People think it’s so impressive to date a doctor or a lawyer. I tend to be unimpressed, and this drives my family nuts.

“Jenny! Why don’t you want to go out with him?! He’s a doctor!”

What? I gotta like the guy because he’s gonna make a lot of money? Do I look like I want a life personal yoga trainers and mani-pedis every week? I think my resistance roots deep into my past when my parents rejected the scruffy ski bums I brought home for dinner. This has created rebellious reaction to elitism: if you don’t like my scruffy ski bums, I won’t like your doctors.

Although I don’t care to date a doctor, a Silicon Valley mogul, or a Harvard graduate, I shouldn’t discriminate against them if they are either. And with what I’m about to share with you now, you’ll see my prejudices against elitism got the best of me when I had a moment of it myself.

For months my parents have wanted me to go out with this doctor my dad’s nurse wanted me to meet. (This was another case of matchmaking based on the mindset that if “he’s Mormon, and she’s Mormon, then they must be a fit!”) I was indifferent to the M.D. subscript to his name, but the fact my family kept pushing “he’s a doctor, Jenny” flipped the rebellion switch in my head and made me want to dig in my heels and cancel the set-up. But, out of courtesy to my dad’s working relationship with his nurse, I agreed to meet him.

Within 5 minutes of giving my number to the nurse to send along to him, I receive a call from the prospect who immediately started quoting from my Facebook page, which he had access to because we were in the same Network (I didn’t know this and immediately changed my privacy settings after the call.) I have to admit I was a little put-off by such a greeting. But I was also hesitated with what he said next.

“Well, let’s do this quick and dirty. Can you meet for breakfast tomorrow at 10 am?”

I agreed before I could let anything else sink in.

As a third year resident, this guy was on a tight schedule. He didn’t have a lot of time free time floating around. I, however, am a horse of a different color. My schedule is almost too flexible, so when things come my way…I pounce on them.

Long story short, I cancelled on this guy 3 times because something always came up—such as having to pick up my sister-in-law and nieces and nephews from Idaho, or jumping into a stranger’s car for a last-minute road trip (blog post for another day).

I really had ever intention to meet him, really, but it just was something, well, that was lower on my To-Do list.

I could sense the frustration in his voice the third time I said, “Well…something came up…I’m going to Montana!” He was candid enough to say, “we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

I assured him I did (and I did), and that I’ll call him when I got home. But by then, any excitement we might have had about meeting each other was nothing but a distant memory, so I decided not to call. That was until my dad called me and asked me not to embarrassed him in front of his nurse. Fine. I’ll call.

I did as soon as I hung up with my father.

“Hello?”

“Hey…it’s Jenny.”

“Oh…hey…”

“I don’t know if you’re still interested…but shall we try this again?”

“Um…Sure.”

“Great. How about tonight? I’m coming down to Salt Lake in a minute.”

“Tonight? Uh…I think tonight will work…”

“Great…and if it’s not a problem, I will have my cousin Ashley with me. We have an Institute class at the U.”

I’m not one for bring a human accessory on a first date, but based our repeated failures to match our schedules, I thought this was our best opportunity.

So…with exactly 54 minutes before we had to race up to the Institute building at the University of Utah campus, we pulled in front of his apartment.

“Okay, Ashley. You have reached a new level as a wingman—a front row seat to a first date.”

When I saw him walk out of his apartment, we had 10 seconds to comment before we it looked weird we weren’t getting out of the car to greet him.

“He has a nice body,” Ashley said. I raised my eyebrows in agreement. Yeah, not bad.

For the next 50 minutes, the three of us chatted over Rubio’s tacos on a beautiful late-summer evening. Our friend had the extra task of repeating every question to me to my cousin, but during this unusual three-way conversation, I found myself kind of liking the guy. It wasn’t so much when I discovered he’s been on the ball his whole life to become a full-fledged doctor by 30, but it was the moment he corrected me when I misquoted a line from Scrubs.

(Sure, it’s unfortunate that his knowledge of a sit-com about doctors is more impressive to me than his knowledge of actually medicine, but it was a slight turn-on.)

But when the conversation turned to school and college (Ashley and I had both gone to BYU, and our friend here attended the U), I said something that was, well, less than impressive to him.

First, a little background: while growing up in Provo, the majority of my high school class went to two schools: BYU or UVSC (the local state school). Generally speaking, BYU was everyone’s first choice, but if you didn’t have the grades for it you went to UVSC. This may or may not have been the case for the entire school, but it was in the circle of Mormon friends I knew.

So when I asked this guy where most of his high school friends (particularly Mormon friends) went to school, I was surprised to hear him say most of them chose the U.

My homogenous, Utah Valley upbringing chimed in before my post-BYU enlightenment had a chance to stop it. “And they choose the U because they couldn’t get into BYU?”

And that killed the jukebox. He lowered his glasses, and by the time I processed what I had just said, I already felt a painful ray of judgment coming from this guy’s furrowed brow.

“Not everyone thinks BYU is the only school in the world.”

I’m sorry, I said, and tried to give him some context. “Where I grew up, people only went to other schools if they didn’t get into BYU. I mean, it is the best academic school in the state. Why choose an inferior school if you could attend superior one?”

He didn’t like that either.

Anyway, Ashley and I soon had to leave to make it to Institute class where I could sit and write notes to Ashley accusing her of being a horrible wingman for not stopping me from talking.

All and all, I see two ironies come from this whole thing. First, I’m really quite indifferent to BYU. I don’t feel very much loyalty to the school, and I probably wouldn’t go there again if I could do it over, so it’s pretty funny that when I finally say something positive about BYU, my comment bites me like this.

And second, here I am pre-judging this guy to be an elitist because he’s a doctor and I come out with swinging with comments implying his alma matter was filled only with students rejected from mine. Ha!

For the record, BYU is a great school, as is the University of Utah, and I really don’t care what kind of school sweatshirt a guy would proudly wear. (Except if it said Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy. If a guy wore a Harry Potter sweatshirt in front of me, I wouldn’t date him.)

I actually wouldn’t mind going out again and talking more about Scrubs, but I haven’t heard from him since.

Before I start going into detail on all the wonderful adventures of being single and Mormon and living in Utah, I want to make sure we have a basic foundation of the world of Latter-day Saint Singledom. So I’ve come up with a list of common terms and cultural quirks among the LDS religion that will frequently used in my posts.

Singles Ward: A religious congregation specifically comprised of single or unmarried individuals. The purpose is to encourage singles to socialize, eat, and remember that it’s really pathetic to be single. Many social activities in a single Mormon’s life spawns from the singles ward.

FHE: Family Home Evening. A common practice among LDS members to set aside time each week to spend with family—traditionally designated on a Monday. Because single adults often don’t have families, most singles wards host an activity on Monday evenings.

Bishop: Spiritual leader of the ward. Although any worthy male may be called as a Bishop, it is advantageous to a singles ward to have a monetarily successful bishop with a big home with lots of toys to use for single socializing. A cabin in the woods and houseboats at Powell are major bonuses. Single ward bishops get extra points in heaven for every marriage that spawns from the ward during his jurisdiction.

EC: Eternal Companion. Also known as “the one.” Mormons believe marriage companions will be together for all eternity (and not “until death do us part”). This often puts unduly pressure on any first date–for you tend to think if you can stand being with that person forever and ever. Potential ECs are often evaluated from the first date, and in some cases, from the minute he/she walks into church.

Stake Center: Multiple wards in a geographic area are compiled into a “stake.” The Stake Center is typically a larger-than-average church building where many activities and functions are held.

Institute: If 3 hours of church every Sunday isn’t enough of a spiritual rally to get you through your week, or doesn’t offer enough options of potential ECs, the church offers extra curricular classes throughout the week known as Institute.

Sweet Spirit: A term used to describe a young woman who is kind, smart, and spiritually strong, yet physically unacceptable to date (i.e. she’s ugly).

Molly Mormon: A female member of the church who follows strictly to the decree of righteous Mormon living—such as a life solely devoted to marriage, children, and scrapbooking about said marriage and children.

Peter Priesthood: A male version of the above. Typical characteristics would include not watching football on Sunday, strict avoidance of caffeinated beverages, and no shame to walk out of a PG movie that says more than 3 swear words.

The important thing to note about Molly Mormons and Peter Priesthoods is that there are varying interpretations of what is okay and not okay. Mormons, like many humans, have guilty pleasures, which doesn’t make them an unworthy Mormon. However, in dating, conflict can arise if your date says she won’t go out with you again until you throw away your collection of Seth Rogen movies.

BYU: BYU, or Brigham Young University, is a private school in Provo, Utah sponsored by the church. Many Mormons come from all over the country to attend this school, which statistically offers the highest percentage of potential ECs. If you leave BYU unmarried, you changes for marriage proportionally drop by ten percent every year you get older.

Zoobie: A student at BYU who is overenthusiastic about ballroom dancing, religion classes, eating ice cream at the BYU Creamery. If BYU wins a football game, they believe it was the Lord’s blessing because of BYU’s righteousness. They typically wear denim shirts and braided belts. Often the same as Molly Mormons and Peter Priesthoods.

Lastly, I also feel it is necessary to identify the cultural quirks that make Mormon dating different from how the rest of the world dates.

Sex: Pre-martial sex and other sexual acts are forbidden among Single LDS saints. This throws an interesting wrench in the mix of Mormon dating compared to the rest of the world. We not only have to deal with all the misunderstandings of men and women with a lot of sexual frustration thrown into the mix.

So…please note that when Mormons say “hooking up” they really just mean making out. When Mormons say they want to “get some,” they really just mean making out. When Mormons say he/she puts out, he/she really just makes out. When Mormons say, well, you get the idea.

Also, please note hormones play a greater role in expediting marriage. What would normally a secular 3 years to do takes a Mormon couple 3 weeks.

WoW: Word of Wisdom. The most defining characteristic of the Mormon faith, the Word of Wisdom is a law that prohibits the use of alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, and tea and coffee. Rather than asking someone if they want to get a drink, Mormons ask if you want to get an ice cream, or if you’re lucky, an artisan gelato. However, dairy products lack alcohol’s relaxing effects that often facilitate conversations and after-date hook-ups. Mormons often rely on prayer.

I hope this tutorial was helpful—particularly to my non-Mormon readers. The world of Mormon dating contains many additional factors unknown to the world of secular dating (and I didn’t discuss every one). Yet despite the differences, we are all human, and Mormons face 90% of typical boy/girl dating issues any boy or girl, would have. We just have to face them with our clothes on.

Who am I kidding? Of course I’m going to write about dating. Please ignore my last post. When I was writing it, I hadn’t really had lunch yet. I hadn’t really even showered yet. But after going out for a peanut butter Booster Juice smoothie and rocking out to some Muse on the way home, I was feeling better. And I once again made peace with Singledom.

It is a big part of my life right now—and if I’ve implied anything different, it was a façade.

As an educated, independent, unmarried woman, I feel I must depict the image of the modern feminist woman, who is so busying pursuing a career, learning a third language, and building orphanages in Haiti that marriage must be the last thing on my mind. But it’s a lie! Guys and dating are all my girlfriends and I ever talk about. It’s almost what all my guy friends and I ever talk about. And it’s all my parents really care about when they call me. I’ve sat through many, MANY pre and prost-date conversations, and I feel like an erudite scholar on the subject.

So datejenny.com will be about exactly what the title says: dating—or about just being single, or about being Mormon, or any combination of the above. Not a day goes by without one of these topics coming up in my life—so I should have plenty to write about them.

There is one caveat, however. This can only work if the boys with whom I’m dating don’t know about it. So I’ve recently made efforts to hide datejenny.com from the world. I’ve made it so datejenny.com doesn’t come up number one when you Google my name. (I’m now somewhere on the third page of search results.) In addition, my Facebook page no longer includes datejenny.com as my website, and I won’t be updating my Facebook status about new posts that include links. I’ll still announce new posts, but I’ll write in code in the likes of “Jenny saw the movie UP(dated) today and loved it.”

But that’s not enough. I need to rely on YOU, dear reader, to stay quiet. Well, I really just need one reader, my BFF (you know who you are!), who actually knows (and often introduces me to) the guys with whom I’m dating, to stay quiet. Don’t tell them about my blog, BFF! I can’t write about all the stuff we talk about if he’s going to read it.

And for all you other readers (all twelve of you), you’re still allowed to sing from the rooftops about datejenny.com. Please, call your friends over, pop some popcorn, and gather around the computer screen to read the adventures of a 28-year-old, single Mormon girl’s dating life.

Because in all honesty, I DO care about blog hits. Nothing makes my day more than checking my blog stats to find a huge spike in traffic that day. It totally feeds my wannabe-a-writer ego. So if talking about dating will get me the numbers, than I’ll be talking about dating.

Now please close your web browser and log back on so I can count another hit on my blog.

Some of you are expecting Road Trip Part 2 of my super date with a handsome stranger. But as I sat on my couch staring at my computer screen, I felt sick to my stomach. I didn’t know how to write about this one, so I opened a blank document and starting writing this.

Let’s talk a minute and talk about the real purpose of datejenny.com.

The blog has been a big part of my life since I started it 14 months ago. I started it with the intention to practice my creative writing skills. I had no expectations for people to actually read it. I don’t read other people’s blogs. I though it was somewhat narcissistic to think people actually care about the minutia of their lives.

So I was surprised when people seemed interested in mine. My family and friends sent it other family and friends, and before I knew it, I had somewhat of a following. I received a lot of positive feedback on my writing, even random fan mail via Facebook, which was really encouraging.

My posts have covered everything to family stories, unqualified political commentaries, and dating disasters, among others. The dating disasters have received, by far, the most interest from my readers.

My background in marketing told me I needed to sell the product people want—so I felt pressure to write more about the woes of dating as a single, older, Mormon female—from my mom secretly signing me up on LDSSingles.com to my non-Mormon friends wanting to set me up with their 39-year-old Mormon neighbor.

These are humorous things, and I want to write about these things is in a funny, light-hearted way. But it’s not always funny! You see how you feel after sleeping in a 2-day tent with some guy, alone in the woods, who never even takes a second look at you. So despite the comedic potential of this story, for I think it is really quite funny, I’m going to save it for later. Later when I don’t care if he reads it. For whatever you upload to the Internet is free reign, and although I’ve never really been that worried about some dude finding himself roasted on my blog, I’m still a little red after being burned by this one.

Am I going to give up writing about the woes of living life as a single, older, Mormon female? Heck no. But I want to go back to my true intentions for starting this blog—to practice writing—and not necessarily showcase my failures in my quest for love.

So if my blog numbers drop for because I talk about the boring minutia of my life, and not the roller coaster ride of men and dating, I won’t be offended. I’m not doing it for you, anyway.

**Note from the blogger: the following post is the first of a 3-part series based on a recent experience.

Dating can be like watching a baseball game that goes into the 16th inning. You’re trying hard to enjoy the game, wearing your ball cap and eating $10 hot dogs, but the charm of America’s favorite past time—summertime, hot dogs, 7th inning stretch—has worn off. It’s not until 3 am that you realize you’re wasting your time watching a game that won’t really mean anything in the overall standings of your life.

If only you could cram all that “dating” into one inning. You can. It’s called a road trip.

A road trip is a great way to get to know someone in the shortest amount of time. It’s like throwing a date into a pressure cooker—turn it on high and you’ll quickly melt away all the propriety and superficial behavior to reveal true character traits and idiosyncrasies—all at rapid speed.

So why waste 3 months nibbling at the relationship when you can know whether he’s a winner in a week?

And yes, it has to be at least a week. None of this 3-day weekend crap to your family reunion at the lake 2 and half hours away. I’m talking about covering some serious mileage together.

You must plan a road trip similar to the following: 10+ days together, in a compact car (preferably from 1990 or before), sleeping in tent. Only the two of you are on the trip, so only the two of you are the source of conversation. Showers are limited. So should be your cell phone reception. He is there when you wake up in the morning. He is there when you fall asleep. He is…(temporarily)…your life. 

I have just returned from exactly that…with a guy I just met…

My current travel buddy was a little surprised when I told him I wasn’t much of a camper.

“But you seem so outdoorsy.”

“Well, I am. Just because I don’t sleep outside doesn’t mean I’m not outdoorsy.”

Can you really blame someone for wanting a warm and dry bed to lay your head down after a day in the mountains?

In truth, I’ve just never really been exposed to camping. I didn’t grow up with a camping family. “What’s the point?” was my family’s typical response to the idea. Thus my childhod was void of the quintesential American camping vacation.

But now here I am sleeping in a tent for 11 days (on day 10 now) with no real tent-sleeping experience.

I used to take an backwards pride in the fact that I’ve never set up a tent in my entire life. It was something I wanted to say when I was 80 years and on my death bed.

What intimidated me about this simple engineering feat probably goes back deep into my childhood. When I was seven years old I built a bedroom fort out of my Playskool picnic table and my dresser. It imploded on me in the middle of the night, leaving me with a boo boo on my head no Snoopy Band-aid could make better. It also almost killed my stuffed Siberian Husky White Fang. His ear never stood up straight again.

So it’s not that I don’t want to sleep outside, it’s that I don’t want to suffocate and die when the tent collapses on me in the middle of the night.

Childhood traumas do not die easily.

But there comes a time when we must face our fears, whether they be sharks in the ocean, the mean freckled-faced kid in the sandbox, or a bunch of nylon and plastic poles in the woods.

I was determined to figure it out. Long story short, after a few attempts that reminded me of an old Disney cartoon about Goofy camping, I got it.

Now it’s my last night in a tent after ten days of camping. It’s been great, and I feel like I should get a merit badge, but I won’t ever blame someone for wanting a proper shower and a proper bed after a long day in the mountains.

Snoring ruins relationships.

My friend here snored last night. He said he was a fairly quiet sleeper and rarely snores. So far in the trip this has been true, until last night.

I should have known better. Most guys snore, and if they say they don’t, they’re in denial.

His was a rhythmic snore at least. You can sometimes try to work a melody into it to serenade yourself to sleep.
The worst are the random patterns of snorts, growls, and whistles that are nothing but a cacaphony of breathing. My father and brother snore like that, and I slept in the same room with a fair share during my trip last spring to South America.

Regardless how the air sounds coming in and out, any bedmate suffers.

I don’t know this guy well enough to really do anything about it. Sometimes you can hit a snorer to stop him just long enough to try to fall asleep before the roaring starts again. But I don’t know if I’d wake an even bigger monster doing so.

besides, whacking the snorer usually fails, for despite how hard I pray with all my might “fall asleep…fall asleep…fall asleep, and despite how close I get to entering the blissful state of silent unconsciousness, it starts……..again. At first I’m in denial.

“No…I didnt hear anything. Wait…it stopped again..wait…No!!! Go away!”

But you dont give up.

“FALL ASLEEP DAMNIT! There’s not much time!”

So I lie awake, staring at the ceiling (in this case the top of a tent), fuming. Feelings of anger, literal anger, emerge for selfishlessly hogging those precious hours before the morning. The next day you’re tired, cranky, all because of HIM. That’s how snoring ruins marriages, junior high sleepovers, and camping trips.

But there’s a solution. It’s not ear plugs; those are annoying. It’s in the form of a magic blue pill called Halcion. A mild sleep-inducing agent that fogs your mind with a sonoric fuzziness that hypnotizes your brain waves to instantly put you out of commission for the next 6 hours.

I took one last night after an hour of thinking to myself in vain “Fall asleep, damnit! Fall asleep.”

It worked…and we’re still friends and we’re back on our merry way.

I’m on the road again. In a spur of the moment decision I jumped into a car with someone I barely know and headed north.

My new friend Jon is a professional photographer. I met him last weekend at the Heber Valley Demolition Derby, where he mentioned he was goin on a road trip thru Yellowstone, Montana, and the Northwest.

Two days before he left he called me and asked if I wanted to come.

I’m not one for impulsive decisions, but taking into account this guy is cute and that I’ve wanted to go to Montana ever since I saw Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through (my head processed “cute guy + Montana = A River Runs Through It”), I saw this as my opportunity.

I’m pretty sure this guy doesn’t know about datejenny.com…so maybe I can be a little more liberal with my information. Then again, the consequences of divulging too much information just might be too great to risk it, no matter how little that risk is.

But my gut feeling? There won’t really be anything to tell.

Until tomorrow…

Many conservative religions define certain dress codes to uphold a certain level of modesty for its members, which is just another defense against immodest thought and behavior. As a member of a religion that more or less instills a dress code, I have been righteously covering my body ever since I was a teenager—until now.

This past summer I’ve been baring my shoulders. The hemlines are still long, the girls are still (very well) covered, but the sleeves…well…the sleeves have come off.

Many of you may think I’m on a slippery slope, and soon the hemlines WILL come up and my necklines WILL go down. I beg to differ. I’m a firm believer in classy, modest clothing, but how the shoulder is considered an immodest body part I don’t know. Does its roundness resemble that of a person’s bottom…or a breast…or…? Do the shoulders draw the eye to the clavicle, which slight V-shape points the eye further down to the peaks of peccadillo? Are those extra inches of flesh the final barrier that prevents the mind from crossing over from the moral to the immoral?

I can’t imagine deltoids having that much power. And if they did, well, it might even do me some good. When a sweet spirit and smart personality gets you nowhere, women should be allowed to bear their shoulders. It’s not an invitation for fornication, but a PG-rated sneak preview to get a guy’s attention.

Conservative religious institutions that put so much emphasis on getting married should relax dress codes for its members that can’t get out of the rut of Singledom. The new rule: The older you get, the more skin you can show.

I won’t be writing a letter to the president of the church anytime soon with my ideas. But in the meantime, I am going to release my shoulders. They are strong, sculpted and raise my arm up when I contract them. They don’t convey sexuality; they exude strength. Like curvy hips that scream “I can bear children,”, my strong shoulders scream “I can carry them!”

So I’m pulling out the tank tops and sleeveless shirts (and staying away from the tube tops and visible bra straps. Remember, I said classy.) and stocking up on razors and clear deodorant. And even before the farmer tan fades, a guy will call and say, “Hey Jenny, I think you’d make a great tennis partner. Can you play next Friday?”

I’m off to do some lateral arm raises… 

I’m allowed some thoughts on greater social issues than blind dates and Utah culture, no?

I wrote some thoughts down during my trip South last spring that I never posted. I’m doing so now. I titled this new post USA! USA! Part 2 because I already wrote a post called USA! USA! about an experience I had on a gondola in Austria. Read it. You’ll see I’ve come a long way in representing my country.

When traveling abroad, you are constantly reminded where you are from every time someone asks you, when you fill out a form, and (this I newly discovered) when you talk about politics.

I had a few, well, more than a few, interesting conversations with people from all over the world about the perception of the United States abroad.

Based on my experience, the perception I perceived can be divided into three P’s. (Say that three times fast!)

First: Politics.

One evening in Buenos Aires I had a passionate conversation with two German friends about America and its last 4 years. One blames the American people for re-electing Bush, and for that, we are responsible for his actions. The other defended the American people, agreeing that politics isn’t so black and white and that you really don’t know what will happen when you vote for someone.

I stepped in to say that during the 2004 election 9-11 was still quite fresh. We’d never faced a homeland attack before, nor has the world seen anything so devastating. You can’t blame America for trying to protect itself against a new enemy in a new world. Although unsure about the war, we tried to decide as best we could. The effect of that decision is for another discussion.

(I was tempted to criticize the German people for electing Hitler, and not doing anything about him, but didn’t.)

Second: Patriotism.

I was surprised how proud I felt saying, “I’m from America” while I was down there. You don’t say it much IN America, so uttering those words every time I met someone felt a little strange to the ear—but very warm to the heart.

I love to celebrate my country, but my Frenchman thought Americans we were too patriotic. He thought we went overboard every Fourth of July. Really? This comment bothered me. How can you be too patriotic? It was a sentiment I never knew non-Americans felt about us. I told him

Third: Parties.

I’m not talking about political parties. I’m talking about the drinking, dancing, stripping parties that flood our movies and TV shows.

Unfortunately, our media is what people perceive of Americans, which is Las Vegas, reality TV white trash, and girls taking off their tops at parties. I was talking to a European and some Aussies when they said they would love to see an American party because the women all flash their boobs.

I tried to explain that THAT is not America—at least not all of it.

Nevertheless, Americans can be very loud, stupid, and unaware of their conduct in public, more so than any other culture. To my chagrin, I had to agree with them. 

In the end, I don’t know if we’ll ever get over national stereotypes—such as the French are rude, the Chinese don’t respect laws, or the Americans are war-mongers—but I don’t think we really stick to them when we meet people on an individual basis. During my travels, I never met someone and thought in the back of my mind, “Oh, they are Israeli. They must be cheap.” I didn’t get the feeling others thought I wanted America to dominate the world when they met me. 

Nevertheless, stereotypes surfaced for a reason, and when I say “I’m from America” people will be watching my behavior (which I feel has come a long way since that day I rambled off in an Austrian gondola).

On that note, I will not be flashing my boobs at any parties. God bless America.

(Funny side note: The Israelis I met told me how to avoid paying for national park fees. He told me if you wake up early and get to the park entrance before 8:00 a.m., no one is at the toll booth and you can get in for free. He then smiled and said “Israelis always know how to get the deals.” Judge as you may.)