or why I developed a debilitating fear of walking on ice. I have had this fear for as long as I can remember.

My elementary school was only a couple of blocks from my house growing up, so I always walked with my friends to and from school. On a particularly frigid day we came to the point in our walk where we had to cross the street. I hated this juncture even on the sunniest of days because it required jaywalking. On this wintry day it was more ominous than usual. Not only was the road taunting me to jaywalk, it also appeared as though it had been encased in patent black leather. An entire layer of ice enveloped my path. My best friend and her sister crossed the road without hesitation and beckoned me to follow. (FYI this is the same family who taught me about Santa and sex…apparently being one of eight children also equips you to successfully cope with black ice…) I was paralyzed with fear and completely immobile. After more encouragement and urgency I ventured to put a foot in the road. I quickly pulled back. I began to panic. As much as I feared jaywalking, and black ice, I also was horrified at the prospect of being tardy (I am happy to report that my need to be on time has since become a fear I have conquered.) I made a snap decision, sat down, and began to scoot across the ice on my butt. Half way across the road, cars began to pull up. The driver in the first car looked simultaneously bewildered, irritated and concerned. My friends begged me to get up and run the rest of the way. Not only was I embarrassing them, I was also holding up traffic. I couldn’t stand up. I continued to scoot on my behind for the last humiliating and icy stretch of road.

As a young child I would offer the same prayer almost every night. I would plead with God to be spared from meeting any of my fears. I asked to be spared from cancer or any type of terminal illness, I asked to be spared from natural disasters, and I especially petitioned to be spared from any profound loss. Eventually I grew out of this phase and began to ask God for more appropriate things such as personal growth and increased faith, but I hoped these things would come free of ever meeting my fears.

With the exception of Michael Buble and Nicholas Cage, this past decade I have encountered each fear I pleaded desperately not to meet. God has brought me to the edge of black ice junctures again and again. Though there have been times when all I have wanted to do is sit down and scoot across the ice, each circumstance has demanded I walk.  By some miracle I have been able to place one foot in front of the other. This isn’t to say I haven’t slipped or held up traffic by falling in the middle of the road, I certainly have. But with each encounter I have been able to stand up and walk to the other side. Accepting the ice I could not control brought me indescribable peace. In fact, it was my life moments on the ice when I was least afraid.

Case and point, if you want to be safe you should take the following precautions: Avoid Michael Buble and Nicholas Cage, don’t jaywalk, be to the airport 90 minutes prior to your flight, and never ask to grow if you don’t want to meet your fears.