Arigato Gozaimasu, Mr Hashimoto.

So I got the blood tests back and I have something called Hashimoto's Thyroiditis. It's an auto-immune disease that is not curable. It's where your immune system attacks parts of your thyroid thinking it is not a part of your body but foreign antibodies and must be destroyed. So I go through bouts of Hyper and Hypothyroidism depending on how Mr Hashimoto is feeling and what part of my thyroid he has his pudgy little hands around.

This explains...well everything. The Nurse that gave me the news also has it. She said I could have had this for five to ten years without ever knowing it. Some people go undiagnosed until they can't get out of bed and are so depressed they seek medical attention. Other people that have it get diagnosed improperly with things like Bi-polar Disorder and Depression and Anxiety. (Or in my case ADHD, but he wasn't a real doctor. I digress.) I am glad that really the worst of it, the energy loss and the over sleeping and the depression and the weight gain were within the last two to two and a half years or so. (Poor Brett, we've been married for three.) She also then told me the meds would not make me feel any better. I cried for a whole day.

Well. Day one on the meds was like someone had flipped on a light switch. I cleaned the house. The whole house, and it didn't seem overwhelming. I made dinner then put the left overs away and then did the dishes and then made cookies and then cleaned the kitchen. Like a normal person. And I did the laundry and played with the kids. And raked he leaves. Bella threw a fit and I let her and it didn't bother me. I was like, ain't-no-thing-but-a-chicken-wing about stuff that used to send me over the top. My quality of life was back to normal. Day two was even more interesting. I went to my presidency meeting and I noticed an amazing thing. Where before my calling made me feel super nervous, left me guessing and second guessing every move I made and feeling confused and fearful (all of these things a more self aware person would probably recognize as anxiety), all of these emotions were just...gone. I didn't worry about saying something stupid or talking at the wrong time or sounding dumb. It was all just, peace. I do have one negative side effect, however. I am feeling a little manic. Less stable. Like I am piloting a paper airplane of emotions. I noticed that when something strikes me as sad I well up straight away. If something makes me mad I will rant about it and get more and more excited until I am nearly frenzied. I freaked out on my Mom about holistic medicine last night, sorry Mom, and then Brett and I had a big conversation this morning about politics in Utah where I just escalated into a raving nut ball. (Mmmm, I love raving nut balls but they are like 600 calories.) I hope this part levels off.

Speaking of calories, I can't eat. On the first day I sat down to eat three crunchy tacos and ate two and a half. I tried some tortilla chips. The chips tasted super salty and I had to stop. Oh, and I ate a couple jalapenos and I was amazed at how hot they were. I used to eat them with everything. I felt after dinner like I was going to explode. I was like Thanksgiving Day style full. It didn't stop me from eating oatmeal cookies later though and I got even sicker. I can't eat like I used to. Food just looks uninteresting to me now, which is how I used to be my whole life. It's nice to have that back and not have this insatiable and ever present desire to eat my face off every hour. I have back that little voice in my head that says, "You should probably stop eating, that will be enough." He's been gone for so long , I forgot what he sounded like. Whatever your name is, I missed you. Just find a nice quiet place to read when I go to Smashburger. I won't be needing you then.

I feel my old ambition back, my old fire back, my old can-do attitude back. I have a sense of optimism back, a sense of joy, and a lightness of being. I am so amazed that I went on for so long not knowing that I didn't have to feel the way I did. Not knowing anything was even wrong with the way I was feeling. Never did I associate the tiredness, weight gain, overwhelming dread, joint pain and endless stress with an actual physical issue. I thought these things were psychological or spiritual or just plain old age. I am so thankful that my Doctor figured me out. I'm grateful Brett's employer decided to give us health insurance so I could get the Aetna cards in the mail the day I decided to make the appointment. I'm glad I got this stupid rash, that still hasn't gone away, because it got me in to the doctor. I'm grateful his nurse has Hashimoto's so they thought to check for it. I'm glad he is cool enough of a guy to sit and talk to me about life and then put the pieces of our conversation into a diagnostic frame work. I am grateful for God who I know shifts these things around into place on our behalf. Because he loves us. I could be negative and mad and want the last ten years of my life back, but I don't care. I am so happy I found it out and that my little Bella Rose won't have to worry. I'll get her checked out the first teeny, tiny sign of depression so she can maintain her quality of life. Which will be high.

Sticking out my big fat neck.

In pictures of me over the last couple of years I noticed a few different, very upsetting things. One, my arms that have always looked slim and muscular from constant work and workouts, got really flabby. Two, my abdomen that I have been secretly pretty proud of got poochy. Three, my neck seemed to get more manly. I have always been kind of "athletically built" as one person put it. I'm not curvy and busty, I have been pretty long and flat my entire life. Like an adolescent boy. So for me to look at a picture and see I was getting a manly neck to me was just a part of getting older and one more bit of evidence that I was not a girlie girl. This is how I framed it.

This year I quit soda (More like cut back on) and stopped eating sugar and after dinner snacks and started running. I was doing great, running about 2-3 miles to start out with and getting up to 5-6 by mid February. I was on track for the half marathon I committed to run with some friends from High School days. The guys I work with and I were talking about running relays and racing bikes together. I realized how much I missed having that in my life and was looking forward to this summer for these reasons. But I noticed I didn't lose any weight and wasn't putting on any muscle. Instead I was getting muscle twitches. I then (TMI ALERT) had my monthly visit from Aunt Flo. And for many, many months now, I have been having *ahem* unusual circumstances with Aunt Flo. She has gotten aggressive in her old age. (Dudes, I don't blame you if you just...close the browser.) It was less like a typical expected cycle of nature and more like a surprise attack. If regular periods are a kind stranger asking you for a dime at the bus station, what I had going on was a group of drug addicted gang members attempting a home invasion. I had so many issues that once in the middle of a pre-production meeting I had to spend a good amount of time in the bathroom and what was I wearing? White jeans. Someone asked me if I was OK. How do you say, I think I am losing my internal organs? I had to sneak out of the production office while everyone was shaking hands and saying their goodbyes and go and buy new pants to drive home in. You get the idea. So here I was a couple of weeks ago, in this same boat. Getting mugged by Aunt Flo. I forced myself to the gym and ran a mile and a half before I felt like dying. I cried the whole way home. For bout ten days at odd times I felt like all of the blood in my entire body would leave my head and go find something better to do. I almost blacked out while driving, which had happened one other time about six months before. I couldn't even climb the stairs at my house without feeling light headed. I had a rash on my thighs appear. I got a stomach bug. At home, I swept the floor and my hands would not leave the handle. I had to uncurl them slowly and they hurt, from way inside. I would sleep ten hours a night or more if I wasn't working.

So last week I went to see my Doctor in Salt Lake about this rash. I love him, he's been great to my kids and I. I drive up to 3900 S to see him. This love runs that deep. So we talk and catch up. We just talk about running and training and we talk about my rash but it's my other symptoms which he seems to be WAY more interested in. It all comes out in what seems to be casual conversation. He tests me for Strep for the rash and it's negative. He decides to do what he calls "a s___ load of blood tests". He calls me on set the next morning and says that it's my thyroid. I have no idea what this is exactly. I know it's a gland. I go home and look it up on www.tooloffear.com, otherwise known as Web MD, and it all makes so much sense. I mean all the way back through my whole life I can see how I have had these types of hormonal issues and they seem to have been getting out of control over the last two years. Now, I do not mean to make this sound like a lady disease. Along with this comes things like crippling exhaustion, joint pain, irritability, memory loss, cold intolerance, dry skin, hair loss, depression, weight gain, infertility, and the coup de grace, an enlarged neck. I am now totally assured I have Hypothyroidism. Yesterday I went in and had more blood drawn to determine if I have Hyper or Hypothyroidism or something else entirely like Lupus. So we'll see what's what. After hearing last week that a friend who has been fighting with two types of cancers has been back in the hospital with a terrible infection, finding out I have something totally treatable, I'll take it. And I actually feel really proud of myself that I have still been able to accomplish the things I have been able to, and am trying to be kinder to myself about the things I have not been able to. It's kind of a relief, really.



If you or someone you love has a neck that looks like it is smuggling a potato, please see your doctor.

Thanks, Asparagus, I Feel the Spirit.

We all stayed home today. Bella was up coughing all night and woke up with a fever and Brett's ribs are still on the mend. I didn't have to take roll or hand out newsletters today so we all stayed in our jammies and watched Veggie Tales.

In one episode Madame Blueberry has pictures of stuff that she wants and cries about what she doesn't have until some chives show up in suits telling her they are the owners of Stuffmart and she just needs more stuff to be happy. On their way to Stuffmart they see a little girl vegetable with her beatnik looking parents and it's her birthday. She has one piece of pie and a candle in it. They live in a hovel. The little girl looks around at what little she has and could be sad but instead she sings,

I thank God for this day,
For the sun in the sky,
For my mom and my dad,
For my piece of apple pie!

For our home on the ground,
For His love that's all around,
That's why I say thanks every day!

Madame Blueberry and the chives continue on to Stuffmart and stock up. While eating there they see a little boy who wants a big toy train but his Dad tells him they can't afford it. He says that they can get a ball, though. The little train kid sings another verse of the Thankfulness Song and that's when I start to cry. The blueberry's house gets so full of stuff it is destroyed and she ends up sharing pie with the beatnik family and her butlers. Then she sings a verse of the song.

So for the rest of the day we have been making up our own verses. "I am thankful for my pug, for the cocoa in my mug, for the brand new kitchen rug, but not that Bellsa has a bug..." You get the idea. We were just having fun, but I really am thankful for so, so, so many things. I am terrible at standing up in front of people and bearing my testimony, I do the ugly cry thing. It's horrifying. But I would like to share my testimony, just not in a way that makes me want to pee my pants.

When my heart began to change and I began this process, I made a commitment. I realized that I had botched things up for myself so horribly that I was no longer allowed to be "in charge". I realized I was not able to run my life because I didn't know what God knew. I was making choices based on my very limited knowledge and if I could be humble and have faith, I could run my life on God's infinite knowledge instead. I vowed that no matter what the end result, be it good or even be it bad, I would spend the rest of my life inside of the church and following the gospel. So here I am, and everything from that moment on has changed. Slowly and painfully, but it has changed. I do get upset and frustrated that my life isn't the same as other people's. That I don't live in a nice new beautiful house, that I don't get to stay home with my kids, that I can't seem to get pregnant by the man that I'm actually married to. But I also have moments where I am simply overwhelmed by all of the good things. I found the right guy finally, he's loads of fun and a lot better looking than I would have asked for. I have two great kids that are just so much fun and in spite of my not being home with them are great kids and have good hearts and are witty and smart. I have found wonderful people to take care of them, Jessica Harrison, Amanda Bakly and my Mom. My Mom has become active in the church and is almost unrecognizable as a person. The ex-lesbian reverend mother goes to AA every week and works in the temple every Saturday and reads the Book of Mormon with her sister every day.

The atonement is real. It is the ultimate wellness program. The church itself is true, I accepted the calling of Relief Society Secretary at the end of last year and since that time I have experienced a huge pouring down of blessings on me and my family. The gospel principles are true. I have always paid my tithing first before any other bill as a way of showing my gratitude to God and time and again I found that I am never without money. I can get down to three dollars in my account and money will come in from somewhere the next day. I turned down a movie gig that I always wanted but felt just wasn't something I could be involved with as someone in the RS Presidency, as cheesy as that may sound. I just couldn't be making calls looking for negliges and hookah pipes while scheduling new member visits and enrichment activities. I was blessed with a new client the month I should have begun production on the film and I have made three times what I would have on that film and we are on track to be out of debt by June in the middle of the worst economic downturn since the great depression. It stuns me to think about. We finally have a plan of attack for the construction that needs to take place on our house and the means by which to begin it this Summer and hopefully have it done by the end of this year or at least Spring of 2011. We are building something. And it didn't happen all over night, it didn't happen in a year, it's happening little by little over the course of many years but it IS happening. I am so grateful that I made that commitment. That I decided to just...try. I'm not perfect, God knows I am SOOOO far from perfect, I just try. It's 100 percent about not giving up. It's about having some steps to take that make it so that you are not sinking and not on a treadmill, but slowly going forward and upward. Even if I am going two steps forward and one step back, I am trending upwards.

I know without a single solitary question that these things that I have been afforded in my life are gifts from God. I listened to the still small voice and found a great man, a great job and a great neighborhood. I followed council and now have a great career, great kids and a calling that is waaay over my head but I love intensely and blesses my family. I have a mother that does provide the kind of advice that my Patriarchal Blessing says I will receive from her. (It told me to listen to the council of my mother and I was just sure it was a mistake.)

God can see around corners. Bad things happen to us, sometimes because of the bad choices of people that have lost the spirit or because of the natural consequences of our own choices and actions. God blesses us at these times with strength and hope. If we maintain in faith, in His own due time, He blesses the faithful with the desires of their hearts, as long as our will is aligned with His. My life is unquestionable proof of that. It really is.

I am thankful for my spouse,

and our silly mold filled house.

For our dog and our cat,

and our hamsters, fish and that,

we are all doing well,

even though this house is hell.

That's why I say thanks every day!

Alexander.

I told Brett that Alexander had died and he said that he knew that he was a fashion guy but wasn't sure who he was really... I told him it was like waking up to find that LeBron James had died. Love him or hate him he was an icon. There are not words, but there are pictures.

Alexander was rumored to have stitched the words "I am a ____" in the sleeve of a jacket for Prince Charles so I think Diana probably was pleased to see him.

RIP you magician.

When I Was Young, It Seemed That Life Was So Wonderful, a Miracle. Oh It Was Beautiful, Magical.

The day after Christmas in 1991 I was given a pair of hiking boots, a Patagonia windbreaker, a Cannondale and my walking papers. My boyfriend broke up with me the day after Christmas because he didn't want me to always think of Christmas as the day we broke up. I could see that these gifts were supposed to be my consolation prizes. But the guy said to me before he would hand over the bike, and this is rich, he said that he didn't want me to have the bike unless I was going to use it. And he meant it. Who says, "I'd like to give you this sweater as a Christmas gift but only if you swear will really, really wear it." What-ever.

I was so bound and determined that Mr Mister was going to find out about my riding the crap out of that bike, that I committed to it. I had visions of me being the next Julie Furtado and Mr just shaking his head, saying, "I didn't think she had it in her. I was so, so wrong." I had no other goal in life but this, to make him eat his words.

I began to pray. My Grandmother Jenkins told me she used to pray for her talents to be magnified. I had a basic concept of what I thought this meant. So when I wasn't laying on the floor crying to God and begging that Mr's junk would fall off for leaving me for someone else, I prayed that my cycling would be magnified. I began to ride. I lived in the foothills at the time but began on the street. The first time out riding, I was pushing my bike up a hill that I couldn't go up. Instead of telling myself this would never, ever work and I should just give up, which is kind of my Modus Operandi, I thought, "This will get easier. This is how it begins." And I just calmly talked myself into investing the time that it would take to get better.

One day my ex's mother came over to my house. She sat down in the living room to talk with my grandmother, my mother and I and she gave me a picture of Jesus. She said that she knew that things were hard for me right now, but that Jesus could be my husband. I had no idea what she was talking about. Nuns married Jesus. We were Mormon. So I got back on my bike. Those times when I felt alone and wanted to sit in my room, listen to Gladys Knight and smoke endless cigarettes, I got on my bike. When I had to go to work, I would ride my bike. When I had to go to school at UVU, I rode there. I started to venture off -road. I lost weight and gained muscle. Two of my best guy friends, Eric and Jim, began to ride with me and we had an insane amount of fun. We went everywhere on our bikes. One day Jim said, "Let's go to Will's Pit Stop and get a drink." So we headed down Quail. I was in cut off jean shorts and a wide Axl Rose bandanna like all the tools wear now. I remember because as we pulled in, I saw the old familiar gray Volvo in the lot. It was too late to warn Jim. He was already ahead of me and parking his bike. Mister and his girlfriend were coming out of the store. And I happened to be heading right for them. They greeted me with warm hugs, stopped to chat and Kristen was kind enough to show me her ring. I noticed it was the exact style Mr told me that he had always wanted to give to his fiance. I pretended to be really, really happy for them. I must have said goodbye. I'm sure I went in and got a drink. I must have ridden home with Jim. Though I can't recall any of that part. But I remember what her hand looked like with that ring on it.

I began to ride with a team and pick up local races. I had an emergency appendectomy and was told not to get on my bike for 6 weeks. I got on my bike after 4. I split some stitches but I was addicted. After glancing outside my bedroom window one afternoon, and seeing my uncle tooling around in the street on my bike, I found her, Little Nel, a new place to live other than the garage. I put her up over my bed. We were always together. She was my replacement husband.

My singles ward and the ward my ex was in were sister wards and this being the 90's they planned a joint activity trip to Moab. We were all going down to go ride Slickrock. This was my chance, I thought. I knew I hadn't been racing in anything that would be covered in Mtn Bike Action and as such the chance of my ex actually knowing anything about my cycling was pretty slim, so I placed all of my hope on the chance that he may have friends still in the ward that might miraculously spread the word about this to him. If I could kill everyone on this ride, it might possibly make it back to him. It was a long shot, but I had nothing else. I had to do it. I had to beat them all. The guy organizing the joint activity was a friend's brother and he was a serious rider. She told me he and a group of others were meeting at the first gate around like 9 in the morning. They were the contenders. The casual riders were leaving later, around 11. I was with a couple of friends and we got to the first gate at Slickrock to wait for the contender group. I went over the little cow catcher grate at the first gate and my chain right broke. No problem, right? Easy to fix. I unzipped my seat pack. No chain tool. I ask my group, no chain tools. No one. I ask riders going by, I ask riders in the parking lot. I ask the group of contenders when they show up to ride. No chain tool. No. One. Has. A. Chain. Tool. I have to go to Bill 'em and Rob 'em.

Bill and Rob own the best, most expensive and for a while the only, Bike Shop in Moab. Remember, again, early 90's. So what I am suddenly faced with is the knowledge that I have to ride into town and hope that I can be back in time to catch up and ride with the non-contenders at 11. So I coast down the hill and push my bike all the way to Rob and Bills shop. I walk in and explain I need a chain tool, and I don't have any money. Now, at the time I really had no idea what I was doing. Asking a couple of overweight middle aged guys to pretty please help me, a 19 year old long haired blond. If I had, I may have asked for a lot more. I thought I was asking for a miracle since I had not a dime on me. As it was, they fixed it for me, asked for nothing in exchange and sent me on my way in a fairly professional manner. (I later took them some beer, I think. Maybe that was another time...) I rode back through town, up the hill and back up to Slickrock. I found out I had missed the second group. A couple of people in the parking lot from my ward had seen them leave about a half hour before I got there. I decided to see if I could catch up with them. After an almost three hour trip into town, I finally embarked on my ride.

The first time I rode Slickrock was with Mister. And we stopped a lot because I was tired or I would hit my front break and go over the handle bars or because we wanted to make-out. It took us, I want to say, four hours-ish. And I remember spending some extra time on two sections that he struggled with. One was a hop-skip over a log onto a little ledge and the other was a big flat steep hill with a top lip that was like a curb. It went straight up. He never did get the log part but after a few tries he managed to get up the hill. I remember afterwards going back to the tent and my legs felt like they had a fever in them. They were hot to the touch and were almost swollen. I was in so much pain.

This time around I was alone, recalling everything again. The log part, the little place where we laid down to rest, the overhang where we sat and smooched a bit. I met up with the non-contender group and said hi to them on my way by. I met stragglers from both wards along the way. I met up with the hill. I killed it my first run. I went on and caught up with the contenders, only to find they seemed to be having some issues with the terrain. They were struggling, those boys. I stayed with them but it was clear, somehow I was better than they were. I passed them and went on to the end. I just kept going and going. I finished up with Slickrock, I want to say, around two hours..? When I finished I thought about what I had just accomplished. I had just pushed Nel into town, I had just ridden miles and miles back up hill only to go on to meet and beat everyone on that ride from both wards. Something in me clicked, and I set it down. I set down my bike and I set down the whole desire I had to prove anything to my ex. I didn't get over him then, but I got over me not getting over him. I rode some after that but it just wasn't the same. I didn't have anyone to ride for. No one to prove anything to. I had proved I could do it. I knew I could have beaten Mister and his arrogant little riding buddies and I would have done it handily. It was all over. Eventually I cut and dyed my hair and became angry and started drinking. I grew calloused over and one day when I was in bad spot for rent I sold Little Nel to some business man. It killed me to do it.

A couple marriages and kids happened over time and now I am here in the present day and Julia and I are talking about getting into shape. This brings up all kinds of things for me, because the last time I did so it was because I was heart broken and angry and frustrated and sad. I was taking out my frustrations about not being in control and not being good enough for someone and for loving someone that didn't believe in me. Now I will be getting in shape so I do not have to post a picture of myself in a bikini on Facebook. So I am trying to tell myself I will be doing it to prove that I am not too old, that I can do whatever it is I set my mind to and that I can remember how to ride a bike. It's just like, well...it's own self. At the end of this fitness challenge that runs from Jan to the end of May, I want to go to Slickrock and ride it. And I hope to go up that super hard hill again, and go over the place where I passed the contenders. And I hope to do it better and faster and stronger than ever before because I am older and wiser and I will have brought a chain tool. We'll have to see how it goes. I'll keep you posted.

Ironing a Record

I have this really faded memory. The kind that may have been a dream, may have actually happened, may have been seen on TV. It is of a record that was left in the sun in the back window of a car. And the thing got so hot that it melted into a wavy bubbly oval, like a tortilla cooking. When my Grandma Virginia wanted to do the impossible she would call it "ironing a record". Being a visual person, I always loved the mental picture of my Grandma in an apron with an ironing board and an old warped 45.

When I was living in the Avenues in Salt Lake one Sunday these women came in from another ward and did a little skit in Relief Society. One of them had THE highest stilettos I have ever seen at church. At some point the woman leaned over the table to pretend to answer the phone and her high heel caught in the crocheted table covering. I was frozen. She was inches away. Do I stand up and stop her and unloosen her heel and make them start the skit over? Does she know she's caught? And around the time I am processing, sure enough, her heel slices right through and tears a hole in it a foot long and wide. It is a handmade work of art. I am now sick to my stomach. She makes a surprised and horrified face before she sits down for the rest of the meeting. I can't think of anything else but this tablecloth.

At the end of the meeting I stay in my place waiting for all of the female traffic to sort of thin out. A woman comes over to the table to clear it off. She reverently picks up the tablecloth and folds it up, then turns right to me and says, "I don't even know how to fix this. Do you know someone that can fix this?" And I say, "I can," and hold out my arms. She sort of jumps back and then hands it to me. I am not sure why I said it, it was only a hunch I could do it, but I felt I could. So I take it home and get out a needle and thread. I pick up the torn strands, figure out where they connect in the pattern and then sew them up. When I was done, I could still tell where it had been torn. I was kind of sad so I put it down and walked away from it. (Something Grandma taught me...) The next day when I looked at it again I didn't know where the tear was anymore, I couldn't find it. I was marveled. What really are the odds the woman would turn and ask that question right to the person who could fix it? 1/60? What are the odds I would be sitting right there in that seat? 1/2,000? What are the odds I would even be in Salt Lake, or in that ward, on that day? 1/18,000,000,000,000?? God...is great.

When people ask me what I do, I really have no answer. It depends on the shoot. 'Technically" I do make-up and props and wardrobe for commercials so my title usually reads, "Art Director" on the crew sheet. But really each shoot is a unique set of problems that I get to try and solve. Like a puzzle. Or a riddle. I used to work retail and the necklaces used to turn into a rat king in shipping sometimes and I was the only volunteer to untangle the messes. I loved it. Today it dawned on me, I am a record ironer. I had two illegitimate kids and was a dead broke single mom who was working three jobs and trying to go to school, now I am a happily employed happily married mother of two beautiful kids sealed to their Dad in the temple. I used to be a half a pack a day smoker with a loose grasp on the definition of integrity and now I'm a Relief Society Secretary. (For 1.75 GPA me, that is a big deal.) I used to live in homes of strangers and at the mercy of friends and move from place to place at least twice a year and now I am a homeowner thanks to the spirit that helped me find a silly house for a song in my great old neighborhood. And all of these things about me that I am making sound so awesome do not belong to me. Be clear about this, if I am awesome at any of these things, if I have a moment where I am an awesome Mom or a great cook or a compassionate listener, it is because of my Grandmother. Her genes and her influence and her testimony and her prayers. It's not mine to brag over, any of it. My good qualities, my happy life, my love of God, all belong to her. I love her. I cherish her. I will miss her.

This is the Right Place. To Freak Out.

I had the privilege and honor of being asked to shoot with Tyler Gourley for Deseret Book. I think Tyler is one of the most talented photographers in Utah and I have not worked for Deseret Book since the Jericho Road days. So I was totally excited when I was asked to come help shoot for their catalog at This is the Place State Park. Until I heard the ghost stories. Then I wanted to leave.

I have never in my life been up to This is the Place State Park. If you also have not, I suggest you go up there and take the kids. You can tell it's for kids by the font. It looks the same as the font used by The Children's Place clothing store. I hardly think that's a coincidence. I thought TITPSP was going to be a big statue of some Mormon dudes and their oxen sprinkled with seagull poop parked somewhere off the freeway. I had no idea there was a whole actual town, called Heritage Village. (It's right next to the big statue of some Mormon dudes and their oxen sprinkled with bird poop.)

In Heritage Village there are these beautiful historical buildings from all over the state that have been picked up and carefully tiptoed to this new resting place. They have furniture from their famous deceased homeowners and/or their time periods and the rooms are all made up as if they are being lived in currently. They are all very historically accurate and super fascinating. Especially for people who love aesthetics. So all of us could not help but to look around at things in between getting our shots. In the Heber C Kimball house there were some cool instruments, a funky chair made out of horns and a haunted doll. Yep. A rag doll that allegedly moves around on it's own whilst you navigate about the house. According to Diamond Jim, who is an expert on the place and a tour guide, the doll will be laying on the bed until you go downstairs, where you may then see it at the piano. Or sitting at the kitchen table. Or by the china cabinet. But this is not the only reported haunting. One time a little girl told her Dad she wouldn't go up the stairs with him. She was at the bottom of the staircase. He turned at the second to top stair and asked her what her problem was. She pointed to his pant leg and said something about not wanting to go near the child by his side. He then felt a distinct tugging on his pant leg and watched his jeans actually move, even though he could not see anything there.

I thought that was a quaint story and imagined the kind of attention starved people that must have made something like that up. Then we wrapped out our day and went home. The next day we were to be shooting in the park again. I woke up super early and got ready. I was drinking my hot cocoa in the Jeep when I turned the radio to 101.9 The End. They were doing their annual ghost hunters radio show where they bring people in from the Ghost Investigators Society or Ghost Hunters Club or whatever it's called. They do this for a few hours during October so they can tell stories about their ghostie adventures. They begin the show by playing a bunch of EVPs. These are taped recordings of ghost voices that can not be heard with the "naked ear". I never think they are accurate. Like if they say to the audience, "In this EVP you will hear a little child say, "Don't leave me!"" I always think its sounds like an old woman saying, "Cleveland." This year it is no different. Then they begin to talk about This is the Place State Park. And they all agree it's one of the most haunted places in Utah. So I turn it up, because I am on I-15 headed North. And Jimmy Chunga, AKA Brett Smith, tells a story about Cort getting hit with a ball of light and feeling really dark and gross, in the same exact spot a guy in years past had his wrist broken. Then a woman calls in and says she believes the park is haunted because her child saw another child that wasn't there and it happened by the white schoolhouse. And the hairs on my neck stand up. I pull into the entrance of the park. I see Tyler and his assistant Cody driving towards me. They tell me that they will stop by the building we are going to shoot at, so I should just follow them. I roll up my window and we start up a dirt road. Chunga is now talking about a night of ghost hunting at the State Park in the Andrus Halfway House. He was with a woman that is supposed to be a certified psychic. The two of them went into one of the upstairs bedrooms, he even got specific as to which one but I don't recall it now, and they suddenly felt cold and odd. He said the temperature in the room dropped like 40 degrees in fifteen seconds. Chunga then turned to see a little boy in tweed knee pants run past him and go straight into the wall. The psychic just dropped to her knees and began to cry. I assume she also wet herself and released her bowels. I would have.

I am now driving through the park with my mouth open holding my cup of cocoa. We stop. I look to my right and there is the white schoolhouse. To my left? The Andrus Halfway House. I park and knock on Tyler's car window. I tell them to turn on 101.9. They catch the last of the story so I fill them in on the first part. We listen to them talk some more about other spooky experiences people have had there and we turn off our cars. I tell the guys that the building Chunga was talking about is *right there*. We all go up to the fence. It's not helping that it is all decorated for Halloween. They have a big HUGE haunted affair there, you can go around and look in the houses and the little orchards are full of fake bodies and stuff. It's cool. And they had begun the decorating THAT DAY. So we go look in the windows of the Andrus house and it's about one third of the way finished being decorated. Just as I glide along the porch casually looking in the windows, Cody steps away from one and reveals a dummy pressed up against the glass. I jump and squeal. A carnal sin. You never let other crew see your petticoat. It's like film rule 101. The rest of the day the guys keep setting me up and scaring me. We move from building to building taking care of our set ups and our shots. We'd turn the corner and see a pioneer walking towards us with a musket or a woman in a long skirt and aprons and I'd wonder what it would be like if I knew they weren't real.

It became a little old, the haunted thing, by mid afternoon. We left the main part of the park for Brigham Young's farmhouse. It's pink. It's a big pink gingerbread house. Which I venture to guess is why he never actually lived there. It was used instead for events and visiting dignitaries. We entered the thing and were greeted by a large sweet man. He told us about the house, it's purposes and it's ghost. One of the wives, Ann Eliza, loved the house. She was the only wife of Brigham's to divorce him. (I guess if you play the odds, even a prophet, and even back in those days, you're bound to lose one...) Anyway Ann Eliza did not like people in her house. He said that during a previous Halloween he was setting up a CD player for sound effects as part of the spook display. He left the room and came back to hear it playing. He turned the thing off and left again to carry in more things for the display. He entered, only to hear it playing again. This time he unplugged it. And it still turned back on. People use the building for receptions and parties and a lot of people claim to have seen a woman at the sink looking out the window or hear footsteps on the floor above. The footsteps thing may not be so impressive. I could hear what the people upstairs were wearing the floor was so touchy, but the woman at the window thing? Yeah. So again, we begin to set up our shots. I go out to my car and get my tool boxes but before I cross the threshold back into the house I spiritually ask Ann Eliza if it's OK if I come back in. I make it clear I want her permission, out of respect. And then I assume she says yes because I come inside. I clean her windows. I pick up all of the trash I drop. I make sure I don't leave behind any dirt from my shoes. I put everything back where it belongs and even fix and fluff the pillows on the couches in a drawing room we never went into. Because what could be scarier than an angry German ex-wife ghost? I plan on being one myself one day. Cody double dog dares me to go down a pitch black stairway that leads to a locked door to the basement. I feel like I have to make up for the womanish squeal on the porch of the Halfway house, so I do it. I am surprisingly not scared. I tell myself it's because I have been respectful of Ann Eliza and she likes me. When we write up phony names for a prop FHE chalkboard. I thoughtfully assign Ann Eliza a task. I think she was in charge of the opening prayer. We wrap up our day by watching the sun come down over the various workers prepping the park and even shoot one cool shed full of bloody broken dolls hanging from their necks. We stand in the gravel parking lot and talk about everything but spooky stuff. By now we are not into it anymore. We are sick of the topic. We stand in the parking lot and chat about people we know and how great a time we had and how we hope to be able to shoot for Deseret Book again because they are just really cool down to earth people to work for and then we say our goodbyes.

I stop for gas at the Chevron off 7th East. There is a super scruffy older guy in his car about to leave, but then sees me walking into the station and stops. He turns off his car, gets out of the vehicle, and stands on the sidewalk, staring. I put my hand behind me and make an unfriendly gesture then place it on my butt. If he looks there, he deserves to see it. I go in and get a drink and pay for my gas. I walk past the guy that now stands in my way. I get past him. He then turns 180 degrees to watch me walk back to my car. I grab my keys in my hand like a weapon. Just in case. I pump my gas while this Bozo stands there and stares at me without any hint of subtlety at all. I imagine that in this guy's POV I am like a Tweety bird that turns into a roast bird on a plate. I finish pumping, sprint into my car and lock the doors. I pull through the lot and see that the guy gets back into his car and finally pulls out going in my opposite direction. That was easily the scariest thing to happen to me the whole day. I believe certain people do see ghosts. I am sure they have a gift or a talent for it. I do not. I don't think I see ghosts because I tend to believe they are nothing special, really. They are just normal people like me, that just happen to be dead on the outside. I'm afraid I'm just not afraid of them. I am afraid of people that are dead on the inside.