from the mixed-up files of a middle-aged mind

Looking for Compulsive Writer?

2007-09-25T17:08:00.000-06:00

Find me at compulsivewriter.com

...or my blog less traveled by oh simple things

fin

I'm just another Blueblood--that's Cougar blue

2007-09-03T07:15:00.000-06:00

my kids attended with various levels of enthusiasm. or not

it's always fun to hone in on someone else's photo shoot

and that was a photo op not to be resisted

Happy Birthday L~

2007-06-19T08:58:00.001-06:00

I know it's sideways, but it remains so even when I save it after turning it right. Sometimes you have to be smarter than the darn computer. And I'm not.

If you have stumbled across this looking for compulsive writer, the post to which this photo belongs may be found at my new home at compulsivewriter.com.

From the Mixed-up Files has moved

2007-04-21T22:21:00.000-06:00

See you at compulsivewriter.com

You don't use coupons at prom, Mom!

2007-04-15T18:49:00.000-06:00

Three things I learned at my first prom as the mom:

1). Boys are WAY easier to help get ready than girls. Seriously! I was out getting a pedicure and eating Café Rio with my in-laws while Melody was juggling her 14 yards of gorgeous brown tulle. It almost didn't seem fair.

2). Apparently, my son informed me (as I started to pull out Ottavio's coupons when I heard where he was taking his date), it's not kosher to use coupons at prom.

3). Although a dress would be completely beyond me, I am going to learn how to make my own darn corsage--thank you very much--before I watch another kid fork out $20 for one stinkin' (but lovely) gerber daisy. Not that his cute date wasn't worth it, but I would've made her an armload of gerber daisies for half that!

(p.s. Here's a shout out to Melody for earning both 3rd Place and an honorable mention in Segullah's annual poetry contest. And in case you were wondering, I'm not bailing on compulsivewriter.com, but until I get smart enough to post photos in something other than thumbnail or you-don't-have-a-computer-big-enough-to-see-this size, I'm not entirely quitting my day job here at blogger.)

You must remember this...

2007-04-09T19:14:00.000-06:00

Well, tune in to Disney Princess: Part Deux over at my new digs.

(And please update your links!)

Hey Mr. Easter Bunny...

2007-04-08T15:02:00.000-06:00

Why don't cha hop on over to Sister Pottymouth's place and wish Julie a BIG

H a P P Y
B i R T H D a Y !!!

(Friday, April 6)

It only took me 10 years, but I finally get it!

2007-04-05T23:24:00.000-06:00

Sure I've read each and every Harry Potter book and sat through each movie in the theater and on DVD. But today I finally caught on to the tiniest bit of clever word play. Ten years later!

Diagon Alley.

Diagonally.

(Thanks Russell!)
HaHaHaHaHa.

I'm sorry but my blog muse is on vacation and small things amuse small minds.

So are you as excited as I am for July 31? I will admit to being a fan and will probably stay up all night just to read it in one day. It's just a crazy little thing I have to do now and then when I'm in a mood. (Besides that, it really impresses small children.)

Which is why I have not been able to put down this:

"Have you ever been to the Déjà Vue before?" asked Madeleine...

Jack: "I don't think so, but it does look sort of familiar."

And one more reason to look forward to July 2007: the next Thursday Next novel. How I love to get myself lost in a good book!

What about you:

Harry Potter Y/N?

What's on your nightstand?

for sister pottymouth

2007-04-01T21:21:00.000-06:00

G o o g l e me this!

And answer me this: Where do you do your best thinking?

(Oh and this just in, my snake charmer friend.)

Blame it on Design Mom

2007-03-30T06:50:00.000-06:00

Design Mom came across my radar screen via Rebecca Bingham, whom I met blogging and who now is one of my favorite people. I became addicted during Design Mom's wildly generous November/December giveaway spree in which I won absolutely nothing, but which I enjoyed immensely. What I love about Design Mom are the great ideas, the fabulous guest posts and the cool shopping finds. But especially how the photos are like eye candy for the soul.

In the past several months Design Mom helped me discover the perfect Christmas present for my husband.

She also put me on to a great deal on three new ornaments for my Christmas tree. ("Why three?" you may ask. Because eventually one will get broken. And then another. But by the time my three boys and one tomboy are out of the house I should hopefully have at least one ornament left intact.)

And, after practically drooling over some of these on Design Mom, I was able to truthfully tell a close friend who made me thishow much I had been wanting a beautiful wreath for my front door. It was just what she needed to hear.

And now I'm madly craving--of all things--a pretty pastel cashmere sweater because I really NEED to cut it all up and make me some betz white bunnies for Easter.

In addition to some great product and website recommendations, Design Mom's posts are full of great ideas. You will find fun project ideas (such as the one above), tips on just about everything, book recommendations, and even a feature called Ask-Design-Mom. And it's all presented so tastefully.

So I do love to look. Window shop, if you will. Imagine soft sunlight shining through perfect window sill, which looks out onto some pretty green foilage. Dotted along the sill and the top of the bottom window are a number of mismatched glasses, cups and such. Hanging from the ceiling are some bright decorative cards. Something like this:
After a long hard Utah winter, it was the perfect vision of spring. It didn't have to belong to me. I was happy just to look at it.

And not just that. Although previously I found it easy to aware of elements of design found in nature or to apply them while gardening or quilting, I'd never given much thought to what Design Mom describes as "where design and motherhood intersect." But since reading Design Mom regularly (she posts early so it's become a great way to start my day before the kids wake up), I find I notice and fall in love with even the simplest of things. (Might I recommend some of these beautiful cards, creations of my good friend geo?)

I even made an entire family event just out of opening my first ever gift from

(Thanks! Maure and Angela)

Design Mom's generous giveaways are some of my favorites. I cheered when some of my blog friends won, but I was never one of the lucky ones. Until this time. I quickly wrote some generic comment because I was almost late for work. Knowing competition is tough for these coveted prizes and comments often number in the hundreds, I was doubtful I would ever win. But this time I got lucky and scored a great gift from YoonKids. (Keep entering! Design Mom gives away great prizes quite regularly. The next lucky winner could be you!)

So you can blame it on Design Mom if I'm now more inclined to pick up and purchase the perfect polk-a-dot skirt. Covet a great new find at Moda Home. Or find myself tempted by the prettiest easter chocolates available on the world wide web. Design Mom makes my world a more a better place.

And that's a beautiful thing!

(Don't miss guest bloggers c jane and nie nie on Design Mom on Monday, April 2.)

Some people marry axe murderers...

2007-03-29T06:32:00.000-06:00

Me? Apparently I just married Earl.

Last night for the weekly church youth activity several fearless leaders disguised themselves for a scavenger hunt at the local mall. They were supposed to dress up and then wander the mall aimlessly while groups of energetic teenagers roamed the mall and tried to get up their nerve to approach anyone looking out of the ordinary and ask for their signature. Imagine my surprise when my husband came up with this great get-up. The kids all thought he looked like a guy whose name is Earl. You know the one.

B., who happened to be at my house delivering what might possibly be the best salsa in the world (Thanks b.!), agreed.

Throughout our married life my husband has been told he resembles a number of celebrities: Mel Gibson, Mark Harmon, Huey Lewis, Steve Erwin, and now Earl. (The Mel Gibson thing occurred a number of years ago whilst he was one of the few, the proud...the only handful of male students in the elementary ed. program at BYU. I tried to tell him the two female students in his program who told him that were hitting on him. But he didn't believe me.) He also had a MacGyver stage, which was one of my personal favorites.

Here are the other leaders. Can you spot the city water director? He cooks up a mean dutch oven dinner. Just ask the mayor.

Urgent, Important and most of all Relevant Reader Poll

2007-03-27T19:33:00.000-06:00

The other day at work an urgent and highly contestable question occupied our minds for most of the day. Passion was palpable. Tempers flared. In fact, I would say that some individuals became quite animated over the debate.

Based on the answers of the boys in comparison to the responses of the girls, I began to formulate an interesting theory or two. But additional scientific research is needed. And, dear blog friends, I need votes from more than just the female sector and my handful (on a good day) of male readers. So query your husbands. Your boyfriends. The dishwasher repairman, too.

And tell me...

"Who's your favorite Disney Princess?"

(If you're so inclined, you can tell me why, too. Your reason may (or may not) help support my theory.)

Post of the week...

2007-03-25T06:57:00.000-06:00

If you don't know her already, let me introduce to you a fabulous blogger, mental tesserae, via one of my favorite posts ever, lather and rinse. It is a rare gift indeed when someone can sum up almost two decades of one of your most deeply personal internal confllicts and its ongoing resolution in a single post.

Growing old ain't for sissies

2007-03-22T20:21:00.000-06:00

"Grandpa Smitty," 1909-2007

This past Tuesday I got a phone call at work at a little after 10:00 a.m. "Grandpa got his wish," was all my mom could say. Well over two years after a diagnosis of congestive heart failure and the doctor's giving him six months to live, my maternal Grandfather finally passed on. He had just turned 98. His final act of kindness to my grandmother was to wait till the first day of spring, as he knew she couldn't bear watching them lower his coffin to into the cold hard winter earth.

I was privileged to have been able to help care for Grandpa and Grandma in their home for several months during 2005. During that time and many times since I was a witness to their tenderness and love for one another. It is a blessing I will never forget.

I loved watching them touch and kiss and especially loved seeing them hold hands across their respective armchairs. My favorite part of the mornings was every time Grandpa would go back to bed. I would scoot around Grandma to the other side of the bed and help her tuck him in; then give him a kiss on the forehead after she kissed him goodnight. Grandma always said, "It's double or nothing." I noticed how sometimes they would kiss and then they would keep going back in for more. They just didn't want to let go of each other.

Many times I caught the worried and fearful look behind Grandma's eyes on those days Grandpa wasn't feeling well enough to get up at all or when she'd asked him to stay up a little while and he just couldn't do it. But one morning I learned how that feeling was reciprocated. Grandma had gotten up early that day and found Grandpa still sleeping--it was one of those dark and dreary days that were meant to be slept away. Grandma went back upstairs and made her bed and got to work on some other things. Meanwhile Grandpa had got up and been puzzled not to find her up waiting for him and on him already. It was almost 8:00 and he started to really worry that something had happened to her. He said to me "I wondered what I was ever going to do without her!"

Grandpa was such a good example of not complaining. The closest he ever came was when he would tell my husband in a wistful voice, "Growing old ain't for sissies!" Every day he would sit in the chair and patiently let me hook him up to the pulse oximeter and the blood pressure cuff and he would wait for the machine to tell him what he already knew--it wasn't going to be today. Sometimes he would be almost apologetic about not feeling well enough to do much more than sleep--and on a good day watch a little TV. On those days I would try to reassure him that at his age and with the active life he had led for almost a century, surely he had earned a little rest.

Grandpa kept his sense of humor and used it wisely to get out of irritating situations. In one instance I remember he was having a bad day and Grandma was fussing over him, trying to test his oxygen tube where it went into his nose. (Even back then Grandpa was so tired of the oxygen tube.) They sort of tussled over it and he finally said, "Why don't you just wrap it around like that [he wrapped it around his neck] and get it over with!" Then he smiled at her tenderly and they hugged. She kissed him softly as she tucked him in. The entire time his tone of voice was one of patience and long suffering.

Watching both Grandpa and Grandma taught me a lot about what it really means to "endure to the end." Sometimes it's not only about staying good or being long suffering. Sometimes it's just about patiently waiting. I'm sure I can hardly begin to comprehend how that must be at the ages of 90 and 98.

One of my favorite experiences was when Grandpa slyly asked Grandma her opinion about something. Of course she started to give it to him. Then with a big grin on his face he pointed to his lack of hearing aids and therefore his obvious inability to hear one word she said on the subject. We all got a good laugh over that one.

June 8, 2005: Grandma said that Grandpa was asking about how Mom's house is coming. Grandma told him the latest she heard was that it wouldn't be finished until December. Grandpa then asked "Will we have to move in December?" Grandma assured him that they could stay in their home as long as they wanted. But I was struck by the sad irony of Grandpa one day waiting patiently--wondering when it will be his time to go--and another day worrying about something as far away as December.

Over that summer I spent a few nights with them while my mom, who lived with them and managed their care, was away. One night as I arrived I noticed there was trouble with one of the lamps blinking on and off. I was amused both by Grandpa (who had already removed his hearing aids before going to bed for the night) saying "give me a holler if you run into any trouble," and by Grandma joking with us that the light going on and off certainly did not mean she entertaining any boyfriends.

Another day I had spent over 1 1/2 hours trying to clear up a billing issue and the cancellation of an accidental death insurance policy. To authorize everything, however, the company required I put Grandpa on the phone to cancel the policy. He couldn't hear a thing, even when I repeated back what the CSR had said. Afterwards he said it would have been easier to have just been killed.

Grandpa once said, in regards to his age, "Sometimes I'm even looking forward to reaching 100...but not very often."

The last time I saw Grandpa, Grandma had not been feeling well. Grandpa wasn’t really sure where he was and the evening was difficult for all of us. In spite of all his frustrations, Grandpa finally calmed down enough to ask Grandma simply, "What do you want me to do?' Eventually he settled down and went to bed, but not without telling me to make sure Grandma went to bed, too. And telling Grandma one more time how much he loved her.

My first thoughts when I heard the news were, "What a great party!" When you live to be 98 you probably know more people on the other side than people left here on earth. And in Grandpa's case there was reason to rejoice. His father, who was born on the trail to Utah, was 60 years old when my grandfather was born. Grandpa was one of the last living immediate sons of the pioneers. Loved ones from generations past would surely praise his name for his great efforts to record their histories. We know their names--we know them--because he shared their stories.

So now I share his. Just a few brief paragraphs are inadequate to tell the story of almost a century of a good man's life. No, Grandpa, growing old ain't for sissies. But you did it with courage and kindness and a tenderness toward grandmother that was an honor to witness.

Thanks Grandpa, for the example of a life well lived. I know you often wondered why it took so long. And I don’t know. But I am deeply grateful for every single one of those kisses goodnight I was blessed to bestow upon your forehead and for all you taught me while you were waiting to go home.

Rest in peace.

Real moms eat plastic pizza...

2007-03-21T20:54:00.000-06:00

(Thanks for the tag conqueso.)

...and say "please" and "thank you" at pretend tea parties.

Real moms know how to laugh when they could very well cry!

Real moms (with teenagers) promise themselves they will never curse their own kids with kids just like them. Because now they know what it feels like when what goes around comes around.

Real moms DO bake cookies!

Real moms learn to be prepared for whatever's next when the neighbor across the street begins her sentence with, "I just thought you should know"...

Real moms say "I'm sorry" when they lose their cool.

Real moms get real with their daughters.

Real moms will march right down to the principal's office when necessary. And let it be their child's fault. At least when it really is.

Real moms know how to appreciate the simple things in life. Even when it means being tolerant of creative play. And knowing long-awaited appreciation is a fleeting thing.

Real moms learn to find contentment.

Real moms--at least on a good day--realize they are not completely responsible when their kids grow up and need therapy. Because sometimes kids just come that way.

Real moms love madly, deeply, truly and no matter what. At the end of the day they know that no matter what else they've done with their time, the most important and relevant accomplishment has been to love.

It doesn't get much better than that!

If you can read this, "Tag! You're it!" Either add a "real moms..." line in the comments section or write your own post. If you post send me a link and I'll post it right here!

Players: Daredevil Mom

(more links in the comments)

Pave paradise and put up a parking lot. And other nonsense.

2007-03-19T05:46:00.000-06:00

After the style of a certain and mediocre local restaurant reviewer, I too want to be queen for a day.

We are annoyed:

Boo! Hiss!

We don't need high rises. We have mountains!

But mostly we are amused:

The latest findings in important health research are a compelling reason to run right out to Target this very minute and purchase a package of the new green Peeps.

But only if you have an arsenal of matches, alcohol and other destructive materials on hand.

I sense the makings of a fabulous science fair project.

The Valerie Plame story is something I take almost as seriously as the latest Peeps research. The passion is palpable.

She is tall and thin, with pink lip gloss and frosted blond hair betraying a hint of dark roots. A diamond ring reminds us of her husband, who, for once, has not accompanied her to a location where there are cameras.

Cue the lava already. Or the crickets. Or more palpable passion if you will.

This man is freakin' brilliant. Maybe you have to read his books to fully appreciate the genius. Maybe I'm just twisted. But unless you absolutely loathe fantasy, give "The Eyre Affair" a go. I've never been so thoroughly amused or distracted.

"You know Jack...?"

Except maybe by this. I was first introduced to the theory of bracketology over at excessively diverted. If you think about it, the possibilities are endless. Be sure to check out my personal favorite, marital arguments.

JOE:
The only fight we'd ever have is what
video to rent on Saturday night.

KATHLEEN:
Who fights about that?

And now we'll take another order of your limp fries, thank you very much. Even though call it personal preference... we like ours crispy.

C is for Cookie and that's good enough for me!

2007-03-16T22:32:00.000-06:00

With fond recollection of this fine day:

...and a burning need to make this happen again (only with cookies this time), I ask you this pertinent question:

What's your favorite cookie recipe?

Don't limit yourself to sugar cookies, but if someone has anything remotely like the buttery perfection I had to purchase again at the Provo Bakery this morning, do tell.
Please. My new life ambition is to create a comparable cut-out cookie.

In the meantime, I guess you'll have to settle for these:

Giant Ginger Cookies

4 1/2 c. flour
4 tsp. ground ginger
2 tsp. baking soda
1 1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1 tsp. ground cloves
1/4 tsp. salt
1 1/2 c. shortening
2 c. sugar
2 eggs
1/2 c. molasses
3/4 c. coarse sugar

Stir together dry ingredients in a separate bowl. Beat shortening until softened. Add sugar and beat till fluffy. Add eggs and molasses; beat well. Add half of flour mixture. Mix. Stir in remaining flour mixture. Shape dough into 2" balls for giant cookies; smaller if desired. Bake on ungreased cookie sheet for 12 minutes at 350 degrees.

...and these:

Pumpkin Cookies

2 sticks butter (1 cup)
3 c. sugar
2 eggs
2 tsp. vanilla
2 tsp. cinnamon
2 tsp. nutmeg
2 tsp. soda
2 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
4 1/2-5 cups flour
1 lg. can pumpkin
1 bag gourmet milk chocolate chips
1 c. chopped pecans

Cream butter. Add sugar, eggs and vanilla; mixing after each addition. Stir in dry ingredients. Mix. Stir in chocolate chips and nuts. Drop by spoonfuls on cookie sheet. Bake 12 minutes at 375.

(Both of these recipes make bakery-class cookies.)

I WAS SO MAD

2007-03-14T22:00:00.000-06:00

I. Blogger won't let me post pictures. So I am unable to post the blog I really wanted to write. I am SO mad!

II. This is the totally lame response I got back from Best Western regarding my horrible hotel stay in Tucson (see adventure IV): (The gist of it is since the hotel manager won't bother responding to your concerns he gets a pass and we'll put your letter in the round file.) I am SO mad!

Hello Ms. R,

Thank you again for your e-mail concerning your stay at the Best Western
Executive Inn. I apologize our office has not received a response to
your comments from the management team.

I would like to assure you that Best Western members are required to
uphold the guidelines of service and accommodations as set forth by our
Board of Directors. To ensure that these guidelines are being met in
accordance with Best Western policies, quality assurance reviews are
conducted for each Best Western member property on a regular basis. The
observations, concerns and experiences of guests are a vital part of
this process and are carefully considered. Your correspondence will be
retained in the Customer Service files for inclusion in the next quality
assurance review of this hotel.

You are a valued guest and your business is very important to Best
Western members. Since customer satisfaction is the primary goal of Best
Western members, guest comments are greatly appreciated. Again, thank
you for taking the time to bring this matter to our attention.

Sincerely,

Mr. T
Customer Care
Best Western International

Here is my response:

Dear American Public,

If ever find yourself in Tucson, absolutely do NOT stay at the Best Western Executive Inn on 333 W. Drachman St.

Unless you are a drug dealer or a pervert.

Or you do not at all mind strangers having complete access to your hotel rooms in the middle of the night because staff has not bothered to secure the hotel building or to fix the broken sliding glass doors into your rooms.

Or you have a penchant for sleeping in and/or showering in other people's dirt.

Sincerely,

An extremely dissatisfied customer

(Lest you think I was overreacting and that requesting an escort to my room at 3am on a Sunday morning and then later locking myself inside my vehicle every time some questionable car drove up to the hotel was a little paranoid, please read this review. The irony of the fact that I carefully solicited directions to a pharmacy that might be more safe well after midnight on a Saturday night and then drove directly to a hotel in a bad part of town is not lost on me. My review of the hotel, in which I state, "I wouldn't keep my dog there," is pending approval.)

III. OK, so there is not really any three. Yes, there are MANY things that frustrate me or which I find extremely sick and wrong, but I try not to waste my energy on anger unless it's going to be productive. However, I really want to know...

What makes you SO mad?

Because obituaries are just way too short...moonshadow moonshadow

2007-03-13T06:43:00.000-06:00

Friday evening we got the word it would be within hours. My husband stayed until around 2 am, but finally had come home. Then about 4:30 am on Saturday the phone rang. Verna had just gone in her sleep. We were relieved for her--she'd been in pain and was so weak since her stroke. But what a loss for the rest of us.

The obituary is just a brief outline. Not even a sketch of one woman's life. I only arrived at the last quarter. But here is what I remember:

They used to live in a tiny house in south west Provo. But on that small lot life was abundant. Verna could grow anything--inside or out. She kept geraniums alive, blooming, vibrant and happy all year round. And I've never seen anyone with more beautiful roses nor anyone who could make them bloom all summer long. It wasn't just a hobby. It was a passion. When my husband and I were dating (and we dated for forever) I would often find Verna's roses left in my apartment in tiny vases of water. Those were better and much more my style than dozens of long-stemmed roses from the florist. My favorite of hers was a pale purple rose with the sweetest of scents--it's called Moon Shadow. I've tried to grow my own, but mine are never as prolific. Nor do they ever seem quite as fragrant.

Verna accepted me like family long before I was officially so. And I always felt as though she accepted and loved me unconditionally. She treated me as if I were one of her own.

Another of Verna's passions was crocheting. Each of my four babies was blessed wrapped in a most beautiful blanket made by her hands. Even after her eyesight dimmed I would find Verna sitting in her favorite spot working her magic with a hook and a ball of yarn. It was as if her fingers had chained so many rows they knew exactly where to go--what to do--even without her eyes to guide them.

I've never been a big fan of Barbie, but Verna had a collection to be admired. Her tiny house on the west side could barely house them all. But when the city decided to raze that little row of houses and Verna moved into a larger home on the south east side of town they got their own room. She collected all sorts of dolls and had an enviable thimble collection as well.

Last year I decided I needed to make Verna a quilt for her birthday. It was a project I had started for myself, then decided to give to her, even though it was something I really loved. I finished it just in time and was so excited to give it to her on her actual birthday.

Let me tell you something about the giving of a quilt. Quilters put something of themselves into a quilt that only others who quilt understand. And they seal it almost always quite literally with a little blood, sweat and tears. This kind of meaning is often lost on the recipient, except when the recipient is another quilter.

As I gave Verna her quilt she got it. And she bestowed upon me the highest form of gratitude I could've imagined, "Oh, Mama would've loved this. She would've been so proud!"

A few weeks ago we got a call early in the morning. Verna was in the hospital. She'd had a stroke. I was leaving for Arizona the very next day and was debating whether or not to cancel my plans. But it appeared she was going to be OK, so I went. On my way home I talked to my husband and he told me she was getting ready to go home. Loved ones were coming to get her.

The day I arrived back in town I went to visit her in the hospital. She held me tight and said, "I was waiting for you to come." I knew I wasn't what she was waiting for, but I knew that she had anticipated my return. That meant a lot to me. I told her how much I loved her and she responded likewise. She acknowledged each of my kids in a deep and personal way. Pure love. I wondered why we wait till death to admit such depth of feeling to one another. I love the raw honesty of moments such as that. And the tenderness. I need more of it. I think we all do.

My husband, who is especially close to this particular aunt, went to visit her and tuck her in every night for those three weeks. Blood is thicker than water. It will be hard to say good-bye.

Bye. I love you.

Bowling for Ice Cream. . .

2007-03-12T04:27:00.000-06:00

...because why the heck would anyone go bowling for soup?

Let me tell you how much I love my hood. In my hood live cool people such as my favorite superhero, kactiguy and his lovely wife the Lo Down. Within our environs we also enjoy the aroma of melody's garden, pflower and the estrogen garden, not to mention the perfectly pungent sister pottymouth. That is some serious blogodaciousness concentrated into one little hood, don't you think?

So last Monday night some of us (sadly sans melody, daredevil mom and sis. pottymouth) got together--along with some non-bloggers we allow to hang out with us--for some serious bowling. Because bowling with kids is heady stuff, you know. Afterwards we all headed over to the realm of Lo-kactiguy-Down for some ice cream. A good time was had by all.

Notice whose cute kids had the hardest time keeping a straight face? Wonder where they get that from?

Let me tell you. . .

2007-03-09T05:13:00.000-07:00

. . . about one of my best friends. She is aptly named Melody. She is a strong, clear and lovely voice for light and truth.

Yesterday Courtney asked me an interesting question. "Who is is that nurtures you?" I made some silly reply, but instantly knew I had misspoken. Melody, who is not only a beautiful woman, sister, friend and mother, is also a nurse. She is a healer. She has loved and helped heal my children's skinned or impaled-by-tweezers knees, lacerated and bumped heads, broken hands and bruised bodies. She has helped to heal my body of a serious case of pneumonia and a significant knee surgery. But best of all, her friendship heals my soul.

One day I will write more about this amazing sister-friend whose presence in my life is a precious gift from God. But today I just want you to read the beautiful poem she wrote for Kirsten Hinckley.

Melody would not tell you this, but I can. Her wonderful tribute was read at Kirsten's memorial service and printed on the back of the program for her services. I cannot begin to imagine the grief of losing a child. But I do know that during the deepest of sorrows or the fullest of joys, Melody's voice is that of an angel. In this mortal world there is no other better equipped to offer words of solace, comfort, joy and hope.

Talkin'Bout an evolution/Bring it on home, baby!

2007-03-07T06:25:00.000-07:00

As most of you know, I work with a team of people half my age. Literally. Most of the time, however, it's not readily apparent that we come from entirely different generations (they are pure Gen Y, but I belong to the lost generation--those of us born between the Baby Boomers and Gen X; we are called, of all things, Generation Jones, because we are, apparently, still jonesin for our expectations to be fulfilled).

Except yesterday.

It began when one of my male co-workers was expressing frustration over his entire day's work from the day before being completely undone when someone changed his mind about what the client wanted. My co-worker was quite put out over that and seemed inconsolable.

Trying to illustrate how good hard work and effort is never a complete waste I said, "Look at it this way, someday you will have great empathy with your wife and the mother of your children."

He seemed surprised, but interested. I continued to explain how nearly everything one does as a stay-at-home mother becomes undone in a matter of mere minutes. EVERYTHING!

"You mean it's a complete waste?" he asked. "No, and that's the point. In essence it's the most important work I will ever do. But most all the actual work I do gets undone almost immediately."

I take my job of creating awareness over women's issues very seriously, no?

By now a number of people were interested. The discussion eventually digressed into gender equity regarding housework. I respectfully made the observation that most men in my generation still see housework as women's work. Granted there have been great strides taken in understanding the importance of paternal involvement in the raising of the children. But even in homes in which two parents work, housework is still primarily perceived as the woman's responsibility. S-l-o-w-l-y that's changing. I have observed that generally, this generation is becoming more evolved than my generation in this respect. Many mothers I know--myself included--work very hard to instill the message in their kids that taking care of the house is meant to be a shared responsibility.

Just then someone asked where "Ben," one of my co-supervisors, was. Ben got married last October. It has been sweet to witness a change in him as he has grown from a bachelor into an attentive husband.

Remembering where he'd told me he was going, I started to laugh.

"He took a long lunch today so he could go home to do the dishes and the laundry and clean the house."

Well, he certainly knocked that one out of the park.

Bring it on home, baby!

Goodnight; sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite

2007-03-06T05:46:00.000-07:00

in honor of my good friend geo, who somehow manages to do this and much, much more every day

Tonight (Sunday) I tucked my ninety-year-old grandmother into bed for the night. Some time ago I regularly had the pleasure of turning down her bed for her before her afternoon nap, but it's been awhile and this was the first time at bedtime. I gently nestled the sheets beneath her chin and laid out the Underground Railroad quilt I pieced for her for her 88th birthday and made her promise to me that no matter what happened with Grandpa during the night she would stay in bed and page the aides and let them deal with it.

She had another TIA today. It's no wonder. Grandpa, just turned 98, has been very sweet and cooperative with her until these past few weeks. But now dementia usually has him in its vicious grip and he's had enough the oxygen tubes and little white pills and waking up every day to the disappointment of still being alive.

The nurse came in and took Grandma's blood pressure. They'd finally gotten it down to 145 over something earlier, but that was before the both of us had to double-team Grandpa to get him to down his meds. Now it was back to 150/70. The nurse was concerned. So was I, but I told him I was sure even my blood pressure was elevated after the battle over dinner. I hoped that if both of them would stay in bed through the night she'd feel better in the morning.

Now I'm afraid I'll be haunted forever by my memory of their supper. Noting it would be one of their last together. How sad it was to watch my grandmother desperately keep offering him different foods in order to get him to eat. And to see him refuse even the chocolates that had lit up his eyes just moments ago, but now didn't seem so enticing being offered as a bribe for a good boy who would take his medicine. (Note to self. If you find yourself married to someone who has already lived well past 90 years--the last two after being given six months to live--give him chocolate whenever he wants it. What's it going to hurt?) One moment Grandma is stubbornly persisting in trying to get one more bite of food down him. The next minute she's telling me how a friend of theirs finally just stopped feeding her husband because he wanted to go so badly and this was the only way. After well over 75 years, Grandma just can't quite let Grandpa go. Could you?

As for me, I recover from the sting of the swat and the harsh words with which he rejected the meds I knew I must give him. Even at my age, having my hand slapped by this man whom I could probably take down with one arm still smarts in the heart of the little girl who looked up to him, loved him and yet was still always a little bit afraid of him her most of her young life. I do note, however, that when it's finally all over, and in the first lucid comments of the evening, he pleads, "You do understand, don't you?" "Yes, Grandpa," I reassure him as I kiss his cheek. "I do understand."

As I was finishing up their dishes and Grandma was getting ready for bed Grandpa kept trying to get up. He needed to go save the children. He wondered how all the people were doing down south after the big flood. He didn't know where the ubiquitous "they" wanted him to go, where "they" wanted him to sleep. He wondered if we'd be staying at Heber's house in Ogden. He needed to find and put on his church shoes. Grandma (and I've noticed my mom does this as well) keeps trying to a). understand what he's saying and b). bring him back to his senses. I wonder if perhaps it's better just to play along. "The children are all fine, Grandpa." "That was a good thing you did." "Yes, that was a terrible disaster. But you need your rest so you can go back to help tomorrow." "Everyone is OK now."

This tiny man who has violently resisted our efforts to care for him finally settles down enough to ask Grandma simply, "What do you want me to do?' "Go to bed now" is her reply. Eventually he does so, but not without telling me to make sure Grandma goes to bed. And telling her one more time how much he loves her.

I kiss them both goodnight, turn down the lights and quietly slip out the door. I want to cry. But I'm so overwhelmed by trying to process everything I can't even find my tears.

"Goodnight," I recite. "Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite. . . "

Blogodaciousness! NOT just another bunny face

2007-03-05T06:44:00.000-07:00

for c jane's theme day: self-portrait.

Thoughts, please?

2007-03-03T08:41:00.000-07:00

5-year-olds in fish nets

Forget Paris?

2007-03-02T07:37:00.000-07:00

"Mom, who is Paris HIlton?"

The question came out of nowhere. I was in the living room curled up in my favorite navy recliner. My daughter was in her bedroom trying to earn coins for my Club Penguin account so I can buy my own puffle.

Because she can be nice like that.

Duly noting that twisted way the world has of making completely random acts collide, I glanced up from the article I was at that very moment reading in today's issue of The Daily Herald: After a week without her, AP asks: Can we forget Paris?

"A spoiled little rich girl who has no visible talents or skills but through no effort or merit of her own is immensely rich and famous. Not to mention famously rich," I respond.

L~"Is she the one with the bunny face?"

I glance down to examine the picture (not this one) of Paris' overtanned face framed by her perfectly platinum hair. In my head I trace the outline of the typical hand-drawn bunny face--you know the one--superimposed over Paris'. I know exactly what she means.

"Yeah. She's the one with bunny face."

Apparently despite our best intentions or the utmost desires of our hearts, the answer would be a resounding, "NO!"

2007-03-01T23:01:00.000-07:00

Post of the week.

Random thoughts on a brilliant Wednesday morning

2007-02-28T08:16:00.000-07:00

First I just need to know if there is anyone out there in the cyberworld who also avoids his or her financial deficiencies by pretending the bills never arrived. Or they can't be found. Or perhaps they were never sent in the first place.

Eventually I do find them and pay them in time to avoid late fees and interest, but if there is anything about which I am the least bit cowardly it would be fiscal responsibility. Why must I wait till the last possible moment to pony up? It's not like there is any more money in the bank (always sufficient, but never enough) at the beginning of the next month than there was two weeks earlier when the bill started pouring in. And I do always--even when the credit card bill is completely overwhelming--find a way to pony up. For all of it. I just can't seem to do so in a timely manner.

What's up with that?

Isn't it cool that no matter what your shortcomings are as a parent or that this is the kid who says he doesn't like pancakes and insists he is not hungry, the simple act of making Mickey Mouse pancakes for breakfast makes you the best Mom in the whole world?

Dear Macey's (the grocery store, not the now all-too-common-it-ceases-being-interesting department store): It does not matter how much you mark it down or make it cheaper than the other "generic brands" I refuse to buy something whose brand name is a misspelled word. There is nothing sure about "Shur Savings" brand except that I absolutely won't buy it.

Even if that means my husband has to make a second trip to the grocery store because we are out of milk and I also refuse to spend $2.50 for a no-name brand of 1%.

Can I tell you how much it pained me to reply to the poor girl who puts food on her table doing surveys for Harris Interactive honestly and admit out loud that I read "The Daily Herald?" I only read it because it comes to my door each day free of charge. And I'm such a word-a-holic that I will read the back of shampoo bottles if there is is nothing else at hand. I couldn't lie to her. But somehow I felt cheap and ditsy. It's like admitting that you only watch shows on the CW. Or that you bought Britney's last CD.

Or something.

Speaking of True Confessions:

Today I will freely admit that I am tired of being a responsible woman. After days of spending every possible minute my children were at school at work I am going to deliberately arrive late to work.

Because today I am just so over being responsible for everything and being repsonsible to everyone and just plain being "the repsonsible one" and I would rather just sit here. Basking in the silence. Wrapped up in a warm quilt in my comfy navy leather recliner. (You know, the one with the purposely inflicted ball point pen-holes in the arm.) And notice out of the corner of my eye that the sun is shining more brightly through my southern-exposed living room window and the blue of the sky is getting more intense each minute that I linger.

These are things I usually forget about once I clock in at work. But just for today I want to remember.

Isn't life ironic? The very day after I lambast the Herald in my blog they publish a letter to the editor from me. Of course I blasted them in the letter as well, but the fact that if there were no Herald or Herald readers my letter would've been totally irrelevant is not lost on me.

a bird in the kitchen is worth two in hand

2007-02-26T18:49:00.000-07:00

I.

A couple of months ago I was driving home from somewhere with a mini-vanload of 15-to-16-year olds when my cell phone rang.

Me: "Speak to me!"

My seven-year-old, K~: "We found a dead bird. And it doesn't have any wounds on its body. And there's no blood. It's feathers are undisturbed. And it's wings aren't broken..." I'm thinking, "I should write a pilot for CSI Animal Planet."

I interrupt: "DON'T TOUCH THE DEAD BIRD!"

So at this point the teenagers in my car stop talking about life and love and the lastest song on the radio and start laughing. I want to say to them, "Just you wait. You future parents, you." I turn my attention back to the phone call, which is not going well. At the same time I'm ruling out West Nile Virus because it's too cold. Bird Flu because we're in the western hemisphere. At least it looks like we won't be going into quarantine...

K~: "I'm not."

Me: "Where is the bird?"

K~: "In the kitchen."

Me: "WHAT? "WHY IS THERE A DEAD BIRD IN MY KITCHEN?"

K~: Because L~ brought it in the house.

Me: "Did she touch it?" Did you touch it?

K~: "No. It's in cups."

Me: "What???"

Suddenly the darker side of me pictures dismembered bird pieces distributed meticulously throughout a number of paper cups. "I'm raising some kind of a psycho animal torturer, I think to myself." At the same time I'm also thinking, "You know you'd have to work pretty hard to dismember a bird. They kind of come all in one piece, don't they?"

Me: "Tell L~ to take it outside!"

It was the nicest way I could think of to say, "GET THE DEAD BIRD OUT OF MY KITCHEN! NOW!" Remember, there were witnesses.

Me, reiterating: "Take the bird outside but DON'T TOUCH IT. AND DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING ELSE EITHER!!!! THEN GO IN THE BATHROOM AND "WASH UP TO YOUR ELBOWS WITH REALLY HOT (read scalding) WATER AND LOTS OF SOAP!!!!! I'll be there in about five minutes. Wait till I get home."

II.

A few weeks ago the mercury finally crept up above 20. So I felt I could finally venture back out to my deck. My deck can be a lovely place in the spring and summer. But in winter it pretty much serves as a second refrigerator. Or during cold snaps like the entire frigid month of January, a freezer. I keep a number of things I can't fit into my fridge on this cute little table we eat off of in warmer times. On this day I notice that there is some trash tossed about so I start to gather it up to throw away. I casually pick up a couple of 12-oz. Dixie cups stacked on top of one another. The top one falls off and there it is:

The dead bird.

I had completely forgotten about it. EWWWWWWWW! Although slightly relieved to see it's NOT a case of ritual dismemberment, I start to toss it unceremoniously into the trash when my 11-year-old daughter L~ appears out of nowhere and lets out a wail. "Mom, NOOOOOOOOOoooooooo!"

Apparently she's waiting for the ground to thaw enough to give it a proper burial.

Because my faithful readers get whatever they ask of me . . .

2007-02-22T16:43:00.000-07:00

Have you met my friend Toni? I think she found me via Luckyzmom. In any case, she tagged me for a meme and since it's regarding the subject of homemaking skills (we all know how seriously I take those homemaking skills), I thought I'd play.

ABCs of Homemaking Meme

Aprons- Y/N? Several. One my mother made me. One made by Melody. My latest favorite is the red hot chili pepper one Lynda gave me for my birthday.

Baking- Ask Lorien about my sour cream lemon pie.

Clothesline- Y/N? I've been known to do that to my kids now and then.

Donuts- Only when there is a good layer of snow over at the church parking lot.

Everyday- One homemaking thing you do everyday? Get out of bed.

Freezer- Do you have a separate deep freezer? - You bet. My husband likes to stock it with deer and elk meat. I like to stock it with berries for pies.

Garbage Disposal- Y/N? Yes. He's 15. He'll eat just about anything except for tomato chunks in spaghetti.

Handbook- Y/N? For what? The girlfriend's guide to chasing down cobwebs? I think not. All I need to guide me is my favorite motto:

Ironing- My husband was forewarned. I don't iron and I don't dust.

Junk Drawer- You bet. But since I don't consider anything in my kitchen to be junk, it's the top drawer by the linen closet.

Kitchen- Design and decorating? Roosters. I started with them before the last two times they were in and out of style. And I am loyal so they're here to stay. I did have to do an intervention for one of my friend's who couldn't stop buying me roosters for my kitchen, however. The coop's full!

Love- What is your favorite part of homemaking? I love to make comfort food for people who are sick, afflicted or in mourning. That is something I take very seriously.

Mop- Y/N? Yes. And I am sending out an SOS for suggestions for a new one. I have loathed every mop I have ever owned. Why is it so hard to design an effective and efficient mop?

Nylons- Wash by hand or in the washer? I refuse to call them nylons. They are hose to me, but I find them too confining and they don't go so well with Birkenstocks. If you don't wear them, you won't have to wash them.

Oven- Do you use the window or open it to check? Open to check. I need to see, touch and smell to know if something is done.

Pizza- What do you put on yours? I'm a western girl. Hawaiian all the way.

Quiet- What do you do during the day when you get a quiet moment? I am the queen of the ten-minute power nap. If I can find 10 minutes in the day.

Recipe card box- Y/N? Yes. And numerous cookbooks. And a binder full of printed recipes.

Style of house - Split entry mid-century messy.

Tablecloths and napkins- Y/N? At my house we're lucky if we're ever home at the same time to eat at the table. I know, I know, it's the pillar of American society. I'm working on it already!

Under the kitchen sink - One of two things I pride myself on. I put vinyl tile on the bottom and try to keep it orderly. So it's not something I'm ashamed about. (In case you are wondering about the other. I am extremely proud that even though I have three sons my bathrooms do NOT smell like pee. That is really something when you consider that all the bathrooms in my house are carpeted.)

Vacuum- How many times a week? Isn't that why I had kids? I have to admit, however, that although I am often willing to let the downstairs go, I have been known to vacuum the upstairs all over again after one of my kids (or the husband) when no one is looking. I need to get the edges.

Wash- How many loads do you do a week? Way too many. But the older boys do their own. I'm about ready to train the daughter.

X's- Do you keep a list of things to do and cross them off? I make my list at the end of the day of what I did that day, then I cross it all off. It's so wonderful for my self-esteem.

Yard- Who does what? I used to love to work in the yard. I even completed the master gardener program. But now that I can't kneel on either of my knees I have kind of let things go. I will putter now and then.

ZZZ's- What is your last homemaking task for the day? Flylady drop-out that I am, it's certainly not cleaning the kitchen sink. I'm doing well if I get any remaining food the kids have left out put away and the lights turned out before I fall asleep.

I happen to know that it is physically possible to fall asleep while sweeping the floor.

All I ever really needed to know I learned on high school band tour

2007-02-19T23:06:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Arizona!

Where adventure begins . . . and never ends!

Adventure I

So much for the Bellagio! After a fabulous clinic at UNLV it became apparent that perhaps taking 60 teenagers to The Strip on a Friday night during the NBA All-Star weekend was not such a great idea. Of course some of us had come to that conclusion long before others, but eventually a consensus was reached and plans were changed to Plan B, which involved getting away from the melee as quickly as possible .

Only somehow long after the switch to plan B, the driving directions for Plan A remained stuck in the driver of my vehicle’s head and we managed to spend 2 1/2 hours driving bumper to bumper from UNLV to the nearest freeway exit, which happened to be on the other side of The Strip anyway. We saw just about everything except for the fountains.

And George and Brad and company.

Lessons I

Sometimes the harder you try to avoid something the faster it sucks you in.
And never make weekend vacation plans for any city hosting the All-Star game, especially not Vegas.
Vegas is the grand illusion.

Adventure II

The next day found us in Phoenix. Here I was surprised by two sweet serendipities: One, a little southwest mex joint called qdobas makes mighty fine food. If you are ever in Phoenix you must go there to eat their food. Two, Rembrandt was in town. Deep within my heart, an urgent cry for flakiness was heard and I learned that if you generally prove yourself to be a responsible and reliable person sometimes it’s OK to bale on high-school band students. Especially if Rembrandt is involved. Besides, I thought it was a great teaching moment as I practically skipped out of the parking lot of their scheduled concert and promised to be back soon. Kids should witness adults getting excited--and therefore sometimes even flakey--over unexpected pleasures such as good art.

Lessons II

Trying local fare can be a good thing.
Always leave room in your schedule for spontaneity.
Especially when Rembrandt is involved.Obviously this was not part of the exhibit, but it was located across the street and so aptly depicts how happy I was to blow the concert venue for the MOA

Adventure III

Later that day we arrived in Tucson, where I was given the charge to take a student to the local University Medical Center, which, I learned, is the only trauma center in the entire region. Having spent more than a few nights in the ER either as patient or family, I was prepared to camp out there for some time.

But what I did not expect when I arrived at 8:40pm was that all three waiting rooms would be full and we would begin our long evening's journey into morning waiting outside.

What I did not expect was that when we finally saw a doctor--a little after midnight--she would only be a resident, which meant we would have to wait another hour or so before the attending physician would come in and repeat the exact same examination again. In its entirety.

What I did not expect was for her to tell me it would be another hour and a half or more for the strep test—and that was assuming the lab "didn’t lose the orders or the swab." “I prefer you do the rapid strep test,” I said politely. “This is the rapid strep test,” she said.

Fortunately after Nurse Ratched left and Glenda the Good Nurse arrived with the prescription, Glenda also was so kind as to give me directions to the nearest pharmacy to which I and my charge would be safest to travel well after 2am in this strange border town.

Feeling rather proud of myself for having safely carried out my chaperone duties above and beyond the call, I pulled into the hotel parking lot looking forward to at least a few hours of much needed rest.

Lessons III

If one has to be sick, one should never choose to be sick on a Saturday night in Tucson.
Sometimes the term “rapid strep test” can be a misnomer.
For every Nurse Ratched, there exists a Glenda the Good Nurse. And that's a good thing!

Adventure IV

Is merely a continuation of Adventure III, which I thought was over. But it had only just begun . . .

We arrive at the hotel and I realize that one, I have no way to get into my room and two, I have no place to park the Yukon and the attached percussion trailer. The night clerk informs me he cannot give me new room keys and that there are two buildings and I should be able to park by the outer building and wake up my roommate to let me in. I drive out to the outer building only to realize that one, I would need a keycard just to get in the building and two, this is a very seedy hotel. While I consider my options I observe several vehicles drive up to various spots outside the hotel and watch their respective occupants engage in suspicious behavior. I also watch as a man who may or may not be a guest comes out of the hotel and props the door open as several other men who very clearly are not guests start going in and out of the hotel and walking up to the various cars and also engaging in suspicious behavior.

At this point I go back to inform the clerk about the action outside his hotel (yes, it’s well after 3:00am on a Saturday night) and firmly request keycards for my room, as well as an escort to the second building. He kindly obliges and lets us in and then locks the building door behind us and asks us to call him when we get into our rooms safely. My young and still sick friend S., who is now also completely exhausted, cannot get into her room. Her roommates will not wake up. So we go to my room and call the clerk, who agrees to meet us at S.’s room. Before we leave, I learn from my roommate that a creepy drunk guy has been stalking our girls—even after he checked out of the hotel—and that our group has been in lockdown for the night. On our way to S.’s room to meet the clerk, I notice that a door down the long and deserted hallway has been left ajar. This creeps me out big time given what I have learned about this hotel and the fact the rooms have been open to the public for the entire night (not to mention a few scary movies I may have watched in my youth). So after we finally get S. safely locked down I ask the clerk to accompany me to my room. He assures me he noticed and closed the open door, but as we approach my room we both notice that now the door of the room right next to my room is slightly open. He knocks, then turns on the light, and opens the door. Fortunately there are no dangers lurking behind door number two, but it is clear that mischief has been afoot. The place is trashed—chairs thrown across the room and on the bed, bottles and pizza boxes strewn around. And it’s obvious no paying guest did this.

The clerk locks the door and I finally get into my room by about 3:45. Only the room is filthy. The tub faucet leaks loudly and echoes throughout the room. There are hair follicles from the previous guests lurking in the shower (this is a huge pet peeve of mine). The bathroom door won’t shut and the bed is seriously mushy. I am still cold after sitting under the frigid ER AC for a decade, and my pajamas are in the car and the heater doesn't work. I sleep horribly for about two and a half hours and then I wake up still pretty wired over events of the last 10 hours and worried about the security of our kids, their stuff and our vehicles. Not to mention that by now the outside door right next to my room is banging closed every two minutes.

I decided I needed to repack the car and finally—because there is now daylight--locate all the things I needed but went without the night before. I also feel an urgent need to get in the car and scream "Holy Freakin' Crap!" a few times and to find my stuff so I can brush my teeth and brave the shower long enough to wash the grime of Tucson off of my skin. This task requires digging through several dozen two-litre bottles of soda which are stacked miles high in the back and is impossible to complete without numerous incidents of said full bottles crashing down on my hands and on my feet.

During the 15 minutes I am repacking the car, I set off the car alarm twice because more of last night’s activities appear to be continuing and I know I am not safe. I lock myself in the car, but each time the coast is clear and I exit the car the alarm goes off. After I am done I realize that the door to the building has once again been propped open (I later learn that the sliding glass doors in some of the students’ bedrooms are also unsecured). Eventually I get my shower and we check out of the hotel, I with the general manager’s phone number safely tucked away in my pocket so I can give him a piece of my mind.

Lesson IV

It’s never a good thing when your find yourself in the desolate halls of a seedy hotel--for which you paid good money--and you realize the best defense you've got against the ills of society is a 21-year-old male stranger.
Yelling out loud in a locked car can be very therapuetic.

Adventure V

By early this morning I was thankful that at least a couple of our destinations seemed to turn out OK. Not to mention much more appealing than some of our previous accomodations.Montezuma's Castle

Today was our day to go to the Grand Canyon. Despite having been previously warned by cjane that it’s just a hole in the ground and my constant nightmares that some kid who thinks he is invincible—preferably not mine—will end up over the edge, I’m actually getting excited!

My excitement dwindles, however as we approach the park.
It's clear that while on a clear day you can see forever, during a floggy blizzard you can't see squat!
Ain't that grand?
So the students are relegated to taking pictures of themselves

What a disappointment! All that way and the big hole is full of fog! I decided to have a good time anyway and so I went shopping for some killer souvenirs for my kids. And for me. And some cactus taffy. And I take pictures for some nice Canadian tourists and try to kill a little time, hoping for a miracle. . .

. . . and finally we are rewarded when the mists of cloud and fog start to thin and part. We can actually see the other side.

And the bottom.

In spite of the frigid cold we all had a great time. I think we enjoyed it more because initally we knew we weren't going to get to see it.

And, thankfully, although I nearly had a panic attack when I realized that all the adults had left me behind and responsible for a bunch of kids who thought it would be so fun to lean over the rail or walk much too close to the unfenced edge, we didn’t lose a soul.

Lesson V:

Sometimes when you expect to get nothing you are more satisfied with what little you do get than you would've been if you had gotten the whole thing.

So long, farewell . . .

2007-02-15T21:48:00.000-07:00

At the unearthly hour of 4:20 a.m. I'm getting out of Dodge and heading out to see. . . . . . a big hole in the ground.

But I might even get to see this on the way. I'd like to tell you I'm actually spending the night here.

But I'd be lying.

Instead I'll be riding herd over a bunch of high school band students at the likes of this.

Fun stuff!

Don't forget to to vote for your favorite Valentine's Day storyteller before midnight on Tuesday!

Have a great weekend!

You be the Bard Storytelling Contest

2007-02-14T06:11:00.000-07:00

Let me first just say to all the entrants, you got game! Thanks so much for playing. I had a great time reading your submissions!

The Fab-o-u-lous Entries:

from la yen

Challenge 1:
Tyson and McKenna

In Fair Mantua 'twas there a school
For plucky tweens and such
And there, in class, two lovers met:
O'er dissections their palms did touch.
But lo! The bell doth ringeth and in time
They parted. Off to chemistry and math
Separated they, sad partings, wo,
Yet their digits still, they hath

Saith he: QT, ILU
WWYC. Wrote she.
H2CUS. WKD?
KOTC, ILU2
NOT OTC, BUT OTL
MoS! She sent
But 'twas too late; the phone was gone
Not to be returned until well after Lent.

Two star-crossed lovers, cried and moped,
Without texting, they were naught
'Twas Friday night and how to meet?
They had to chance being caught.

So under humblest pretext of
A library study date
They left next morn to meet again
And betwixt them plan their fate

Twas unconscionably cruel, they two agreed
To confiscate her cell
Did'st not her mother know that separated
Young lovers were in hell?

And so to show her mother just
How cruel was her decision
They planned to unite in their true love
With perfect teenage vision

And so they kissed, upon the lips,
For parting was such sorrow
And vowed to reunite again
In perpetuity tomorrow.

He had with him a box of juice;
Imported from Capri
And laced it they with tiny pills
Purchased from a guy named "Zee."

And so they drank the tainted juice
"And with thy hand in mine I die"
"'Twas total bliss these past two days.
Forever with you I will lie."

But soft, what yonder vision broke
Next morning at first light
But two dumb teens, embracing still,
Frozen, in eternal spite.

Challenge 2:

"Maybe I should have thought this through better..."

from melody

What Darwin Didn't Know

No one had told them how steep the hill had become after the last earthquake or how fragile a young woman is when she is in love. She paused, watching him move steadily forward. She wasn't certain of why her head hurt and her heart was racing. She thought she felt the ground tremble beneath her.

She called to him. He stopped his pursuit, turned and joined her. She asked him to rest with her for a while in the shade of a juniper bush. He set down his tools, pulled the water vessel from his bag and offered her the first sip. He looked over his shoulder and called for the dog, but it had run far into the distance chasing a smaller version of what would evolve into a mule deer. They needed the meat and he understood what it meant to slow the hunt. But he had come to believe she was more essential to his survival than food.

Her mother had begged her to stay in camp, to behave like all the other young women when their men went hunting. But she couldn't. She couldn't miss a moment in his life. She was one of several like her in the tribe, young people who had broken away from familiar patterns, had moved in a new direction where mating was something beyond sweat and rhythm.

The day was almost over. In time the pain in her head softened and her uneasy mind had stilled just a little. The dog hadn't returned, but they expected him to find them later and perhaps bring a bird in his mouth for breakfast. He would have given up the other hunt when his master changed course.

They made a bed and ate the dried figs and flat bread she had packed. He cooked a squirrel he had caught earlier. By the time darkness came they found they were exhausted, fell easily into each others embrace.

They spoke of the future, of how the earth was changing; how the sky shot fireballs toward the ground at unexpected times. Sometimes entire valleys were destroyed in a moment. They talked of their families and wondered if they too were quieted for the night. They couldn't have known about the great mass falling from heaven toward the next mountain, that in an instant while they slept they would suffocate, forget their memories and surrender every cell to millenniums of cold. They couldn't have known they were the beginning of the next phase of man and the end of their kind.

Her breathing slowed, she let her thoughts move toward the other world while he whispered near her lips, "I've never felt so warm."

from lyle

As archeologists continued exhuming the grounds where the “Romeo and Juliet” skeletons were found, they came across a series of texts and have had moderate success in translating the text into what appears to be an explanation of these two eternally bound remains.

The Prophecy- [A translation]

In the year of the missing season, when winter’s clutch shall fail and the earth shall struggle to give rebirth upon the land, there shall be a great lament upon the land for eighteen cycles of the earth. Crops will fail and the beasts shall flee and winter will be vanquished for a spell. And the fruits of the ground shall dwindle, dry, turn to dust and utterly fail. There shall come forth from the womb a woman of muted mouth and boy deprived of sight. Only upon the union of these two, will the nature turn away her anger and bring the solace to earth’s empty womb. This union needs be bound in life and death and only from their deaths will hope sprout and reclaim the barren land.

The tale:

The text further indicates that many seasons passed and generations drifted to eternal slumber and what was once considered as truthful slipped into myth and lapsed into ramblings of a lunatic.

And in the year 349 [according to their calendar] a certain peasant mother in the town of Nanocia died giving birth to a daughter that never heard the cry of pain or anguish of the father who sought the cold companionship of his lost beloved, leaving the babe to be raised by the midwife. And so began life for Anony

Not quite six months later, in a neighboring village of Hamollian, a baby boy was brought into the world, unable to behold the visual beauty of his mother’s eyes and father’s joyous smile. But, Mistick could hear.

During the initial years of the famine, local villagers had gone through great lengths to establish trade routes with neighboring kingdoms. But due to the economic strain, many left the once abundant land in search of a new hope, a land free of the natures scorn and the population dwindled. Anony was only four at the time she followed her Ginny to the lands across the mountains and deep fertile valleys of Barushe.

Mistick’s family stayed put in Homallion where Mistick learned to use his lack of sight to his advantage. He was blessed with great musical talent and drew crowds [mostly made of merchants]. At the young age of eighteen, Mistick’s parents encouraged him to establish himself as a musician in a larger town [which would certainly be more lucrative].

Mistick’s journey led him to the town of Barushe and it was there on his very first night’s performance that he encountered Anony, who had stopped long enough to see what could draw such a large crowd. She was smitten by his looks and prayed for the day that she could hear his music. He was smitten by her gentle, soft, and soothing voice that could transcend his physical limitations.

The two were soon wed and made the return trip to their homeland. It was while visiting her Ginny that they encountered Ruolonge the priest that their moment of bliss began to crumble. Upon seeing the two of them together, Roulonge remembered the words of the prophecy that had been recorded so long ago.

Roulonge used all his powers of persuasion to convince them that they were indeed the ones spoken of in the prophecy, but neither Mistick nor Anony would hearken to such absurd tales and bid the priest and Ginny farewell as they continued their journey to visit Mistick’s parents.

That same night, the priest, in a fit of rage [at being so close to the focus and solution to the prophecy] secretly followed the two newlyweds to Homallion. It was upon their bed, in the home of his parents that Ruolonge smothered them in their sleep. Naturally, Mistick’s parents were very sorrowful and as a final tribute to their departed loved ones, they buried them side by side in a honeymooner’s embrace.

The priest was eventually found guilty of the crime and was promptly hung. The day that he was hung was what would have been the start of the winter solstice. The following day, it snowed and snowed and snowed. Winter had returned and spring followed just two months later. Crops were planted. Crops were harvested and the famine retreated for good.

from sarah

Challenge I:

Betty: Wake up sweetie, the volcano is erupting again. Could you get the kids up and load the cart?

Joe: You know I got the kids up last time the mountain blew. It's your turn.

Betty: Yeah, but I was up all night washing your loin clothes for work and I'm tired.

Joe: And I couldn't sleep until 2 a.m. because of your annoying snoring. Seriously, babe, you better do it. That lava's coming pretty fast and I'm beat.

Betty: I'm sick of you putting all the household duties on me. Did you know that stay-at-home moms put in at least twice as many hours as you "working" men? Honestly, I ask you to do one little thing...

Joe: Okay, well what if you get the kids ready while I load the cart?

Betty: Just get over your manly pride and do it. Honestly, you had about 20 dirty loin clothes this week. It's like you get them dirty just to spite me!

Joe: Jerry's wife never makes him deal with their kids...

Betty: Are you saying you want me to be more like Jerry's wife? Her arm got eaten off by a lion and she has a full beard. Is that what you want?

Joe: No honey. It just seems like a man should have some respect in his own home. That's all I'm saying.

Betty: Fine. I respect you. Now go wake the kids.

Joe: I bet Jerry's wife has their family to the bottom of the mountain by now.

Betty: Enough about that woman!

Joe: What's that smell?

Betty: The dog is on fire...

Cue the lava...

And so they lie, a testament to humanity's fierce will power that enabled people to even live on the sides of volcanoes in the first place. Betty and Joe will forever lie enshrined in their bed as a monument to the triumph of the human spirit. Let us look to them in our lives when we too feel tempted to cave to the senseless demands of our spouses.

Challenge II:

"This is all your fault!"

from cardine

Challenge 1

Writing Sonnet 116 Over Again

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. A staring contest is not won
By altering vision when it alteration finds,
Or ends with an object on the move
Oh no! Stare at an ever-fixed mark
Through tempests, be not shaken;
Look not toward the dog that barks,
Whose hunger's unsatiated, 'though he found the bacon.
Staring's not time's fool; though chapped lips and cold cheeks
And needing to tinkle's time has come:
Staring alters not with its brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never played, nor no man ever won.

Challenge 2

"I think the dog is chewing on your foot."

from geo

Sand for brains. I always had them. My heart was yours before time—but
where was my mind when you came of age? In my pockets. My empty
pockets. The pride in me cried, "Poverty! What else have you got to
offer a girl like that?" So I hung my foolish head. I studied the
ground and made earthy plans: work and save. Hunt and gather enough
coins to jingle out a proper proposal. "Won't she have me then!" I
comforted myself.

Then he came along, not a free man as I was, and with leaner pockets!
Yet he carelessly piloted you into young love, past your mother,
beyond your father, through whispers of scandal. One day he confessed
his guilt to you and went away. Why was I slow to step in? He returned
too soon in a season, untethered and ready. I watched, paralyzed.
Again he took flight, but this time you flew with him, across a state
border that divided your parents' consent from your own secret will.
You eased back into your home, even the same night, pretending to be a
maiden. You held him off with "Don't tell!" but he couldn't stand the
separation for long; he confronted your angry kin, refused to be
annulled, and carried you backward across the nuptial threshold into
open air.

That's when my stumbling, heavy feet of clay took me far, far. I
joined the army. I married a mean woman. I chain-smoked the fires of
regret and burned my inside away till my heart and breath and guts
were ash. But the sand in my mind and those ashes inside kept loving
you.

Forty years you belonged to him. For longer than that my sister
belonged to your brother. That was a tie of torment for me. "How is
she?" I asked from far away, forever.

Again: "How is she?" Forty years of forever, always asking just once more.

"Oh, didn't you hear? Her husband died."

In that instant forty years seemed no more significant than an hour of
sand falling in a glass, and I could clearly discern the last grain as
it slipped through the slender neck. I felt its landing in my heart.
"Won't she have me now!" I comforted myself. My wife was gone to her
paradise. My money was gone to terrible treatments. My health was gone
to smoke and dust, but how I could still love you! I had never
stopped.

I wrote you a rapturous, daring letter, this time holding nothing
back. I asked my son, the one almost as broken as I, to take me to
you. I proposed to you that first day, before our first hour was gone.
I unburdened my soul. Earth had no more power to hold me down; I could
fly! You asked for time to think. I stayed close by with my son, in a
rented room, waiting, loving, certain. In a few days you said yes.
YES!

"The Lord won't let me die now," I swore to you. "Don't you see? He
meant for us to be together. He's going to heal me!" I recognized that
I was God's miracle, a phoenix rising to live a second forever, this
time with you. In every way I could imagine and found the strength
for, I made up to you the tender opportunities that we'd missed—with
kisses, with flowers, with words, with slow embracing steps to music.
Did we argue? Not once. Did we waste a moment? We feasted. We were
beautiful and everything else fell away.

And then I followed. The ground called for me. "I will stay with her!
I can fly!" I argued. But my strength was fully spent. I was an empty
pocket. You brought Home to me in every sterile place I was taken for
last-ditch therapies. You lay beside me on a hospital bed till our
touching turned to pain. "Six months" was my doctor's verdict. Six and
no more. Just so. And I went back to the earth.

I watched you afterward, from my new place. My perch. I watched you
marry, and soon after divorce. I was never concerned about that one;
his jealous nature made him stupid. I watched you marry again years
later. He was so country simple and good that I couldn't wholly
begrudge him some of the time that should have been mine; I was just
grateful you didn't have to be alone in the interim. Then I watched
you become a widow for the third time in your life. I saw the changes
age worked upon you; I loved every wrinkle and evidence of decline;
they brought you closer to me. I waited, counting the years . . .
twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Would I have to
endure a full forty more?

At last it was our moment. I saw its thrilling approach, knew it was
coming, even before you did. Perhaps you never knew until you'd
already left the ground. You flew first to the comforting, exalting
embrace of "Well done," and then—oh, then!—it would finally be my turn
to receive you, and my arms would keep you close forever.

I waited long, but you didn't come.

"Where is she?" I asked again and again, feeling far away, lost in forever.

"You haven't seen? She's with her husband."

But wasn't I your husband? Had he flown you past us all again?

I cannot bear to stay, to wait, to watch, to perch, to dream any
longer in the open, empty air of forever. The only chance left for me
is in the ground. I always had sand for brains. Before the last grain
falls and the morning hour of resurrection dawns, I will hold you
again. I will break open the strong box that shelters my rest and I
will fly to you through the earth, riding gusts of soil and currents
of root, passing clouds of rock and billows of worm. I will breathe
deeply my dust, hunt and gather you, and our bones will mingle again.
Won't we have a time!"

from jennifer b.

Fourteen candles flickered and cast dancing shadows on the wall. One
candle for every month Ella had known and loved him. One candle for
each night they had been apart. When Sal broke the news that he was
going to have to make a trip out to the family estate outside of Paris,
he knew it wasn’t going to be well received.
“But Sal! It’s our first Valentine’s as husband and wife!”
“I promise to be back in time to celebrate.”
With considerable effort, Ella smiled and nodded. Upon Sal’s
departure, two days later, she managed to wave and hold back the tears
until he had ridden out of view. Ella had lit one candle each night in
his absence and let it burn from sundown until she went to bed.
Finally, all fourteen lights were burning. He would soon be home. All
day she had lovingly prepared their celebratory meal--pounded the
chicken for cordon bleu, roasted and ground hazelnuts to make the
perfect crust for a delectable fruit torte, torn five different greens
that were a perfect blend of fresh and bitter flavors. When the final
dish was complete, Ella put all the utensils in the sink to soak.
There wasn’t much, as Ella believed in efficiency in the kitchen. Soon
everything would be ready.
The distant pounding of horse’s hooves thudded in unison with Ella’s
heart. He was home! Sal swept Ella up in his arms and for a time they
stood frozen in a fierce embrace. When they eventually sat at the
table, everything seemed perfect. Candlelight, a delectable meal, and
the joy of reunion filled their hearts.
“Mon Amie. Mon Ella. Je T’aime.”
“Oh Sal!”
“Mon Ella!”
Three days later, Sal and Ella were discovered. Rigor mortis had made
it nearly impossible to separate the couple and they were buried
together. As a warning against careless culinary practices, Sal and
Ella's last words live on to remind us of their tragic end. Don't let
their deaths be in vain--as you contemplate re-using that cutting board
or sampling that raw dough, remember Sal and Ella and think again.

from moi

(I made the mistake of reading some of the entries before I wrote mine and to quote the poor jilted lover--and master of understatement--in "Twister," immediately knew "I can't compete with this." You are, however, graced with my response to Challenge II. This entry is NOT eligible for voting or prizes galore--for obvious reasons.)

"Honey, I think I left the iron on."

(There's more to that story, too. And, oddly enough, it has a little something to do with Shakespeare as well. Only it smacks more of Lady Macbeth than of Romeo and Juliet. Another post, perhaps.)

Now it's time to cast your votes at henfeatherz AT gmail DOT com Please feel free to bestow in the comments lavish praise on ALL the entrants who took time out their busy Valentine's week to regale us with romance. But e-mail me your vote for your favorite entry. Votes will accepted (only one vote per person) through midnight next Tuesday and the winner announced next Wednesday, Febrary 21.

You have until midnight . . .

2007-02-13T07:00:00.000-07:00

. . . to enter submit your entry for the first annual You be the Bard writing contest.

E-mail your entry to henfeatherz AT gmail DOT com. All entries will be posted on Valentine's Day. Good luck!

You be the Bard Storytelling Contest

2007-02-09T06:50:00.000-07:00

Thanks to the brilliant idea of one of my favorite new bloggers, jennifer b. over at Going Barefoot, I am sponsoring my first ever writing contest.

Your job, should you choose to accept it (and please in the revered name of St. Valentine and all that is romantic, do play), is to write the rest of the story. E-mail me (henfeatherzATgmailDOTcom) your best prose regarding how these young lovers ended up here, eternally entwined:

That's only Challenge I. To complete Challenge II, simply come up with a better parting shot than that uttered by Romeo, "Thus with a kiss I die."

So dip your pens in their inkwells ladies and gents. Let's Play!

(All entries are due by midnight, February 13, and will be posted on Valentine's Day. Then we'll vote on a favorite. The winner will receive a $20 gift card to The Olive Garden. Thanks for playing!)

Photo of the Week: Undying Love

2007-02-08T06:47:00.000-07:00

"Thus with a kiss I die."--Romeo to the only merely nearly dead Juliet, act V. scene iii

(If you check the link, be sure to note the location in which these millenia-old lovers' remains were located.)

Be good to you!

2007-02-06T08:32:00.000-07:00

So this is not nearly as effective as it was last week, when our high temperatures were lower than this week's lows. But since this week I'm battling a wretched head cold, it still works for me.
I . . . feel . . . cold . . .

After barely enduring the bleakest and most gloopiest January EVER, I've decided my problem (aside from the worst inversion and cold spell in recent memory) lies with me. I obviously didn't get the year off to the right start.

So I'm declaring February "Be Good to You" month.

I will dedicate each day as an opportunity to do at least one thing that is good to me. (Notice I did not say "good for me" but "good to me" as I didn't want to rule out things such as a whipped cocoa bath or other luxuries about which I've heard tell, but which may not actually be good for me). Some days I will post my plan for the day on my side bar. On other days I'll mention what I did that day (it depends on how organized I am) after I've accomplished it.

So tell me, what do you do to be good to you?

Cart before the horse? Who's pushing the cart? What do you think?

2007-02-03T08:09:00.000-07:00

There was hardly time for debate about this or this before Texas jumped on board. It could be coming soon to a state near you.

What do you think?

For more info visit the CDC's FAQ page.

Have you read the post of the week?

2007-02-02T18:44:00.000-07:00

What love is . . . and is not.

too late to say good-bye

2007-01-30T23:17:00.000-07:00

Norman "Dale" Rex
January 22, 1938 - June 26, 1982

My daughter was helping me make spaghetti tonight and she wanted to break the noodles in half. Purist I am, I stopped her. And then it came back to me...

It was our favorite way to break in the new missionaries. Not new in the field, but new to us. My dad would order these 48" long spaghetti noodles from Portland. I remember the two-foot long box they arrived in. They were carefully curled in half at one end which made it just possible to ease them slowly into the rapidly boiling water and cook them whole. We never ate them whole except when we had the missionaries over for dinner. Watching the 19 and 20-year-olds try to keep their white shirts clean and politely lift their forks higher and higher trying to get to the end of the noodles seemed like great fun to us kids. It must've amused my dad, too.

His birthday was last Monday, January 22. Usually I make his favorite cake from scratch--spice cake with caramel frosting--and serve it to my kids so they will remember the grandfather they've never met. And I always tell them the same old story. How he would point across the room in order to distract us and then sneak our caramel frosting, which we had painstakingly saved for last, and eat it.

We fell for it every time.

I remember one year he got some great bonus at work. We had a choice: a boat or a swimming pool. We kids all voted for a pool. The neighbors had a pool. But my dad, in his wisdom, cast the most weighted vote and bought a boat. I think he knew that a boat would be a better way for him to take time away from work to be with his family. We made good memories together out on Fern Ridge in that boat.

Later, as my mom sold off many of our possessions and packed up the house to follow her daughters out to Utah, the boat went too. I think that's the only time I remember crying over a material possession. I knew it wasn't about the boat. It was about the memories.

His health took a turn for the worse the year I moved to Utah and started school at BYU. And in that self-absorbed and oblivious way of the typical college freshman, I never read enough between the lines of the letters from home. I didn't have a clue. It wasn't till he made the long drive out to Utah that next spring, to pick me up and visit his family and the ranch in Randolph, that I even noticed how thin he had become. Even then, I still had no idea what was coming.

By the end of June he was hospitalized with what we thought was ulcerative colitis. I vaguely remember talk of a procedure they would do and a possibility if it didn't go well that things wouldn't go well for him. I don't know what eventually means, but it sounds like a really long time.

But I was working two jobs and still too self-involved to really consider the possibilities. In any case they needed to keep him in the hospital for the rest of the week and build up his strength before they would do the procedure the next week. I do remember writing him a letter and promising to come see him at the hospital on Saturday--the first time I would have some time off. I think I still have that letter somewhere . . .

About 2:00 in the morning I remember being awakened by my mother with the news. He was gone.

I never got to say good-bye.

One brother punched a hole in the wall. Another brother kept everything inside until he bawled like a baby while watching the Lion King twelve years later. Grief worked its way out of six of us kids in different ways, I guess. I cried. I dreamt it was all a dream and he came back to us. I was mad at the world and all the people who loved me until a good friend of mine who was also grieving cared enough to tell me off one night. Tough love. He was right, of course and I came around. But I still have issues about saying good-bye.

"A cowboy with a heart." That's how the local newspaper columnist described him. And I'd never seen so many people at a funeral before. It was truly standing room only. People traveled from far and wide. As a kid you never stop to consider who your parents are outside of being your parents, but I learned a lot about my dad that day. About how he was a friend to everyone and how he had a reputation for treating people fairly. About how well he must have loved to become so loved by so many. People who were complete strangers to us showed up because they knew my dad considered them a friend.

The autopsy revealed it was cancer that took him from us. Cancer of the colon, the stomach and the liver, I believe. Back then the "C" word wasn't so common. But it always meant a death sentence. And we never knew. Later we would speculate over whether his doctor knew and told him and he wanted to spare us the pain, or whether he ever knew what hit him. Not that it matters now. But know you know why I take cancer diagnoses in my friends--even in people I don't know extremely well--a little personally.

It's only been recently that I can try to see it all from the perspective of my mother. I imagine watching the funeral procession from afar--seeing a 41-year-old widow file out of the chapel behind the casket. Followed by her six children--ages 19 to 11. Stricken with grief, yet still in shock from the loss. Surely wondering how she would be able to manage alone. Surely incapable of fathoming the effects of an entire life of loneliness.

Almost 25 years later the edges of the hurt have worn down. But simple moments like cooking spaghetti with my daughter can bring back the memories. Maybe I am more keenly aware because I recently turned 44, the age he was when he died. Somehow that makes him more real to me. Seeing myself this age and going through these stages of my children's lives makes him seem less distant.

At the same time, knowing I see things from the same time and space that he did when he was called home also makes his death seem more tragic. My seven-year-old tells me I cannot ever die before he does because he could not live without me. I know he could, but I'd rather he not worry about it. So I will share with him memories of the good times. Tell my daughter about four-foot long spaghetti. Bake birthday cake with caramel frosting.

And always remember to say "Bye, I love you."

...when you realize your children and your clothes are about the same age...

2007-01-29T07:34:00.000-07:00

With so much discussion about turning 30 and so many (too many to link) of you having babies and such, it has drawn in sharp relief the inescapable fact that I am biologically old enough to have given birth to the whole lot of you. OK, well most of you anyway (the exceptions shall remain nameless, of course).

In any case, I usually try to avoid acting my age, but the effort has become futile of late. So today I'm coming out:

I'm 44 and I think I'm having a midlife crisis.

The good thing about this is that if you do the math, having a midlife crisis at 44 means you've still got a long way to keep going, baby.

Granted you all have entire decades ahead of you before you have to worry about this, but I still feel it's my duty to prepare you for what lies ahead, Forewarned is forearmed. Or something like that.

Here's a short guide to the upsides and the downsides of middle age:

Downsides first:

Midlife crises are a sexist phenomenon.

Cases in point:
Harrison Ford - ear piercing and practically adolescent (and anorexic) arm candy
Many men I know - motorcycles and/or new cars
Many men I don't know but about whom I've heard tell - new affairs.

Women I know - hysterectomies and estrogen therapy. We get squat I tell you!

I am invisible. A nonentity. Null and void. How, you may ask? Well, it took me almost a decade to get a clue, but it seems I've been dumped by the whole of coporate America. At least that nice boy who works at Bath & Body Works still seems to care about how I wield my buying power. Apple should too, thank you very much.

That's all for now. All the rest of the downsides are too depressing to mention.

But yes, there are upsides:

Apparently I am considered to be in a protected class. I like being protected. Well, mostly I like to joke with my half-my-age co-workers about my being in a protected class. Feigned shock amuses me. In truth, I'd like to hope I am competent enough to keep my job through my own merit, not my maturing age.

I am still not old enough to eat off the senior citizen menu at Denny's, Chuck-a-Rama or Sizzler. Trust me, this is a good thing. The other upside of this is that I am still young enough to have discerning enough taste that I only frequent restaurants that don't offer senior citizen discounts.

Kids are finally old enough I'm not changing diapers anymore. Parents are still young enough I haven't had to start changing theirs, either. 'Nuff said.

I can say out loud how much I love my minivan. Because I am so far beyond achieving hipness or coolness, it just doesn't matter any more. OK, it's true that some over-thirties really rock. And others are really cool. But it's not a universal truth or anything, so now I kind of feel the pressure is off. And I'm good with that.

Surprisingly, there are also a couple of aspects of middle age about which I am ambivalent.

Most of my kids are old enough to start having a social life. This means one of two things: Either my house is almost completely empty and my husband and our seven-year-old and I just look at each other and wonder what we do now. Or my house is packed full of teenage boys and/or pre-teen girls. This is generally a good thing, except when I worry about spending $45 on pizza that will disappear within mere seconds.

As I mentioned before, I'm oddly stuck in the no-woman's land of post-babies and pre-grandbabies. It may seem I should have less responsibilities, less worries. (Are you kidding me? I've got two teenage drivers!) But it's kind of lonely here.

I am an open book. It's bad enough I can't help but speak my mind, but as of late I apparently don't even have to open my mouth for someone to know exactly what I'm thinking, even when they'd rather not. It seems to be written all over my face. This is a bad thing when I deal with people who don't really want to know how I really feel. But it's kind of freeing at the same time. And it's probably a good thing as my memory starts to decline. At least I don't have to try to remember what I've said to whom.

Now, if only I could remember where I put my car keys . . .

But seriously, the purpose of this post is also for you, dear readers, to suggest some ways I should act out my midlife crisis. I'm not interested in following in the footsteps of Harrison Ford. It's so overdone. And besides, my ears have been pierced for ages. So get creative here and dream up something wildly exciting. The boys can't have all the fun.

Because it's the middle of the week and original thought escapes me...

2007-01-24T19:12:00.000-07:00

My Life. My Card.

My name... never mind, most people pronounce it incorrectly anyway.

Childhood ambition... to be a detective

Fondest memory... probably never really happened

Soundtrack... "Sweet Home Alabama"

Retreat... Never. I'm a fighter not a runner

Wildest dream... insomniacs don't dream

Proudest moment... well, it wasn't when my 9-year-old stole a car and hopped a plane and led police on a high-speed chase

Biggest challenge... juggling

Alarm clock... I don't own one, but my husband's and at least two of my kids' go through snooze at least three times before they get shut off

Perfect day... would have to involve lunch at Sundance

First job... I was a hoer at the tender age of 12

Indulgence... homemade ice cream

Last purchase... You seriously have got to smell my new lotion

Favorite movie... "So I Married An Axe Murderer"

Inspiration... simple things

My life... is not remotely as interesting as Kate Winslet's, but thanks for reading.

My card... A.) is so well-worn you can no longer read the signature, B.) gets paid off every month, C.) all of the above

So I sort of picked this up where someone else left off, but I tag Geo because she loves memes; b. because I laughed so hard at her weirds; Lyle because they have snow days in Texas; and Sister Pottymouth, in hopes she was just kidding when she said that about maybe going on haitus, too. I mean, we can't all go on haitus now, can we? And anyone else who, like me, has always wanted to play.

the news from Rome isn't quite as good . . .

2007-01-22T00:02:00.000-07:00

In what's clearly going to be the most overused phrase of the decade, it appears we have a number of historic bids for the presidency. First Mormon president aside, we could have our first woman president . . .

. . . or our first African American president.

At this point I might be more interested in our first woman African American president.

So that's not going to happen in '08.

What I truly long for is the day when one's gender or race or religion is completely a nonissue.

. . . around the water cooler

Someone call the wahmbulence! I don’t mean to be unsympathetic, but to hear a guy whine about being objectified is a little over the top.

Seven must be this guy's lucky number.
Killer line: The window was double-paned, and had a safety bar, he said, adding that hotel officials will investigate and "will take whatever steps we have to do to ensure safety." (Because hotel management should’ve taken better precautions against inebriated men running the full length of the hall and into the window.)

I’ll have a bottle of your best Cold Duck.

Holiday leftovers:

The Nightmare before Christmas.

Must be Santa!

Bite me!

More holiday fun.

Let's conclude the holiday wrap-up with something sweet.

Contributions welcome:

Thanks Lianne, for the heads up on this moving story. It was just too good to pass up!

In other news:

I've been robbed! (Obviously of my senses.)

One more reason I love my iPod. (An oldie but goodie.) Because I don't know about you, but I often find myself alone in the woods digging for truffles.

Saved by the bra?

. . . and in completely unrelated news (so OK, it may possibly be related to me!)

Here is the latest update on this previous story.

Which you may or may not have read.

But about which at least one of you inquired.

If you haven't already...

2007-01-18T23:28:00.000-07:00

...you must see this in person.

And don't miss the post of the week.

don't it always seem to go...you don't know what you got till it's gone

2007-01-15T08:18:00.000-07:00

NOT! Just yesterday as my nostrils were defrosting from the arctic (no--it's actually colder here than in some places in the arctic right now) air I sent up a little prayer of thanks for things such as central heating, Milguard double insulated windows, shoes and socks, black leather gloves, cozy quilts, but especially that central heating.

At precisely 3:20 a.m. I was awakened from my toasty slumber by Z~. "Mom, the power is out." Normally I'm not so worried by such an announcement, but when it's below zero outside that kind of news alarms me. I round up all the candles I can find. First order of business is to shed some light on the subject. I never go anywhere without my trusty reminder of my all-time basketball hero, Larry Bird

Next we call the power company. I love calling the power company because even though our instructions during a power outage are expressly spelled out that we are to call them and inform them of the outage they always reply, "Duh, we're on it already." Not this morning. I got a very polite gentlemen who patiently asked, "Are you in the northwest part of town?" "Yes," I replied. "It should be on by about 7:30 a.m." "Thanks!" I said, as I tried to calculate exactly how much colder the house could get over the next four hours when it was well on its way to negative 2 degrees outside. BRRRRRRRR!within an hour I had the place lit up with candles, all the critical (read: expensive) appliances unplugged, and extra blankets on everyone's backs
most perplexing challenge: how to keep cold-blooded Buddy warm enough. I realized the candle cup was pretty warm and glass is a good conducter of heat. Sometimes I amaze even myself. (Buddy, however, remains unimpressed.)
sadly, my emergency lamps are of absolutely no help to me
bad, BAD virgin

Of course by that time I was wide, WIDE awake and even if I were not there was no way I could've slept with that many candles burning throughout the house. After about an hour of shivering--I'd given all the good blankets away--I got up to check on Buddy and as I was getting ready to light another emergency candle Voila! the rest of the lights went on as well.

Hurray for Provo Power! And how 'bout the fact that they exceeded even their own expectations!

The best part was hearing the beloved sound of the heater kicking on and warming up.

Mmmmmmmm. Toasty! Did I mention how grateful I am for central heating?

Keepin' it in the family

2007-01-12T08:24:00.000-07:00

Hey, if you get tired of seeing things from the mixed-up files of a middle aged mind, please drop over to Z blog and take a look at things from the eyes of my favorite 15-year-old. Z~ got a digital camera for Christmas and has some interesting stories to tell. And I can guarantee he will take you to at least one place you have never before been. Enjoy!

I get by with a little help from my friends...

2007-01-11T15:05:00.000-07:00

this is my only daughter, "Susie Q"

Susie Q LOVES to play in the snow

this is one of Susie Q's best friends, W~ with Susie Q and one of my best friends, the Lo Down

the Lo Down also happens to be favorite aunt of W~ and my favorite friend du jour for capturing these loverly Kodak moments today at Soldier Hollow

Thanks Lo!

to denote a quality of the thing named

2007-01-08T21:39:00.000-07:00

ADJECTIVE

entry: 2 adjective (so I may use the term loosely)
Function: noun
: a word belonging to one of the major form classes in any of numerous languages and typically serving as a modifier of a noun to denote a quality of the thing named, to indicate its quantity or extent, or to specify a thing as distinct from something else
Mirriam Webster

Melancholy: January, thus far.

Brilliant: The particular shade of blue of Sunday's morning sky.

Interesting, Entertaining, Embarrassing: This is the last thing I would have thought about giving someone for their wedding night.

Heavy: My heart. Witnessing the suffering of people I love. Witnessing the suffering of anyone, for that matter. But especially that of people I love.

Validating: A book describing "How Crammed Closets, Cluttered Offices, and On-the-Fly Planning Make the World a Better Place."

Happy: My heart. Because while I was driving to work this morning feeling crummy about myself I was blessed with the opportunity to help a friend in need. The experience--and my friend's gratitute--was like a little gift from God to say “Happy Up Already!”

Smashing The blow to my budget and my day as I watched my not inexpensive Lancome foundation fall from the shelftop down into the sink and disintegrate into tiny pieces of glass and great big globs of goo.

Beautiful: Monday’s sunset.

Pathetic: NOT this post. But my reaction to it. I managed to find something to beat myself up about in each of the three categories--which were clearly meant to be separate (oh yeah, and funny!). Clearly I have mutliple personality disorder along with my obsessive compulsive disorder (which remains latent in terms of meticulousness, but quite active when it comes to reading, writing and blogging).
p.s. Dear J.P., The pig died. I don’t know if the implications for that are as significant as when the rabbit dies, but I hear poor Clooney was crushed.

Boring: My last post.

Three, Guilty: Pleasures. "Best in Show," "The Wedding Singer," "So I Married An Ax Murderer."

Amusing, Rewarding: Watching my second grader (who has struggled with school at times) pretend he doesn’t want to show me last week’s spelling test for fear I’ll be very disappointed. Seeing the subtlest suggestion of the smile he’s holding back as he reluctantly hands me the test. Sharing the sense of accomplishment he feels over a big 100% circled at the top of his paper.

Pleasurable: The sun peeking through the clouds, spreading across the back of the sofa, both warming and comforting me as I curl up under the blanket for a much-needed 10-minute power nap.

Proud: The feeling the tomboy in me gets when I get this call from from my daughter from school on Monday: Mom, I was playing football at recess and I crashed into someone. I’m a little dizzy and I can’t see very well. (She’s fine now, just recovering from a head-on with another kid.)

Sated: My appetite. White Bean Chili for dinner. Fresh pineapple lightly (or-not-so-lightly) coated with li hing mui(?) powder for Family Home Argument treats. No-Bake Cookies (or, as we affectionately call them "Moose Poops") just for fun. Because if it did get any better than that (it was) already, No-Bake Cookies would be (were) just the ticket.

We could talk or not talk forever, and still find things to not talk about

2007-01-08T08:15:00.000-07:00

Shamelessly stealing from the too long and too irrelevant survey by the Daily Herald, I want to do my own poll on your picks for "Best of Utah Valley"
You can particpate even if you don't live here. You can participate even if you've never been here. (If you live in the Northwest you can tell me where to find the best of whatever in your neighborhood. I could potentially find myself in Portland sometime, desperate for a good pedicure, you know.) Have at it!
Disclaimer: I have also shamelessly tried to sway your votes in just a few categories. I make no apologies, but please forgive.

Best of Utah Valley

People to know:
Best local artist
Best local painter
Best local illustrator
Best local poet
Best local photographer
Most famous B-list or lower celeb
Best has-been
Favorite woman to watch
Best local recording artist or garage band
Person most likely to bump into a celeb (people who used to live here count)
Best wedding cake designer
Best person to be seen with

Places to be:
Best-looking historic building
Best-looking modern building
Best place for a picnic
Best campground
Best park and/or playground
Most under-appreciated tourist attraction
Best place to make out
Best one-night getaway
Best winter day trip
Best summer day trip
Best place to see a movie
Best live theater
Best music venue
Best gym
Best skiing or snowboarding
Best pool
Best place to play pool (or go bowling)
Best place to be seen
Best second-hand store
Best comedy club
Best art gallery
Best place to get a good education

Places to eat:
Appertizers
Breads and rolls
Pastries
Asian Food
Chocolate
Chips and Salsa
Mexican Food
Indian Food
French Fries and/or onion rings
Shakes
Fry Sauce
Hamburger
Thai Food
Pizza
Italian Food
Soups/Salads
Best place to take the whole family
Best place for just you and a date
Best steak
Best deal for a good meal
Best reason to splurge
Smoothie and/or ice cream

Services:
For you:
Cut and color
Manicure
Pedicure
Massage
Wax

For your car or Harley:
Lube and Oil
Tires
Car Wash
Gas
Repair

For your house:
Window washing
Carpet Cleaning
House cleaning

Places to shop:
Books
Clothes for men
Clother for women
Clothes for kids
Music
Shoes and/or accessories
Fabric, crafts and/or quilting
Home Improvement
Jewelry
Groceries
Home Decor
Nursery

Did I miss anything?

Does that come with the soup of the day?

2007-01-04T19:31:00.001-07:00

Tomato Basil soup in Helsinki, Finland

I just got my umpteenth chain e-mail. This one is a recipe exchange. Been there. Done that. But I've got a better idea. How about a recipe chain post?

Here's how I hope it will work. I will post a most delicious soup recipe. Then each of you will contribute your favorite soup recipe as a comment.

I'm thinking that if weren't for the fact that it's almost the weekend (we all know everyone goes back to their real lives on weekends) we could potentially have a month's worth of meals if everyone plays along. How? Well, if we get at least 15 recipes and each batch of soup makes enough for two meals, you can eat half one night and freeze the rest. And that could take care of all the cooking required for the rest of the month of January. Cool!

Any players?

I'll start.

White Bean Chili
this is a kid friendly soup--even my kids who won't eat beans love this soup

4 chicken breasts, cooked and shredded (methods vary for getting this far; take your pick)

1 TBSP. oil
2 medium onions, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced

2 4-oz cans chopped green chilis
1 tsp. cumin
1 tsp. oregano
1/4 tsp. cayenne pepper

4 16-oz cans white beans
3 c. chicken broth (I just use three cans)

1 c. sour cream
3 c. grated Monterey Jack cheese

Heat oil in a very large skillet or stockpot. Lightly saute onions and garlic. Stir in chicken.

Add chopped green chilis, cumin, oregano and cayenne pepper (I used this fine company's chili powder instead, just for fun).

Pour in white beans and chicken broth. Heat through thoroughly, bringing almost to a boil but not boiling.

Stir in sour cream and Monterey Jack cheese. (Don't panic if the Jack cheese is a little rubbery at first, it will melt and make a nice broth.) If soup is too chunky you can add a little more chicken broth or even a little water as desired.

Serve with another dollop of sour cream or more grated cheese or however else you like.

If you are hungry for more than just soup, here are a couple of my favorite food blogs with more great recipes:
Serrano Sisters' Savories
Cooking with Anne

Stop the inanity!

2007-01-03T15:44:00.000-07:00

Inane:
Main Entry: 1inane
Pronunciation: i-'nAn
Function: adjective
Inflected Form(s): inan·er; -est
Etymology: Latin inanis
1 : EMPTY, INSUBSTANTIAL
2 : lacking significance, meaning, or point : SILLY

Main Entry: 2inane
Function: noun
: void or empty space, a voyage into the limitless inane
(mirriamwebster.com)

It's gone. An entire hour of my life sucked into the void. Just like that. I'll never get it back.

Two conversations.

It's not even like they were worth becoming passionate over. Inanity (no, it wasn't a word till I just made it up) at its best. Or maybe its worst?

First one. Someone needs a form. I've never seen such a form. I inquire about said form, calmly ignoring the pointed comment that indeed someone went over this form with me already. So I spend the next 30 minutes of my life chasing down said form, filling it out, and then participating in one of the most inane conversations ever. You know, those kind in which someone tells you one thing and then the next sentence out of their mouth completely contradicts the prior. You can't believe that an experience this pointless isn't just as obvious to the person creating it . It's almost surreal. I patiently plod through the mostly one-sided exchange that results in this parting shot.

"Oh. I guess you don't need this form afterall." As if I were the one who had instigated the entire episode.

OK. C'est la vie. Eventually moments like that become almost funny.

Unless you have to relive them again the very same day.

Second one. This afternoon I arrive home to find my cell phone service has been suspended. Knowing I just paid my bill on Monday, January 1, 2007 (invoice dated 12/20/06, received 12/26/06--it is the holidays, you know), I call the phone number printed on my Cingular cell phone bill--a number specifically designated for such queries. Immediately I am transferred to another number and an impersonal voice tells me, "To avoid being transferred in the future, please call our correct contact number..."

Should have been my first clue.

The customer service (has there ever been a worse oxymoron than "customer service") person begins a routine that sounds remarkably like the one I experienced earlier. She says one thing. I don't even have to bother with a response because her very next words contradict her last. The best part is when she tells me AT&T has cancelled my service.

"I don't have an account with AT&T," I reply. This bill and all those prior clearly state they are from Cingular (which, to my knowledge, bought out AT&T ages ago).

"Well, it's really AT&T." (The duality of a company name that sounds like "singular" is not lost on me.)

Whatever. So I ask how to contact AT&T. I'm told I can't. Apparently they can suspend my service, but I am not allowed to contact them to ask why or to have it restored. I promptly but politely express my dissatisfaction with that situation. Something about that being ridiculous and how customers are not going to be very happy being treated in this way (meaning since when is it OK to shut off a good customer for nonpayment without any notice less than a week after they would've received their bill and then render them powerless to restore service?).

Then I am told almost with a snicker that things are going to be even worse when Cingular becomes AT&T.

"Say what?"

AT&T became Cingular and now Cingular is becoming AT&T. "Don't you ever watch the news?" The woman sneers. She informs me that soon I won't have any choice buy to jump through the hoops they set out for me. They're buying up everyone and will eventually be the only cellular service provider anywhere, she says.

How Clintonesque: Because we can.

I ask if I could speak with a supervisor. "They can't help you," I am told.

Finally, toward the end of the pointless call and completely out of the blue I am offered a bread crumb. Another phone number. This is the old accounts management number for AT&T. It may or may not work.

After another 20 minutes of inane conversation and coma-inducing hold music my service is restored. (The best part of that call? When the woman trying to restore my service asked me if I was talking to her on my cellular phone. Duh, no!) Still never an explanation how a bill I received from Cingular and paid within less than a week of receiving it is somehow past due to AT&T, who hasn't owned my account for ages. How or why my service was suspended and I ended up suspended between two separate entities specializing in customer nonservice. Never an apology. Nothing.

Just the ticking by of thirty more minutes in the realm of the absurd.

Don't you ever wonder, "Is it really worth it?"

Closing the store is the brave thing to do!

2006-12-31T09:17:00.000-07:00

This past year...

...I did two brave things:

One, I applied for a supervisor position at my work (going back to work was the biggest and only brave thing I did the year before). I got it. Consequently, I have learned a few good lessons and now my resume looks a lot better than it did the year before.

Two, I sang. I like to sing, But usually not in anything smaller than a full choir and never in front of the actual composer. I was sort of tricked into that part, but by the time I realized it I had already committed myself, so I did it anyway. And as that particular composer was there to talk about being brave and discovering, developing and sharing talents I felt much better about being in her audience having said "OK" rather than having said "No way!" The good thing about that experience is it made me consider the possibility of being brave.

Also in 2006*, I did not spend enough time at my favorite long-time hobby, quilting. But I did find a new hobby, blogging. Which reminds me of a third brave thing: I got up my nerve to meet some great new blogging friends, who I think are all, much like this girl, simply fabulous.

Thanks to one such friend, Lucky, I accomplished one of the more difficult goals on my "Things to do before I die" list. I rode on the back of a Harley. It was great. Lucky is great. Now if one of you could only teach me to play the cello I could cross off one more thing on my list.

Wow! I just remembered a fourth brave thing I did: I got on an airplane! (Thank goodness there were no snakes!) And I left the country. These are not things I normally do. But it was a great time and I would have seriously regretted not having been brave enough to have gone. I have to admit that when we flew into Amsterdam and I realized how close we were to Belgium and France I actually found myself thinking, "I really ought to do this again sometime."

So now I'm considering other possible feats of bravery for 2007.

Training to hike the "Y" with ~j, azucar and sue-donym sounds like fun. (Ha! How many people do you know who have to train to hike the "Y"?) If they don't mind, that is. One of my brave friends started with the "Y" and since hiked across the entire country of England. I lack the courage to do something so terribly brave as that, but the "Y" is a good start.

I will try to get some great skills. I'm not sure yet in what. The cello seems out of the question. I could start learning Finnish or try to resuscitate my French. I'd love to take a class in web design. Lorien is going to teach me how to make her fabulous wheat bread. I guess that's a good place to start. (What I'd really love is to also take a class from this culinary genius.)

A two-time Flylady drop-out. I might get brave enough to try again to get my act together. Then again, I might not. I'm still on the fence about that one. Either way, I do feel a litte more of this is in order for the new year. It feels sooooooooo good!

I hope 2007 can be about knowing what I want and finding the courage not only to consider all the possibilities, but also to accept and act upon an inherent capacity for change, for improvement. Now that would be the brave thing to do...

*May I recommend, for your reading pleasure, this delightful year in review?

Best thing since sliced bread...

2006-12-30T09:19:00.000-07:00

and even better than a DVD player for keeping the peace on the road to Grandma's house

I'd like to thank Key Bank for their free iPod promo. And iTunes for making it easier than ever to come up with some great playlists. Something for everyone.

What more could a girl want?

Oh yeah.

This.

Just affordable enough to purchase with a handful of gift cards.

Thanks Santa!

because I like a good game of tag as well as the next guy...

2006-12-27T16:30:00.000-07:00

...(thanks lianne.) According to the rules…Each player of this game starts with the ‘6 weird things about you.' People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names.

Six weird things about me
(...and glo said it first, but I terribly wanted to play off of a line from "Emma" and mention the difficulty in limiting myself just to six)

1. I used to eat pizza backwards. Mostly because I liked the chewy-gooey-cheesy part at the end and I ALWAYS save the best for last.

2. I was born with dimples on my shoulders. My mom used to pull my sleeves down to show people--maybe even complete strangers--when I was little. I still have the dimples, but thankfully she doesn't do that anymore.

3. I can negotiate a round-about successfully. Apparently being able to do so in Utah makes me weird.

4. I finally fulfilled one of my life-long dreams. I have been officially invited to sit at the cool table. I could die a happy and fulfilled woman now. (Of course making the list doesn't mean I am weird. But wanting so badly to be on it is likely to qualify me.)

5. I like to talk to people. Even perfect strangers. I'd like to think I understand social boundaries and don't trespass into the "too much information" zone. (Like the woman who once spilled out to me her entire life story--including too many details about her very messy divorce--while I was waiting in line to complain about my kid's lousy English honors teacher at Jr. High.) But I will most likely chat you up a bit if you happen to be waiting in the return line at Target or sitting next to me at the bus stop. OK, so that last one will never happen, but if it did...

6. I tore my ACL while participating in a dutch-oven cook off. The worst part is that I only took second place. It was a fabulous salmon recipe, but I forgot to account for the fact that some people take a strong dislike to seafood. My bad. In any case the recovery was hell and it's one of the worst experiences I've been through in my entire life. But now it's long past--except for the fact that I can't kneel on that knee and I never regained feeling in part of my right leg--I can at least get a kick out of telling people how I did it. It's not as "out there" as someone I know who tore her ACL on a stripper pole, but it's at least up there with weird ways to sustain a serious sports injury.

I know I'm supposed to tag people, but I can't bring myself to add one more thing to your to-do list over the holidays. If you feel like playing, jump right on in.

Look who must have made Santa's nice list...

2006-12-25T23:39:00.000-07:00

Me, that's who!

I asked for it. But never for a moment did I think I would get it. I've already been given the moon this year--a trip to Finland. my very own barbara k toolset, a digital camera...

But my sweet husband somehow managed to pull off the impossible. My very own new-to-me laptop. Complete with wireless Internet.

No more kicking off the kids from the family computer. No more turning the screen of our iMac to the corner of the room and fussing over people looking over my shoulder as they wait impatiently to resume their latest IMing.

Now I am sprawled on the sofa--a la Med Ryan--snuggled under a cozy warm quilt and typing to my heart's content.

This is utter and complete blog heaven.

Somehow, I must have managed to have been very nice this past year...

untitled

2006-12-25T22:46:00.000-07:00

It's almost two a.m. On the average Christmas Eve (now evolved into morn) I've barely been in bed for half an hour, but I've already looked at the clock at least three times. Wild with anticipation, not for what might lie under the tree for me, but for the joy I hope to see on the faces of my children.

In a few short hours I will hop out of bed. Probably on the pretext of needing to visit the restroom or to fetch a drink of water. And my slippered feet will deliberately pound the wood floors--that just happen to be right over the boys' bedroom--just a little too loudly. I might shut the cupboard door a bit too forcefully. Knowing full well if I can accidentally wake up at least one or two, the excitement will spread through the house. Children will raise their sleepy heads and soon--quite soon--the moment of truth will arrive.

I lay there as the minutes tick by. Exhausted, but still wide awake. Will they be happy?

Tonight I wonder: Was it possibly the same for our Creators?

Did they tremble with anticipation as they raised the mighty mountains of the Wasatch front, wondering who would be the first to glance up and stare in awe at their beauty?

Were they secretly pleased at how lovely Bridal Veil falls turned out when it was all up and running and could they not wait for someone to notice?

Did they take their first whiff of fresh lavender and almost clap their hands--barely able to stand it till one of us finally inhaled the earthy fragrance?

Can they hardly contain their joy each time they send down a marvelous sunset? Do they possibly ask, "Won't so-and-so really love this one?"

Take a walk through Bethlehem

2006-12-18T23:34:00.000-07:00

But first, let me introduce you to my snowman shrine:It began innocently enough. We were in a drought. I started pleading for snow. Soon people heard about my "shrine" and couldn't help themselves. They brought me more snowmen. I almost had to do an intervention for my mom to get her to stop. Just the other day I got another one--the really tall one-- from a friend. It's not like I can say, "That's really nice, but I'm trying to quit."

In any case, this is one of my two holiday displays over which I give the kids free reign. Sure you can set them up however you like. Touch them. Move them. Do whatever you want...only don't eat them.

Now let's make our way over to the nativity collection. You will see it's a little eclectic. A few pieces came from a friend who happens to travel out of the country a lot. New this year is the set I brought back from Finland. Can you tell which it is?

One of my favorites is the plastic set that my kids have been playing with for ages. Frequently we lose a piece or two, but eventually--usually around August--it will show up in the bathtub or the bunny cage or somewhere.

Note that one year someone forgot the "only don't eat them" rule. I don't even think it was the bunny.

This one is my most favorite. I call it "The Reluctant Joseph." It keeps slipping in its ill-fitted frame. But I like it that way. It kind of reminds me of the ill-fitted halo of the littlest angel. And it seems to suit my littlest angel just fine.

Merry Christmas!

Who's your favorite Scrooge?

2006-12-17T07:35:00.000-07:00

I am a huge fan of Dickens' "A Christmas Carol."

When I was a kid my dad would gather us together and we would turn down all the lights and listen to the annual radio broadcast of "A Christmas Carol." We had an intercom system in our home so we could be wherever we wanted to, but there were no books, TV, 8-track cassette or any other forms of entertainment allowed--just the radio. My favorite place to listen was sprawled out with my siblings on the carpet somewhere. Maybe it was the novelty of a radio show. Maybe it was just the magic of the season. But we were mesmerized and it quickly became a family favorite.

For the past three years we have been privileged to see the performance at the Hale Center Theater. I highly recommend it. The music is heavenly (how could it not be with this fabulous director?) and their Scrooge was born to play the part. They also have a lot of fun with it. The first year we happened to sit in the corner where Marley's ghost exits the stage. We will never forget how when he flung his chains in the middle of his last great moan they hit my second son right across the chest. That moment had impact and made the story real for all of us.

Even having seen it in the theater we will still watch the DVD a couple of times--or more--as well. I am about as picky about my Scrooge as I am about my Hamlet. But, hands down, my favorite Scrooge is George C. Scott.

Patrick Stewart does a decent Scrooge. (Except there are moments during which I begin to think we're in the halodeck and I half expect Geordi or Data to drop in.) "The Captain" also has done an audio book--and it's simply wonderful.

We did at one time have the Disney cartoon Scrooge on VHS, but we seem to have misplaced the VCR.

(I have a friend whose favorite Scrooge is Mr. Magoo. But I think perhaps most of you are too young to remember Mr. Magoo.)

In any case, the story is a good reminder to make people more important than possessions and to be responsible for the well-being of one-another. It will always be close to my heart.

So, who's your favorite Scrooge?

Dear Santa, Part II:

2006-12-16T23:48:00.000-07:00

Found this note the other day from that same last child:

Could it be he still believes?

He made that cranberry garland all by himself. (I don't usually cave and buy extra tree tops pretending to be trees, but he picked out that "tree" all by himself too and I couldn't resist those puppy-dog eyes when he begged and pleaded to have it. So this year we have four trees--or should I say one tree and three tree tops.)

Merry Christmas!

Dear Santa, Part I:

2006-12-13T07:45:00.000-07:00

...this letter was inspired by my annual reading of the book featured at left: "Don't Bite Me, I'm Santa Claus," by Tom Plummer.

Dear Santa,

Hi, it's me. I'm feeling sort of sad this year because my last child is trying to tell me that you just aren't true. I'm trying just as hard to remind him that you are, of course. I mean really! (And my friend--who is also the mother of his best friend--has threatened to cut out his tongue if he says a word about this to her daughter.)

I used to believe my life would be a bit easier when my kids all "grew up." But now I think I was wrong. I don't care if arriving at this stage means I can wrap all the presents weeks ahead of time and won't have to stay up till 1 or 2 or later to get all the surprises ready (we both know I will wait till the last minute anyway!).

Remember how when I was young I always let Christmas become a bit overshadowed by my selfishness? I'm so sorry about that now. I'm sure a good part of that was because I had real issues over having a birthday right before Christmas. You have to admit I did kind of get gypped in that regard. It is the bane of all December-born: receiving the exact same presents everyone was giving to all their friends that year and hearing, "Here. This is for your birthday and Christmas." And of course there were never to be any birthday parties that close to Christmas either. My mom tried to plan one for me once, but I was so worried about everyone who didn't come I failed to have a great time with those few who did come. My bad. I used to get pretty worked up over having birthday gifts wrapped in Christmas paper all the time too. My mom still thinks that's a big deal to me, but just between us, I'm really so over that. I'm really over all of it now. And gratefully so.

The cool thing that happened to me was I had my own kids. Without ever realizing it, I kind of lost myself in the magic of helping you make their Christmases something special and I no longer had any time to be worrying about whether or not my birthday would be special. And somehow that made everything more special.

Now I realize that this really is the most wonderful time of the year not only to celebrate Christmas, but also to have a birthday. Who else gets to celebrate the day they were born surrounded by skies donned with twinkle lights, wonderful wreaths and garlands, the spicy smell of wassail, tender tidings of comfort and joy and the sweet sounds of carols to our King? How cool is that?

So I just wanted to let you know, I still believe. And of course December the 24th will still find me helping you out--probably still frantically and much later than I should. And while I may feel a little sad to recognize childhood waning in my growing-up kids, I'll also be a little happy in my hopes that the best part of their "childhood" still awaits them. And I will be praying that each of them will be wise enough--regardless of age--to let the child in him or her guide them to the best parts of Christmas, and really, the best parts in their lives.

Happy Christmas!

Love,

D~

'Tis the season: Festival of Trees

2006-12-11T07:02:00.000-07:00

literal acres of lights, trees and smiles

now I personally would never take my preemie out and hand him over to a complete stranger, but that aside, this made for a great photo op

my baby and his best girl

I volunteered here one year and it was the best Christmas ever--the smiles were infectious and the expressions of utter and complete joy I witnessed will stay with me forever

our quilt--disguised as a "tree" wreath--brought in generous donations

for Jules: you might be a redneck if you bought this tree...

Post of the week:

2006-12-08T08:31:00.000-07:00

Just Say NO!

~j: It's time to take action...

2006-12-06T06:36:00.000-07:00

Griswold vs. Griswold: Showdown!

I don't even bother putting up my own lights anymore (well, my husband might when he gets around to it).

What's in your wallet?

2006-12-04T05:59:00.000-07:00

Inspired by fun posts such as Mom Pockets and Saddle bags, I got to thinking about punch cards. Or, as I affectionately call them, "frequent flier cards." How many do we carry? Where are they from. Which are the most used. Whatever do they say about us?

Here's what I dug out of the depths of my purse:

Cafe Rio: Two stamps, dated 10/28
This one was started while I was in Pocatello with the band--and yes, I can't help it. I don't care if it was in Pocatello or that it was the marching band--I just love writing that I am, was or will be "with the band."

Great Harvest Bread Co: One loaf
And this only because they no longer give you free samples without purchase but I feel guilty going in just for one slice of their delicious bread, so I like to pretend I'm going in because I always buy my family expensive whole wheat bread and that the free slice is just an afterthought.

Body Benefits from JCPenney: Two punches
No more details needed there, except to state that it's just not near as glam as Lo's pretty pink Angel card from Victoria's Secret (or would that belong to Guy?)

Zupas: Two stamps
Thanks Lo, for having me pick up your lunch while you shopped for shoes on our way up to Festival of Trees.

American Quilting: 1 $5 stamp, 1 $10 stamp and 4 $1 stamps
A good indication that since I've started working I'm too busy to quilt anymore. Except for Saturday with, well, Lorien!

American Quilting: All full. I won't reveal the total amount spent to fill it on the grounds it may incriminate me.
This one is obviously leftover from my previous life before I had paid employment but no time to shop.

Cafe Rio: Eight stamps
Hmmmmmm. Eight plus two equals 11--I'm almost there! Can you say FREE MEAL!? But what I really wish is that El Azteca had a punch card.

Chevron Frequent Fill-Up: Two cards. Two punches.
Of course they suspended this program several years ago. Maybe one of these days I should clean out my purse.

Elaine's Quilt Block, which I love, but find to be too far away for a quick dash to the quilt store. The Stitching Corner, which I do not love anymore since the most-usually-sweet little old ladies who used to work there all retired and they got a guy running the place. Quilt's Etc., which is OK if I am going up to Salt Lake anyway and am looking for a particular fabric no one else has, but is also so jam backed with a bazillion different fabrics that I cannot shop there because I'm too distracted by too many choices. The Quilter's Cottage, which I also enjoy. If I am in the neighborhood.

The Zupas card I couldn't find when I went to lunch there the other day with Julie and Lorien: Also two punches.
Their tomato basil soup is divine.

For Every Body: Three $5 stamps.
It's only that empty because I've missed their last two semi-annual clearance sales. I save a lot of money by missing good sales.

Fro Yo: Two stamps.
Of course I didn't really think it was any good the first time, so I don't intend to ever go there again. But I still carry their punch card. Go figure.

Shopko Pharmacy, which is my usual pharmacy. Smith's Pharmacy, which I've been to only once.
These punch cards are like gold to me ever since my insurance tacked on a $50 pharmacy deductible per person--which ends up to be $300 for my family. Ouch!

The Good Earth: An undisclosed amount. (Also on the grounds it may incriminate me. Actually, more on the grounds it may incriminate them--who knew things that are good for you could be so pricey?)
I've got a smattering of these. Of course I can never find them when I need them.

Subway. I have no idea how many "punches" there are because it works like a credit card.
Not my favorite sandwich joint, but the only one I can get to, get in, get out, and get back to work from in my alloted 15-minute break time. My good friend/co-worker and I take turns every now and then purchasing a foot-long, which we split. Turkey on cheese bread. Provolone. Mayo, lettuce, tomatoes and olives only.

We have to go separately so people don't talk. (Because he is a guy and I'm not.) Sometimes it's complicated having a good friend of the opposite sex.

Places which I wish would offer me a punch card (besides El Azteca): Bath & Body Works, Target, Jamba Juice, TJ Maxx, any gas station, The Porch and, of course, Eliane's French Bakery.

So now I'm wondering,

What's in your wallet?

In the midst of aftermath...

2006-11-28T23:17:00.000-07:00

There is this great scene in one of my favorite movies, "Twister" in which, in the midst of tornado aftermath, the protagonist, Jo, finally confronts her "issues" with tornados.

"You've never seen it miss this house, and miss that house, and come after you!" (Hint: it's not about the house, it's really all about her father).

I feel that way about Cancer. (Hint: it all started with my father, too).

Jo devoted her entire life to chasing and, essentially, fighting tornados.

In truth, I, myself, am much better at running away, getting distracted--avoiding real problems and issues. But in my other life--the imaginary one in which I, too, am a protagonist, and I spend my days being really, really good at something significant--I am a storm chaser. At least I like to think I would be.

I watched Cancer take my Dad before we even knew he had it. Before I ever got to say goodbye. And a woman who was at that time the same age I am now found herself wondering how in the world she was going to raise and support six kids--four of them boys--all by herself.

I watched it take this friend and that friend. Or that friend's baby.

Tayson. His family had just moved into our neighborhood only months before. I remember meeting Alice and thinking what great friends we could be. I really, really liked her. I remember seeing her walking Tayson down the road in his stroller. She told me he wasn't feeling too well. I noticed he had a bad bruise on his face. We talked about the usual things one discusses over childhood illness. Maybe he had an ear infection. Who was her pediatrician. I hoped he felt better soon.

Later that day another woman from the neighborhood me asked how everything was. "Fine," I said. "You haven't heard?" she asked. Turned out Tayson didn't have an ear infection. He had leukemia. L-E-U-K-E-M-I-A. My world stopped still. And I couldn't even begin to imagine.

They had hardly even moved in, didn't really know a lot of people. And now they were practically living at Primary Children's Hospital. I remember one night we drove up to Salt Lake to see them. I had the hardest time walking through the halls at PCMC. I still can hardly make myself walk through those halls (don't get me wrong--PCMC is a wonderful place and we are so blessed to have it. I just can't handle thinking about the anguish of those kids--their mothers, their fathers, their entire families--must go through with whatever it is that brings them there. I know miracles happen there. But I also know there is a great deal of pain). Somehow at the end of the visit, we ended up with tickets to the ball game. Alice and Barry were glad someone could use them. We had a great time; but somehow it seemed wrong to be having a good time while they were left behind to witness the constant suffering of their son.

I remember the day Tayson died. I tried to imagine my friend rocking her baby in her arms while the people in the mortuary were waiting for her to release him. How does one ever let go?

I remember the night of the viewing. I had to make myself go. I didn't think I could go in. But I made myself go in. I was blessed to understand that the too-small body lying in the casket wasn't Tayson anymore and that Tayson was OK now.

I remember serving in the kitchen on the day of Tayson's funeral. Alice came in to say goodbye. She hugged me long and hard. I didn't want to let her go. I wanted her to know she wasn't alone. But mothers with empty arms are alone.

Another Alice. When I was just starting out, I used to call her and seek her advice for a number of homemaking and cooking and baking issues. She helped me sew something for one of my kids once. She had the best laugh and was so much fun at girls' camp. I will never forget the night at some Stake RS dinner when we sat together and she was telling us about her back pain and how frustrated she was that no one could seem to help her. She wasn't complaining. She was explaining.

Within about a month she was dead from bone cancer.

She had two girls still home.

Who do they talk to about their hopes, their fears, their broken hearts? Who will help them with their hair and their dresses on their wedding days?

Meridith. You may have read about her. She was diagnosed with leukemia on Valentine's Day. The gift of marrow from the bones of her twin sister saved her eventually, but did Cancer really spare her? No. The radiation used to beat it back broke her body and her mind. She suffers still. "I'll just turn it over to God," she says as she wears herself out serving her husband, her family and her every neighbor.

Sue. I don't even know how to describe Sue. My favorite picture of her is one in which she is wearing sunglasses and holding some great big novel in her hands. I think she has a beach hat on, too, maybe. She was likely wearing a bathing suit and sitting lakeside or poolside somewhere or on a boat. Sue had a hard life. But she was frank and real. I liked that about her. She helped me refine my pie-baking skills and gave me the recipe for the best sour cherry pie ever. When life gives you sour cherries by all means make a dessert out of them.

Breast Cancer. I remember her stopping her car to talk to me as I walked down her street and she was returning from yet another round of chemo. She looked great, but she felt like hell. I will never forget how her co-workers at NuSkin worked her shifts for her so she could keep her medical insurance.

Sue finally found peace at the end. Her funeral--mere days before Christmas--remains one of the best I ever attended.

Adrienne. It always seemed to me as if Adrienne and her three beautiful girls had stepped right out of a Jane Austin novel and right into our little old neighborhood.

No one kept Christmas like Adrienne. She kept it the whole year through. Her house was decorated for it for months before and after. But it wasn't mere decoration. She emodied the Spirit of Christmas. It was said of her at her funeral something to the effect that she and her equally amazing husband must've had input into the creation of the Garden of Eden for it to have truly been as lovely as it was. Adrienne made the world a more beautiful place.

Ovarian Cancer. I remember trying to help her during her last months. I never had any trouble finding women willing to come to clean her lovely home. The problem was more Adrienne wearing herself out trying to clean it before we came to clean.

I remember sitting by her bedside sometime during her last couple of weeks. I hugged her and held her hand. She was in so much pain. But so gracious and loving. My memory of these moments is kind of blurry. I think it's both too beautiful and too painful to recall in sharp focus.

I have never known--nor will I ever--anyone quite like her.

The list goes on: My Aunt Pat: She survived breast Cancer some 20 years ago, but another one eventually took her. She'd been widowed from my uncle since I was a baby. Now my cousins have no parents.

My Grandma Jacobs: Breast Cancer. My Aunt Darlene: Breast Cancer. My friend Laurie: Thyroid Cancer. Just to name a few. They are survivors. Cancer didn't miss them entirely, but it didn't take them away, either.

And now I just learned that Cancer has chosen to go after my neighbor through the back fence: Stage three testicular cancer.

A good man. A husband and father. With kids the age I remember being when it went after my dad.

I am trying to imagine being this family. Being the wife who must be sore afraid. Being the four kids who probably have no idea what this all really means for them. Being the provider of a family and wondering not only what lies ahead for you, but what will happen to your family? Feeling alone because although we may offer prayers and sympathy, no one really knows what it's like to be them right now.

I want to help. But what can I do? What can I say?

There are no words for this.

I know.

update: Cory has finished chemo and has tested clear of cancer. We hope and pray his remission continues.

Just like at the end of the movie, sometimes the twister will pass by your house and leave you all still standing.

In the news...

2006-11-28T07:37:00.000-07:00

Random highlights

Apparently even in the animal kingdom having a "well-developed rack" will get you some attention. (My favorite line: "It's got no male utilities!")

I know, the "thrill on the hill" is so last week. But it bears reliving over and over and over. Wahoo!

I'm with his mom. Gross! But I'll support you honey if that's really what you want to do with your life... (Said the "witnesses," "We're not always saving lives and protecting property. We also do other things.")

Commentary on what a weird world in which we live:

From public urination, which, apparently is now illegal, but shouldn't be considered to be offensive...

...to public breastfeeding, which, although perfectly legal, is still, by some, considered to be offensive...

...to that all-time great offender, Christmas.

*groan*

And finally: Here are just a couple dedicated to my favorite Pottymouth Sister:

Innovation has taken a nasty turn. Can you say "Panda poo paper production" five times really fast?

When in the city...

On Being Wise...

2006-11-27T17:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we had a lesson on finding wisdom. One of the concepts discussed that really resonated with me was a comment on how we are torn by competing demands and priorities--which, as you know, is something I've been thinking about a lot lately. I'm doing a little better. Cutting back my work hours a bit, getting better at saying "No," and trying to put my house and my life in some semblance of order. I've still got a ways to go. But I'm learning...

Because we needed to drive out an extra car and I had to work on Wednesday, my family left before I did to go over the river and through the woods to Grandma's house for Thanksgiving. I had lots to do and was looking forward to the empty house so I could get down to business. Only I discovered a couple of things.

One, I don't really like being alone in the house at night. (I have a new appreciation for my widowed mother who has done this for well over 20 years--I would scare myself silly and end up totally crazy). I can do it when the kids are home, but I would be hopeless completely alone. There is no logic in this; it is what it is.

Two, those chores I thought were so important to get done suddenly seemed meaningless. I missed my family and realized I wanted to have been with them for the entire holiday--not just the next day when I meant to drive out. (Suddenly I feel less badly about dropping everything--including the dirty dishes and the laundry--the other night when my 15-year-old really wanted me to take him to DI and then to Shopko to buy a new belt.) This is something I usually get right, but I often feel guilty over what get's left undone in order for me to get it right. So now, knowing how I really feel about getting it wrong this time, I'm hoping I can let go of the conflicted feelings and commit myself to getting it right more often. Does that make sense to anyone but me?

Someday I may have a clean house and the work might all be done. But I have a feeling when that day comes I might also be a little lonely.

During my time of solitude I drove over to the Jamestown to visit my grandparents. (My mom usually goes to my sister's house in Idaho for Thanksgiving, which leaves just me and my brother to look after them.) My grandmother, upon learning I had stayed behind to get the baking and cleaning done, told me twice during the conversation, "Just go buy some rolls at the store then go to join your family." Now this was really something from the woman who in my mind set the standard for the care and keeping of households in a home where, according to my mother, the children were expected to be seen but not heard. I was surprised and touched to recognize how the wisdom of her age had shifted her priorities a bit.

I can't wait till I'm 88 to get this part right.

The truth is I am becoming keenly aware of how short life is and how quickly we lose chances to spend time and build relationships with the people we love. I am reminded of it when someone I love dies and I regret not having known them better or spent more time with them. I am also mindful of it as I observe my children growing up much too fast and as I watch my oldest preparing to leave the nest.

So, as the holidays set upon me and my calendar fills up with something every night, here's what I'm trying to remember:

Life is short.

Each moment is a gift.

Enjoy the ride.

I am thankful for...

2006-11-22T16:29:00.000-07:00

...BYU 33-Utah 31. What a game! What a last-second thrill! What a win! Wahoo!!!

...all the people linked at the left (and others) who occasionally drop in to read my musings and often add their two cents. I appreciate that your blogs can make me both laugh and cry. I am sobered, amused, entertained, educated and enlightened by reading your posts. Thank you!

...new friends--and the looks I get when I tell people I'm going to go hang out with a bunch of people I met on the Internet.

...lianne for discovering my inner purple. And for creating a fresh new look that addresses another favorite obsession of mine.

...a husband who taught me to notice and appreciate the simple things, who is an involved father and who treats me as an equal and lets me be who I am even if it's not exactly what he expected.

...kids who don't try to pretend I'm not their mom or hide and pretend they're not actually with me when we go out in public.

...hugs.

...that I overcame a number of my biggest fears and flew to Finland this fall for the trip of a lifetime.

...a roof over my head--even if the part over the garage leaks a bit.

...good food to eat. An abundance I often take for granted, but do realize is not similarly enjoyed by a good part of the world's population.

...warm clothes in the winter. Central air and a good furnace. Shoes on my feet. Quilts throughout the house. All the comforts of home. Even if it is a bit lived in.

...a good job working with good people. They make it worth it to show up for another day's labor.

...bek, whom I want to be just like whenever I grow up because she inspired me to become a kinder, gentler blogger with this (sorry Ashton).

...great neighbors, most excellent friends, amazing sister-friends.

...the arts of reading a well-written book or engaging a well-turned phrase.

...the presence and beauty of the mountains.

...a sense of belonging and of connectedness to family and to friends--whom I consider family.

...that I am capable of making a passably delicious Thanksgiving dinner. Thanks, of course, to recipes handed down by family and friends.

...all those summers of my youth during which an entire week was devoted to baking pies for the annual Scandinavian Festival. I used to think I didn't have any talents, but now I think if it were written on my tombstone, "She baked a mighty fine pie," I could possibly rest in peace under that.

...each new day that allows me another chance to grow up a little bit, at least try to be a better person, and hope for a simple opportunity to brighten someone's day or make the world a little better place.

...a national holiday that reminds us to be mindful of blessings we should be thankful for year 'round.

...the simple way having a heart full of gratitude serves a dual purpose of both wrapping up the fall harvest and ushering in the Christmas season.

Of course there's much, much more, but I need to go start the pies.

So what's on your list?

My Monday ABCs: Ashton, don't Buy tupperware, and Call me CRAZY!

2006-11-20T12:12:00.000-07:00

Understatement of the century: In an article attempting to explain the latest stupid move by O.J. Simpson, "Instead, the experts said, the book may amount to narcissism." May? Ya think? Puh-lease.

Dear Media people:

Don't buy the book. Don't interview O.J. on the air. Can we please just ignore the crazy and demented guy wearing the bloody too-small-gloves and stop the insanity enough already?

[This just in-- (The eternal optimist in me rejoiceth.) Apparently there is at least one strand of moral fiber and maybe even one iota of good taste left in America: The ill-conceived O.J. project has been canceled!]

Also to the dear media people: I DON'T GIVE A GNAT'S EYELASH ABOUT THE TOMKAT WEDDING OR THE NEVER-ENDING KISS (which is an ironic way to begin a just-can't-possibly-last marriage anyhow)!

*Mean Girl Alert* I think Ashton Kutcher is just stupid. I used to think Demi was an intelligent woman, but now that I've seen Ashton in an interview, I think she was just dumb enough to get distracted by substance-less eye candy. And at her age she should've known better. Thank you. I just needed to say that out loud.

Dear Sony PlayStation people:

Please explain to me the logic behind providing a HUGE shortage of whatever-your-latest-overpriced-addictive-to-the-male-species-entertainment-system-is so that only the few people who don't really want them anyway are able to purchase them, only to resell them for a HUGE and ridiculous profit on e-Bay. What-the-heck kinda business model is that, anyway? Wouldn't you make a little more money if you made more than four or five of them and then you actually scored the profit from the 50-gabazillion or so boys who want them instead of letting all the people crazy enough to wait in line outside in the middle of winter for three days make all the big bucks?

Oh, and speaking of playing the supply-and-demand game with entertainment systems. Isn't it wonderful how all the ads in the Sunday morning paper so beautifully featured Nintendo's more reasonably priced Wii on their front pages as if one could just meander out that very day (assuming one shopped on Sunday) and purchase one for one's children for Christmas. As if the ad makers had no idea that all 26 of them would've already been sold hours before the paper ever rolled off the presses?

(Do I sound bitter? I'm not really--this is something we swore we would never buy for our children--but still!)

I am tired of Tupperware. Now I'm sure this will bring down the wrath of the people paid to search the Internet for people dishing (ha ha) Tupperware, but really. I've now got a pile of "virtually unbreakable" Tupperware (supposedly using technology from NASA or something) and guess what? It's all broken! It's more broken than my non "virtually unbreakable" Tupperware, which cost less anyway. I think it's even more broken than any of my 20-year-old Pfaltzgraff stoneware. How sad is that?

Call me crazy! Help? I've created a monster tradition at my house and I don't know how to get out of it. Ever since I was first married I always cook an entire Thanksgiving dinner--complete with all the trimmings at my house again on Sunday. It started because I am picky about my stuffing (Just Say No to Stove Top) and I missed the leftovers. But now it's out of control. That's a lot of chopping and stirring and pie baking for these ever-aging hands to be doing all by themselves. Think about it, the first Thanksgiving was potluck and that's how they were all meant to be, don't you think? You might think I could just stop, but now after all these years there are certain expectations (some of them still mine) that this is the way it's got to be? What's a girl to do?

And best if not last, HAPPY *upcoming* BIRTHDAY to me! If this won't be just the BEST birthday present EVER...

(Frankly that last one leaves me speechless, but I can't wait to read what you have to say about it!)

p.s. Does any one else "not love" the new name of the Delta Center as much I do? Let's all Just Say No to "Energy--I've got more money than Delta/I used to be Envirocare--Solutions" too!

Looking for a few good women...

2006-11-17T07:15:00.000-07:00

Don't know if you're familiar with The Festival of Trees, but it's a local charity event from which 100% of the profits benefit children who have been patients at Primary Children's Medical Center and their families. The money goes directly to pay for their charity care. The reason I'm involved is because there are many good causes out there, but this is the only one I know of where 100% of the money goes to the kids.

The Festival is great fun to attend and is a wonderful way to kick off the Christmas season. If you've never been, I suggest taking your family and spending a couple of hours walking through the aisles of trees, wreaths, gingerbread houses and such.

If you are so inclined, however, the Festival is also in serious need of more volunteers. Here's what's needed:

What: Hosts and Hostesses. The job entails wearing a skirt for a few hours (only if you're female), driving up to the South Towne Expo Center, standing in a huge room filled with Christmas everything and occasionally smiling at complete strangers. You may have to answer a few questions (the answers which should be explained to you as you arrive), you might have to give someone directions to the restroom. You do get to enjoy the beautiful surroundings, watch the faces of the children who pretty much eat this up, and feel pretty good about your time being well spent helping out a good cause.

When: The shifts are 9am-1pm, 1-4pm, 4-7pm, or 7-10pm. The event runs from Wednesday, November 29 through Saturday, December 2.

Where: See above.

How: Contact me via e-mail, henfeatherz@gmail.com
I'm going up from 1 to 4 on Thursday, November 30 and would enjoy your company if you're available. If that time doesn't work for you, grab some friends and make it a girls morning, afternoon or night out. I usually go up with a bunch of friends and we work our shift then have lunch together and spend an hour or so walking through the displays ourselves. The donation of your time is your ticket in.
(disclaimer: Despite my title, we could also use men or any youth over age 16. If you work with the older youth, this would be a great service activity. Or grab your spouse and make it a date night.)

How I sold my soul for a handful of Target gift cards

2006-11-15T06:02:00.001-07:00

Alternate Title: The Mommy Wars: Reeking in my own ambivalence

heard rumor of a great and terrible battle. never expected to fight it with myself. in my own head.

I have been wrestling with my ambivalence as a paid working mom and how easily I find myself sucked into the workaholic mindset demanded in the workplace when, just a little over a year ago, my heart was planted along with my feet so firmly on the terra firma of my own home and I doubted I could ever commit myself to the rigorous schedule of serious employment.

Part of me knows the most important work I do is raising good kids and teaching them to be productive citizens.
Part of me gets a kick out of fixing an account for some big-named client from New York or Paris.

Part of me would rather be home using my discretionary time to volunteer at school or for some charity, to complete a quilt project I'm especially fond of, or go to lunch with the girls.
Part of me likes to watch the hours add up on the timeclock and calculate what overtime could be.

Or course I try to the do the rest of those things anyway. Just not as much as I used to or would like to.

Part of me has a hard time leaving the unfinished business at home behind and dragging myself to work.
Part of me has a hard time leaving the unfinished business at work behind and dragging myself back home.

Part of me would love to spend an entire rainy day now and then prone on the sofa, accompanied by a good book.
Part of me can and would put in an 11- or 12-hour day now and then and feel like I've really accomplished something.

Part of me would rather be home curled up with my sick kid than calling every hour and running home every couple of hours to see what was needed.
Part of me feels the pull of perfect attendance at work and rationalizes too readily that if I were home I'd be upstairs working on some other chore anyway and that my absence is not even noted.

But most of me knows that is a lie.

Part of me knows that despite the fact that what I do at home is 99.5% thankless, the .5% of the time I see gratitude in the eyes of the child is of greater worth than barrels full of accolades from strangers.
Part of me thrives on being recognized, acknowledged, appreciated, needed and even loved at work.

I think I almost despise that part of me.

Part of me felt judged because I did not take the entire day off work when my son was sick.
Part of me felt judged because I did not spend the entire day at work when my son was sick.

Truth is I felt I had little choice in the matter; yet truly, if he wouldn't have said it was OK when I asked him if I could go for a couple of hours, I wouldn't have gone.

Part of me likes being the hug that heals a skinned knee or settles a wounded heart, knowing I can't really fix anything, but at least I can be there to catch someone when he or she falls.
Part of me compensates for the fact that I can't really fix any of the real problems in my life by staying at work and fixing things I can fix there.

Truthfully I know the things I fix at work are really irrelevant to the general well-being of the world and the things I feel powerless over at home are infinitely more important.

Part of me likes to remind my workaholic co-workers that no one ever died and said they wish they would've spend more time at work and to encourage them to go home and spend some time with their families.
Part of me wonders if something bad happened tomorrow, would I regret not having spent more of these past 14 months at home?

Part of me feels intensely how wrong it is that work gets the best part of me early in the day. My family gets what's left over.

Part of me is still trying to volunteer at school in as many ways as I can, spend some times with friends once in a while, remain active in some meaningful charitable organizations and participate at least a little from time to time in one of my favorite hobbies.

That part of me is exhausted because the truth is, I really can't do it all.

I wonder, do I really want to?

Too much time on my hands...

2006-11-12T21:19:00.000-07:00

So Saturday my second child and his friends were bored. And look what they found to do to amuse themselves. I went to pick them all up to take them to Macey's and I actually had a moment in which I watched some stranger slide audaciously into the passenger seat next to me and I wondered, who was this kid sitting by me and why was he wearing my son's clothes?A mullet? Willingly and of his own volition?

Don't laugh, it only encourages him.

So after a few "I-love-you-honey-but-you-look-like-a-dork" comments on my part, we headed for Macey's.

Under solemn vow, he agreed not to shop on the same aisles I shopped.

He and I were waiting at the customer service desk for some change when some college student had the nerve to stop and ask him if he could take his picture. "Sure," Z~ said, and the guy whipped out his cell phone, took a picture, and continued to go on and on about how cool it was that my kid's got a mullet.

He asked Z~ why he did it. "Because I was bored," Z~ replied.

I looked at the guy and said, "Yeah, some people's kids do drugs when they're bored. But me, I get a kid that goes and gets himself a mullet.

Best part was after church today when--AFTER SPENDING HALF THE MEETING WONDERING WHO WAS THIS KID I WAS LETTING REST HIS HEAD ON MY SHOULDER AND MY LAP--everyone figured out that it was indeed my own kid, Z~.

EWWWWW!

Sanity thy name is chocolate

2006-11-12T21:18:00.000-07:00

Saturday night I chose to forgo the sink full of dirty dishes and the pile of washed and dried but not folded laundry in the middle of my laundry room floor and chose instead to curl up with this
The magazine is--like the pile of her sisters (including one which I have not even had the time to open)--most likely just wishful thinking. "Window shopping" as it were. Like my life will ever be real simple.

and this...Sanity thy name is chocolate.

Stuck in the middle with whom?

2006-11-10T22:21:00.000-07:00

What does it mean that most of my friends are either having babies (or courageously trying to make them) or having grandchildren right now? I'm sort of this misfit in the middle--not too old nor too young for either--but somehow still stuck in the no-woman's land in between.

Oddly enough, I am content. If not for feeling alone.

Over with one. Not ready for the other. But truly excited for everyone else. That's all OK. (But for not quite feeling like I really fit in with either crowd.)

Just a wondering how I got here and what I do with myself until I get to the next stage...

From the latest headlines...

2006-11-09T06:53:00.000-07:00

Now this is a movement I could really get behind.

This one not so much I think. Of course I support the idea of alternative fuels, but I just don't think I could bring myself to go into Lowes and say, "Could you tell me on which aisle I might find the manure furnaces?" or to start shopping on the Internet for good deals on manure.

Jo March would be rolling in her grave:
Dear mother,
Your six-month old probably doesn't yet feel the need to sport $300 dresses and $200 shoes and parade his or herself before audiences and the flashing lights of cameras.
Dear Lanina's mother,
Lanina probably didn't smile as much or win Miss Personality because you didn't make the time to feed her breakfast. Three-year olds- need to start their days--particularly high-pressure "smile-pretty-for-the-people" kinds of days--with a good breakfast.

Some people's parents...

I LOVE LOVE LOVE Mr. Snowbank. Who else do you know who gets so dang enthused over weather? (Of course, in my other life I am a meteorologist and a part-time storm chaser.) I used to get actual chills up my spine when he broke out the white coat (pardon the pun).

Just wish I would've written this headline (which is, I'll admit, better than the actual story. I would've made something up--some secret romance, ghosts from beyond, etc.)

From K-Fed to Fed-X. I'm going to keep going all the way through until I'm 30," he says. (Because 30 is so old.) "Then I'm really going to sit back and take some time off." (Honey, hasn't your entire life been sitting back and taking "some time off?")

One more reason you shouldn't be caught dead without your scriptures.

For ~j, who said "I just want more of that chicken pot pie in my mouth."

2006-11-09T06:49:00.000-07:00

Chicken Pot Pie

1 small package of frozen peas (about 1 cup+)
2 cups cubed potatoes and carrots
1/3 cup butter
1/3 cup flour
1/3 cup chopped onion
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. pepper
1 3/4 cup chicken broth
2/3 cup milk
2-3 cups cooked chicken, cubed
Pastry for a 10-inch pie
(for a crowd, you can double the recipe and bake in a 9x13 pan. I usually double anyway and freeze one for another day)

Steam carrots and potatoes in remaining 1/4 cup or so of chicken broth till just tender. Toss over peas; drain. Set aside.

In a saucepan or skillet, saute the chopped onion with the butter till tender. Stir in flour, salt and pepper. Cook, stirring constantly, till bubbly. Remove from heat. Add chicken broth and milk, stir till smooth. Return to heat, Stir constantly while bringing it to a boil. Boil and stir one minute. Stir in chicken and vegetables. Pour into pie shell; cover with top crust. Bake at 425 for 35-40 minutes till crust is barely browned and filling is bubbly.

What I love about living in Utah!

2006-11-07T06:42:00.000-07:00

(It's pretty sad when at five a.m. I notice the moon shining shadows on my bed through the trees outside my window and get taken away by how much I love it when that happens and then I get caught up in how if I lived in other, more densely populated areas, I would really miss that and then mere words compel me to jump out of bed and write because they can no longer stay still in my head.)

What I love about living in Utah:

(yes, I'll admit, this post is, just in some itty bitty teeny tiny way, a bit inspired by my desire to get beyond my initial gut response to certain comments made during this lively little conversation.)

I am completely qualified to write this because one, I actually live in Utah and two, I grew up elsewhere, so I have a frame of reference from which to make a comparison.

This post and its comments are intended to be positive. We could all write the post about what's not to love (but hasn't that been done to death already?). It's not perfect. There are, shall I say, certain oddities and just plain obvious annoyances (not to mention sometimes flat-out horrible and hurtful behaviors as well) that can occur when you have an extremely high concentration of anything clustered all together. But I maintain (and this is supported by a lovely book called "The Ladies Auxiliary") that those are, perhaps, natural to the situation and not so much specific to the individuals themselves and they can occur just about anywhere. So, for the moment we will overlook things we may all have experienced such as judgment and perhaps even some narrowmindedness which, apparently aren't exclusive to our lovely little state--and the fact that there is no Trader Joe's nearby--and we shall focus on the positive.

Because, why not?

1. All four seasons! Some of them in any given day or one little road trip.

Yes, we have a splendid fall. Anyone notice the celestial shade of gold on the trees by that doctor's park on the corner of 5th West and 8th North? Every time I drove by this fall I just had to say a simple prayer of thanks out loud and just tell God, "Brilliant!"

Winter will soon arrive (anyone notice it's coming later and later of late?) and cover us in a quiet and peaceful blanket of snow. The swiftly tilting planet seems to slow a bit when this occurs--in spite of the madness of the holidays--and we can just walk outside or glance out the window and experience moments of tranquility.

Spring in Utah can last for months. It will begin in St. George, of course, and then just creep on up and over the state slowly--like the shadow of a meandering cloud--until you can walk through entire meadows of wildflowers during July and August up in our highest mountains.

And then there is summer. I must admit that when I succumbed to living here it was during the flood years and I had no idea I had left the lush green climate of the Pacific northwest to live in a desert. But oh what a desert! I've only been to Lake Powell once, but it--and other places such as Monument Valley, Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, etc.--actually define the color red. And granted our mountains make look a little plain during the dry month of August, but that's only from afar. The beauty of living here is if you don't like where you're at you have only to hop in the car and in a few minutes you can be in someplace entirely different. South Fork Park anyone?

2. The mountains. Like a mother's encircling arms, they exude protection, comfort and peace. They are an actual palpable presence, even from afar. When I returned home from a year and a half in Europe I was startled by both how much I had missed them and how much I could tangibly feel them now I had returned. Living right next to the Wasatch Front mountains is beyond compare.

3. The people. These are generally good people. This isn't by any means exclusive to Utah, but that fact doesn't undermine how great it is to live in a place where the standard people are generally trying pretty hard to "conform" to is to be a good person. I have two teenage boys and there isn't a week that goes by that I don't just sit for a minute in awe of their great friends (I'm hoping my two younger kids are as lucky). I know it takes all kinds of people and you can find whatever kind of friends you are looking for wherever you go, but I am amazed at how simple it is to find a good crowd in high school and just do great things together. As a mother, I am utterly and completely thankful for that.

4. The arts. Living so close to a number of universities and with a number of talented people make it easy to experience just about any kind of great entertainment you desire. (Well, truthfully, we are a little shy on showgirls, but I'm not particularly missing that, are you?) The local theater scene is amazing. I went to see Hale Center Theater's "Jekyll and Hyde" awhile back and had to keep pinching myself to remember this was community theater. Broadway frequently comes to visit. I saw "Les Mis" and "Phantom" both here. The best Shakespeare ever! We also get some fabulous jazz and the usual suspects as far as big-named rock bands and indie bands are concerned. We've got some great art galleries not just at the universities, but also locally. I once even saw a wonderful exhibit of poetry and paintings in a Salt Lake Winery.

5. The general state of affairs. Pretty safe state to live in. We can still go trick-or-treating and play outside with our friends in our neighborhood. Again, not exclusive to Utah, but not at all the case in many other areas as well. The economy is good. Our state balances its budget. Not an extremely high crime area. Moderate cost of living. Great employment opportunities for techies, entrepreneurs and whomever. Great educational choices. Good work ethic. A decent amount of integrity (because I prefaced this with a preference for the positive I will refrain from making any snide comments about a certain location which has been through something like 14 mayors in the last 18 months). Not perfect by any means, but generally decent and good.

6. Diversity. You may laugh and ask, what diversity? But it's here. You just have to look for it. And because you have to actually look for it and make an effort to appreciate it, I maintain it's harder to take it for granted. We are not "all the same" here and Hooray! for that!

I have been here so long now I sometimes start to take it all for granted. But some time ago we went up to Sundance for dinner (oh! I failed to mention the food! Slowly, but surely we are getting some great places to eat, as well. Market Street Grill, The Melting Pot, Sundance, and a number of little divey-but-delicious ethnic-food restaurants, too) with some friends. She is a former runway model; he is a producer for huge shows--rock concerts, car shows, etc. They left behind an entirely different lifestyle as well as location when they moved here from LA. They've lived in NYC and visited all over the world--Milan, Paris, etc. How they ended up in a tiny house on the corner of my hood is another story entirely, but they have been around and have a lot with which to compare. And for most of the fabulous meal (I love the food at Sundance) he went on and on about how Provo of all places was the best place to live ever (of course this theory is also supported by other illustrious experts) and we have no idea how good we've got it!

I was at first surprised--you know, given he had lived in so many other wonderful places--and then pleased as I started remembering what I love best about living here and I concur!

So let's hear it from the experts, you who actually live (or have lived) here. What do you love about living in Utah?

What I did in my spare time this past year...

2006-11-06T22:39:00.000-07:00

Because I believe...(To all my immaculate and more-together-than-I am friends, you know this is less a statement about you and your successes and more a pathetic attempt to feel better about my own life choices [read: failures])

Well, it's not quite finished, but almost. I'm telling you, if you like to quilt you need to check out American Quilting's block of the month!

And just so ~j knows it's still coming:
It would probably come along a little faster if I didn't find myself wanting to quilt every tiny little shape and design...

May I recommend, for your reading pleasure...

2006-11-06T06:52:00.000-07:00

For those of you who, like me, crave like an addiction a good bit of writing, let me throw this juicy gem your way. I am still rereading it just to absorb both the eloquence and the romance.

Well played, Geo. Simply fabulous!

Faces of Finland

2006-10-29T16:20:00.000-07:00

OK, so I got a little distracted by a death in the family, a beautiful fall day and an interesting word challenge, but here is the last installation of pictures from my Finland trip. These are my personal favorites: the people.

These are such a beautiful people! Everyone was so kind and friendly. Perhaps the trees all started to look the same after awhile, but I never, ever got tired of watching the people...

I have a baby picture that looks just like this...

We were amused by the Japanese tourists posing for pictures with the little Finnish kids

Shane reaquaints with and old friend--she has held on for 26 years to the book he gave her

All because she asked . . .

2006-10-23T23:32:00.001-06:00

. . . and now I won't be able to sleep tonight because the words came tumbling out . . .

creek:
1. What I want to say is that sound my joints make--particularly my knee joints--when I go up and down the stairs.

2a. But really it's that place at the top of the hill behind my Grandpa Rex's house in Randolph just before the run-down old barn and corral, where the grass and willows grew and where we used to spend entire summers tossing down sticks, grass, debris--our innocent and tanned bodies--just to watch them float, or over which we would lay atop the old worn, a-plank-or-two-shy wooden bridge watching our youth float away while the warm summer sun baked the memories into our sweat-silken skin.

2b. Also that place I love up at South Fork Park where I could waste away an entire afternoon without regret while lying by the banks contemplating the soothing sound the water makes as it tumbles across the rocks and over and around itself as if it is both in a hurry to reach someplace wonderful but also quite happy to take its sweet time to get there, determined to enjoy the journey along the way.

orange:
1. (o-rrange) That thing you do with sounds when you can't help but take an ordinary word and try to turn it into something punny.

2a. The color just after yellow and barely before red in every brilliant Utah sunset.

2b. The best flavor I could imagine in the middle of a Utah winter on one of those rare trips to California when the timing is just right and the sweet juice of tree-ripened citrus wakes up my soul with the remembrance of sunshine.

*nauseous:
1. Having a constant need to gnaw on something--crackers, steak, ice, etc.--in hopes of relieving oneself of one's nausea.

2. ~ness: That feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when your kid, your spouse, your best friend--or someone else you love truly, madly, deeply--comes to you with a shaved-off shin, a broken heart, a wayward child, a painful problem for which you know there is no answer, or a confession that will send you into a tailspin of grief and make you want to curl up in a ball and throw up because you know this is something you can't kiss better, put a band-aid over, hug away or fix.

server:
1. You may ask any of the half-my-age computer geeks (whom I love) with whom I work and they will tell you that I (self-referred to as "the village idiot") truly have no idea.

2. What it really is is a another word for woman, daughter, sister, wife, mother, friend. The need to serve is woven into the very fiber of our beings. So ingrained it's indistinguishable from ourselves at the cellular level. I know we, each one of us, will die doing it. We cannot help ourselves. We can only help each other.

I tag the following:
waitingforwednesday
geo
skewedview
b.
(And of course anyone else who wants to play...)

Your words are as follows:

serendipitous

precipitate

wallflower

patina

(* from MW, regarding the great nauseous vs. nauseated debate:
Function: adjective
1 : causing nausea or disgust : NAUSEATING
2 : affected with nausea or disgust
- nau·seous·ly adverb
- nau·seous·ness noun
usage Those who insist that nauseous can properly be used only in sense 1 and that in sense 2 it is an error for nauseated are mistaken. Current evidence shows these facts: nauseous is most frequently used to mean physically affected with nausea, usually after a linking verb such as feel or become; figurative use is quite a bit less frequent. Use of nauseous in sense 1 is much more often figurative than literal, and this use appears to be losing ground to nauseating. Nauseated is used more widely than nauseous in sense 2.)

In which I glanced upon Providence. . .

2006-10-21T20:56:00.000-06:00

. . . and chose the road to Paradise.

Today the fates smiled kindly upon me and I volunteered my way to lovely Logan and rediscovered idyll in my life. And here is an account of what happened there:

I continued to be enchanted with the Provo High Marching Band's fun-spirited rendition of "The Nightmare Before Christmas." (Even though I can only see the performance from the back through a tiny break in the marvelous set--I volunteer on the set crew). I get a chill and a thrill and the crowd goes wild every time mere mortal high school students raise the 18' tall Jack and Sally marionettes into the air.

Every time.

I thanked the heavens for such a world in which the golden autumn leaves are prone to dance across the streets and scatter along the sidewalks with wanton abandon.

I pondered the pastoral scenes on the drive from Brigham City to Logan, then from Logan to Paradise (and you thought I was just kidding) then again from Logan to some town without a name just outside of Tremonton and wondered if life doesn't pass by just a little bit more slowly in such serene settings.

I had lunch in a greasy cafe with a dear friend who, before she moved so far away from me (she left Provo for Paradise), instilled in me much love and laughter and this juicy gem of wisdom:

"This too shall pass!"

I finally forsook the foolish idea that "I could make that" and actually purchased two cute pillows for my antique rocking chair in hopes no one will notice the shocking lack of Halloween decorations at my house and that my snowman quilt is still leftover from last Christmas.

I got close enough to the general vicinity of Ty that even though I couldn't see him, I could actually sense the aura of his manic-ness, the infusion of which kept me alert and awake for the long drive home (I didn't know they were doing Extreme Makeover in little old Logan, did you?).

I spent a great day with my 15-year-old son who is a good kid and a lot of fun and who enjoys much of the same music I do (Lorien, we did the Gorillas the way they were just meant to be done) and doesn't (yet) loathe his mother.

(And as if all that were not enough, I arrived home to find a friend had expressed her thanks to me in the language of tres leches).

moi, je regret...

2006-10-18T17:00:00.000-06:00

Today I attended the funeral of a wonderful man. A man who wooed my widowed grandmother some 15 years ago while dancing the night away with her and who kept dancing with her long, long after they married. A man who embraced her family of some 250+ and learned all the names and faces and greeted us each with a cheerful smile and a twinkle in his eye each and every time he saw us.

While the services were beautiful and I love to celebrate a life well lived, I still came away with regrets. This isn't the first time I've waited till it was too late to really get to know someone.

I knew Emerson well enough to recognize and appreciate his genuine kindness, his cheerful demeanor, his wonderful laugh and his friendly embrace. But I didn't know how he liked to collect antiques--not in the context of its monetary value--but because the items he collected were all associated with someone he knew, a memory he cherished or a story that needed not to be forgotten. I never knew he had left his family and fought for freedom in World War II--along with two of his brothers--and how he still couldn't speak about having to return home without his younger brother. I didn't know that he liked to shop for my grandmother and that he would often surprise her with beautiful suits and other clothes that were remarkably well chosen. I didn't even know what his life's profession had been before his retirement. I involved myself in other extended family where I felt the need was greater, but now I realize I've missed out spending time with someone special.

Here is what I do know: This 87-year-old man never missed a step when he danced with my grandmother. He never missed a step when he played one-on-one with her either. One of my favorite memories is of an e-mail I got from her one year while they were wintering in Mesquite. She recounted how they--both well into their 80s--had played one-on-one and how proud she was to have outscored him. (He is the only person I've ever known to have gotten away with telling her--kindly, of course--to be quiet so he could finish his story and it sounds as though she is one of the few to have gotten away with beating him at any sport.) This man loved to share the fruits of his labors in caring for a number of enormous cherry trees in his yard, which he faithfully had pruned and sprayed so he could give away the cherries to family and friends. Emerson was genuine, warm and caring. You never left his presence without feeling like you were something special.

This is likely the only man I've ever met who is capable of keeping up with my almost-ninety but entirely unstoppable grandmother.

Another favorite memory is of a couple of winters ago when Emerson and Pearl were on there way to hear a country music band they both really liked. The concert was at night and the weather was stormy and cold, so ice and snow were a hazard. Apparently the two of them slipped on the ice and they both fell right outside the venue at UVSC. Because their injuries--while minor--did require some medical attention, the people at UVSC wanted to whisk them off to the hospital to be cared for. Both refused any treatment for their injuries, however, until after the concert was over.

So, I do have regrets today. I regret forgetting that we don't have all the time in the world with the people we love. I regret not making more of an effort to visit this set of grandparents. I regret not ever telling Emerson how much I respect and appreciate and love him.

I also came away with some hopes. I hope I will be dancing and shooting hoops when I'm 87. I hope my next door neighbor--should she speak at my funeral--will say she doesn't remember hearing an unkind word from my lips. I hope I will always be cheerful and grateful--even when the world doesn't always dish me out a bowl full of cherries. I hope I can talk to God each day like a good friend and remember to end my conversation with, "Thanks for this good life."

Thanks, Emerson, for sharing your good life with me.

City Streets II: I love this town!

2006-10-17T06:46:00.000-06:00

Helsinki is such an amazing city! So colorful and distinct and interesting. I decided the best way to do Helsinki was not to worry about trying to see everything, but to just take the time to savor it--to feel it, hear it, and just watch--wherever I was and whatever I was doing. Several times we just got on the "trolley" and rode whatever loop was in the area and just looked out the window.
I could live here in a heartbeat. I think I could be a professional shopper (I have never seen suge HUGE department stores--nothing like a mall, really). Well, all except for the in-just-a-couple-months-there'll-only-be-three-hours-of-daylight-and-everything-will-be-buried-under-ice-and-snow thing. (I know for sure I'd go to market every day to buy some tomatoes.)

The Rock Church was built right into a big chunk of granite

For our second (and longest) stay in Helsinki, our hotel had the BEST view! We looked out on one of the squares and could see just about anything and anybody. We left the window open constantly so we could watch and listen. (Did I mention how fabulous the shopping is here?)

City Streets I: Oh, tell me where your freedom lies, the streets are fields that never die...

2006-10-15T23:01:00.000-06:00

(this is where I mention the theraputic value of cobblestone for knee injuries)
When we first arrived in Finland we took a six-day bus tour up the eastern side to the Arctic Circle and then back down the western side and stopped in several cities along the way. It was all beautiful! As we lost count of the trees and lakes on the way up we also witnessed the changing of the seasons from summer into fall. On the way back down we enjoyed the addition of beautiful farmland to the scenic drive. From small town to big city, each locale was distinct and not without its own charms. Each hotel we stayed in was unique and interesting. It is difficult to capture the impact of the experience in word or digital picture, but I tried. The following is just a sample...

The home of Jean Sibelius

The castle in Savonlinna

if a man's home is his castle...more castles I guess...

The oldest wood church in Finland

The interior of the hotel in Joensuu (please pass the salt and pepper)
The interior of the hotel in Kuhmo

The exterior of the lakeside hotel in Kuhmo (where I got in touch with my inner Viking princess)

George Jetson's gas station
K "market"--depending on how a large a version of the chain it was, there were more Ks--KK, KKK, KKKK...

The streets of Jyvaskyla

Sometimes you meet the nicest people...Shane, JoAnn, Vic and Anne
The chapel in Kokkola

If you ever find yourself in Helsinki, might I suggest a day trip to the island fortress of Suomenlinna?

We hiked all over the above fortress in search of this--the King's Gate--without a clue what we were looking for, but it was a great adventure!

The bay by the market in Helsinki--coming up next...

The Helsinki Temple. . .

2006-10-12T21:28:00.000-06:00

The Helsinki Temple is truly the most beautiful temple I've ever seen. We got a special tour and our guide told us that we could take our time and to touch whatever we wanted. I couldn't keep my hands off the wood and the upholstery. I would've touched the chandelier but I couldn't reach it. It did look just like icicles hanging down from the ceiling. Here is a link to see some shots of the interior of the Helsinki Temple. The most wonderful thing was to see the Finnish people from all walks of life flock to the open house. One Sunday during the open house someone left the gate unlocked and there was an SOS call out to all the missionaries that afternoon to come because the grounds were full of people who couldn't stay away. I loved to watch the faces of those who came to see and wonder what they felt there. It was also quite moving to hear the Finnish saints express how excited they were to invite their friends to attend the open house. Being in Helsinki during the open house was simply a moving and beautiful experience.

Sunrise, Sunset. . .

2006-10-10T22:11:00.000-06:00

Just how many pictures of a gorgeous sunset are too many? We started to lose track of which lake, which sunrise, which sunset... One morning--the day it froze in Savonlinna--we got up early and waited two hours for sunrise. We almost took our chilled bones inside, but kept telling each other, "It's coming up in the next ten minutes..." until it finally arrived. But it occurred to us that we could've been on any one of the 180,000+lakes in the country looking at the very same sunrise. It didn't matter, it was beautiful all the same.

Off the coast of the island sea fortress Suomenlinna

Shane waiting for the sun to come up

Off the western coast (Gulf of Bothnia--Baltic Sea)
101 things to do with this old boat...
I traveled half a world away just for this very shot...my pudgy little toes in the Gulf of Finland, which is part of the Baltic Sea

To market, to market, to buy. . .

2006-10-09T19:09:00.000-06:00

Market fresh everyday--

I love the open-air markets! The freshest of fish, flowers and produce. Original fine handicrafts. Furs and hides to warm you from head to toe. Not to mention a people-watcher's paradise. My memories of market include observing a Greek man try to pick up on a Japanese tourist half his age If I buy you everything here will you be my girlfriend?, haggling with the vendors most delightedly, watching a boat pull up in the harbor and sell fish right off the ocean, walking past something I really wanted at least three times before I had the courage to go back and just buy it. Hearing Finnish, English, Japanese and a chorus of other languages along with the sounds of the sea--seagulls, ships and sailboats. Smelling the salt air and the fog mingled with the scent of fresh food and flowers. I wish I could've packed up all the sights, sounds, smells and tastes and bottled them up to bring a little back for all of you.

Can you guess which one is now sitting in my living room?
Geo--this one was just for you...

Really, who wouldn't want to try this guy's tomatoes?

Porridge, pulla and Karjalan piirakka

2006-10-08T10:37:00.000-06:00

Pulla--a larger version of this braided is a tradition at Christmas both in Finland and at my house

What I really miss about Finland is the food! Aside from the fact that I went two entire weeks without having to prepare a single meal (unless you count crackers and Edam) or wash any dishes--a lifetime record for me, I'm sure--I just loved the variety and the fact that everything was so fresh. Did I tell you I had true porridge for breakfast for the very first time? It's wonderful seasoned with blueberries and lingonberries. Let me tell you, the Finns actually put the breakfast in "Continental Breakfast." Porridge, the best yogurt EVER--with all kinds of fruit musilix granola, etc. to stir in--cold cuts of ham and turkey, fresh fruit, bacon, imitation scrambled eggs (the only part of the breakfast that wasn't just PERFECT) and the most fabulous breads EVER. (Didn't see a spec of white wonder bread or orange processed cheese.) Two of my favorites are pulla, a sweetroll flavored with cardomom and Karjalan piirakka, a sort of rye flatbread crimped around a potato filling that is topped with egg butter.Karjalan piirakka

Our dining experiences ranged from the mundane (but mildly entertaining)...The name scared us away--who wants to eat at a place called Pizz Burger? But it was the only place open on a Sunday nightGuess what was cooking at the local Pizz Burger?

...to the sublime The view from Cafe EngelThe food from Cafe Engel

Some of our best food (the kind we could afford) was at a little joint in the underground bus terminal (which also served as the basement for one of the numerous gigantic 6-story shopping centers) called "I heart Food." It was there I ate the best lasagna I've ever had. We also frequented a place called Chico's--which, oxymoronically, called itself an American Bistro--where I ate the best onion rings I've ever had. There were also a few other interesting specialties (besides the reindeer) that caught my eye...
We just missed breakfast at Jean Sibelius' home--but it really says something when the leftovers look this goodTeeny fresh apples at the home of Jean SibeliusThis puts the fresh in "Market Fresh Everyday"I haven't a clue, have you?The Finns can't touch the Belge when it comes to a fresh gaufre, but they beat the Americans hands down. I haven't had one of these for 20 yearsI know this sounds gross, but licorice ice cream is delicious
At least one of the treats I enjoyed over there can be purchased here.

(P.S. I know this is so last month, so if you are sick of hearing about Finland I apologize. Someone recently observed it must have really had an impact on me. Either that or I don't get out much. Between the two of us we took about 2000 photos. All of which you don't really want to see. But since at least a couple of you have expressed interest in more pictures, I'm going to blog on a bit now and then about my big adventure--with just a few of the many pictures we took--by subject. In case you missed it, I did add the relevant pictures to my previous posts from Finland. If you're interested, check out my September 2006 archives.)

Because somebody asked...

2006-10-07T23:25:00.000-06:00

Chocolate Revel Bars
(from an ancient and well-worn edition of the red-plaid Better Homes and Gardens cookbook)

3 cups oats (I always use the old-fashioned kind)
2 1/2 cups flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 cup butter
2 cups packed brown sugar
2 eggs
4 teaspoons vanilla
1 14-oz can sweetened condensed milk (NOT to be confused with evaporated milk, which tastes gross and doesn't have any sugar in it)
1 1/2 cups semisweet chocolate pieces (just throw in the whole bag--and I used milk chocolate, but it's good either way. It's even good with white chocolate, which isn't really chocolate, but works in this recipe anyway)
2 Tablespoons butter
1/2 cup chopped pecans (optional)

Melt 2 Tablespoons butter, chocolate pieces, 1/2 teaspoon salt and sweetened condensed milk together over very low heat, stirring constantly. Removed from heat when smooth and stir in nuts and 2 teaspoons vanilla.

In a separate bowl, combine oats, flour, soda and 1 teaspoon salt.

In yet another separate bowl, beat the butter for 30 seconds, then add the brown sugar. Beat till fluffy. Add eggs and 2 teaspoons of the vanilla. Beat again. Stir in dry ingredients gradually till well combined.

Pat 2/3 of the oat mixture in the bottom of a 15x10 pan. Spread chocolate mixture over the dough. Dot with the remaining oat mixture. Bake in a 350 degree oven for about 22-25 minutes or till golden brown.

Cool. Cut into bars. Enjoy!

Proud to say...

2006-10-05T07:22:00.000-06:00

...it wasn't me! Although a friend of mine did keep insisting I take some Xanax with me on my trans-Atlantic flight because she was afraid I'd have a panic attack and end up in jail. (I'm still wondering what her serious concern really says about me...)

In other water cooler news:

OOPS!

Duh! (Can you say Big Screen TV?)

Surely there are better ways to save the world...

Ever have one of those days?

It could happen to anyone...

Because a kiss is just a kiss.

Cut the apron strings already!

Dude, get a real life. (Or at least let your child have one.)

Gee, we could've had an entire category for people who seem to have failed parenting 101.

For Carina: It's a great day when...

2006-09-30T10:37:00.000-06:00

...you're having trouble remembering just who it was who wrote Frankenstein and your 15-year-old son pops out, "Mary Shelley." (Now that is something the English major in you can really be proud of.)

...you take second place in the Provo High Marching Band Chili Cook-Off with something you threw together spur of the moment.

...your youngest comes to you and tells you, "Mommy, L~ has fat cats in her room." You're picturing something on the order of Garfield and wondering how something like that got into your house when what you discover instead is this:

(gee, why didn't I ever think of installing bowling alleys in my bedroom?)

...you read in the ward newsletter that one of your favorite people--becks--just got engaged. CONGRATS becks!

...your 15-year-old son who constantly tells you he'd like to go live with another family says this after spending two weeks with said family (who, by the way, spontaneously took him to DISNEYLAND [where of course he bumped into your friend Lorien] for a weekend while you were gone) while you were out of the country--after you have teased him about wishing he were a Duerden: "It's good to be home. I'm happy to be a Rowley."

...and finally, and most definitely the VERY BEST:

...you hear the following (from your 17-year-old [and therefore teenage] MALE offspring) over the phone when you're half a world away:

"Homecoming was great. But I am SO tired. It was SO hard to not have you here! I missed you so much. I never realized how much you do for me. And I always take it all for granted. And I never say thank you. I'm so SORRY. You do SO much for me. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR EVERYTHING!"

(this just in: I have just added the photos to my previous posts from Finland. More to come--Five Fabulous Fun-Filled Days in Helsinki--soon!)

It's kind of like football...but without a football

2006-09-29T06:02:00.000-06:00

Now this is something I could get into...

And now I want you all to tell me this:

If you played roller derby, what would be your derby name?

when tomorrow is still today...

2006-09-27T17:46:00.000-06:00

jet lag sucks.

that's all i want to say.

(but it was worth going halfway across the world--and having to take 24 hours to come back--in order to be missed and appreciated by my kids.)

more later...

party on vaasa...

2006-09-20T21:46:00.000-06:00

vaasa, finland, i don't even know what day it is anymore--

last night we arrived in vaasa after a very, very long drive. everything takes about four times longer than it should because the side trips always occur spontaneously and after much consultation with the busdriver, the wwII buff, and our guide, mingled with "turn around as quickly as possible" warnings from the female voice of the gps. so it was well after 9:30 and we discover one, as with the hotel last night, the hotel is located in the middle of a the walkable town center, with no access by automobile and two, our visit apparently coincides with an annual event much anticipated by the young people of vaasa, the loose translation being "party in vasaa night." itäs a rigorous competition in which one must visit at least ten of the local bars with a punch card. if you buy a drink in every one you get a most fabulous t-shirt that boasts of your ability to drink in vasaa.

at first i was afraid that the hotel was a flashback to the horrible hotel we stayed in the night before in jyväskyla. apparently there is nothing to do but party in that town as well and the bass beat of elvis music rocked me into nonsleep well unto 2Ö30 a.m. but, aside from stepping around the occasional pile of tossed cookies (i thought of you sister pottymouth--as i also do every time i take another picture of a great wc)--and the fact that these beautiful young people are rotting out their livers and killing brain cells at much too young of an age, i figured it was one more thing to write home about.

(for sister pottymouth--from the door of another great wc)

the nice people at the hotel kept the sauna hot for me, which was an extremely nice gesture that is usually not offered, but was also considerate when you realize they had locked their main door at 9pm. so we got to enter the hotel from the bar, but when we got back from dinner the sauna was still hot. very hot.

and i loved every minute of it.

we have a great view from this hotel of the market square. i love market square. we need one in provo. of course it wouldnät at all be the same unless we all walked to it or rode to it on our cute little bikes with baskets on the front. but the flowers are brighter, the fruit is sweeter and the pastries are lighter in market square.
i promise.

i know this is all random, but in yet another in our list of events i refuse to call coincidence: yesterday we stopped at the chapel in kokkola. one of the couples in our group had called a member they knew there to come and meet them there briefly. imagine the surprise on the part of my dear friend sirpa when a woman she had known decades ago in finland and whom she kept in touch with on occasion rode up on her bike to the church intending to see the person who had called her. it was a joyful and unexpected reunion.

also after much heated discussions on the part of our guides and the standard misguidings from the gps (mingled with an event i never thought iäd see in my lifetime--in any country--the actual asking by men for directions) we found and stood on the ground where the church was dedicated for missionary work in finland some ages ago.

given the most beautiful of chapels i have ever seen scattered through so many towns and the dedicated saints who worship there, i am most thankful for what took place there and the fact that through much difficulty the finnish saints have opened their hearts to the message of the gospel of jesus christ and worked so hard to share that message to the point they are getting ready to dedicate a temple in that beautiful land.

these are a beautiful people. i cannot describe the feeling i get each time the finnish natives who are traveling with us spontaneously burst into song upon hearing the beatiful melody of finlandia (a.k.a. be still my soul). their reverence and love for their country is apparent. that is something i will never be able to capture with my camera, but i will hold the memory of it in my heart forever.