Me and my body, we don't get along so well.

My body is like a passive/aggressive two-year-old, and my brain is like a really bad parent. We are locked in this power struggle, neither willing to back down, making absolutely no progress. It won't do what I want it to do, and it rankles me to no end.

I tell it to eat kale and tofu; it reaches for refined sugar and full fat dairy products.

I want to sleep; my body says, "no, HOWL!!!"

I want to wake up before the sun, my flesh rolls over and says "Go away. Leave me alone."

I get up anyway and it glares at me and makes me pay for the next 18 hours.

I tell it to run and keep running until I say stop. It says "Fine. And tomorrow morning you will wake up and feel like a 92 year-old in need of a hip replacement. Your call."

And I make it run, and it delivers on its promise.

It's like a really bad game of chicken. My brain and my body are speeding at each other down a narrow dirt road, and neither is going to swerve...

He loveth those who will have him to be their God

I've been thinking a lot lately about faith and desire and belief. Actually, I've probably been thinking about this for years, but recently it's begun to crystallize in my mind. I was reading a comment board on NPR. The story was about a former nun who now writes books about her views of God. I don't know her, and haven't read her, and it's not that central to this particular train of thought, but what struck me was this comment (taken out of context of the rest of his post, I know, but I'm going to think out loud about it anyway. If you want to read the comments and listen to the NPR story, you can find it here--http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=112968197)

Anyway, this is the man's comment--"If a deity were suddenly to appear and offer proof of their existence, many atheists including myself would undoubtedly reevaluate our lack of belief." Hmmm.

I'll come back to that. But let me begin another thread to weave in. Ten years ago when I was on my LDS mission, my pres. said something in a zone conference that has stuck with me more than anything else has during those 18 months. No, it wasn't "A sister without makeup is like an elder without deodorant," although I, unlike others on the mish, found it funny and apropos. He described a weed that has such strong, tenacious roots, that once it is in your field, it ain't never coming out. He asked us to consider how deep our roots in the gospel are, to consider what it would take to get us out of our faith, to give up our God. I remember clearly at that moment, praying that my answer would be nothing--that my roots would be so deep, so firm and persistent that no power could separate me from my God. And feeling not exactly fear, but something like fear, that I was not deep or firm or persistent enough.

Another thread. A friend and I had a conversation about faith and religion and the afterlife and all that the other night. He's probably best described as an agnostic, and as we talked about our beliefs, I began to articulate what I've come to understand about myself and my faith. I don't know that God exists in the sense that the atheist commenter or my agnostic friend would define knowledge. I've not touched him, or sat in the same room with the Savior. I'm still very much exercising faith in a plan that beyond just believing, I desire to believe. I want to believe it, so badly that my desire to believe overwhelms my many, many doubts and weaknesses.

Where that desire comes from? I'm not entirely sure. Moments too personal and sacred to discuss here are certainly part of it, but they are few and far between, and usually very quiet and quick. They sustain in some ways, but if I depended only on these experiences, there would be long, long periods of strain and sadness and trial, and I would not stand faithfully in the stretches between. Desire is part of it, but it's a desire buoyed by will, by the choice I make to want God and his will for me more than anything or anyone else. One is the spark and the other the fuel. Which is spark and which fuel? Again, I don't know. All I know is that I can't keep the fire of the covenant burning without both the desire and the will to believe.

I was struck by the words of Nephi this week as I read the Book of Mormon. Nephi is commanded to do a lot of things that his brothers Laman and Lemuel are not so keen on. When God commands him to build a ship, his brothers try to stop him, and he recounts God's power, his creation and his dealings with his prophets and people, trying to exhort Laman and Lemuel to cease their unfaithfulness. In 1 Nephi 17:40, Nephi tells his brothers "and he loveth those who will have him to be their God." I had never noticed this verse before, but it jumped off the page at me this time. God offers himself--his love, his plan, the opportunity to live the quality of life he lives--to us, his children. He doesn't force himself upon us, only offers. Beyond that, it's up to us to "have him to be our God." I think it is such a tender statement. Here is the creator of the universe--the possessor of unlimited power who could, if he so desired, force us to do his will--offering this gift like a humble suitor. Beautiful.

Last night at the General Relief Society meeting, I was reminded of this again. We sang (as we do in every conference, every spring and fall, for as long as I can remember. Why is that?) How Firm a Foundation. The last verse of that hymn touched me more than anything else last night. It reads

The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose,
I will not, I cannot desert to his foes.
That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
I'll never, no never, I'll never forsake.

I will not. It comes before "I cannot." I cannot turn from my God because it would be against my own will to do it. I have leaned on Jesus for repose, at times without even realizing it. Feeling that love has created in me a desire for him and his gospel, one that I have bent my will to, a desire that I have chosen.

I think that atheist poster is missing the point of faith. Given the evidence he requires, his reevaluation of deity would unlikely really matter. He could know, in the sense that he lacks now, that God exists and Christ is the savior of the world. In fact, the scriptures say that every knee will bow and every tongue confess that Christ is the Lord. I believe that statement. There will be a time when deity provides undeniable proof of his existence, but it will have no efficacy in the lives of those who waited to be forced to believe.

You become what you desire and what you will. God, in his infinite power and wisdom, asks his children to choose him. He will not force himself upon any of us because it would never save us. It certainly could not exalt us. We have to become partners with God, covenanted to him and faithful to the covenant, to achieve our greatest potential. Some will never desire or choose that. My prayer is that I will. I will, not in the sense of assurance, but in the sense of agency. Christ's infinite sacrifice gives me the chance to choose, and my desire and will is for him.

I feel his hand extended to me, and I reach my hand willingly to him. There is a gap, a gulf really between our fingers. My roots are not yet deep or firm or persistent enough. But I'm learning to stretch, learning to lean into him, learning to desire his will above my own. One day, I know, his hand and mine will finally bridge that gap, and he will lead me into the life that I most truly desire.

Random Observations--The Deluxe Edition!

Here we go again...

1- Romance novels suck when they are serious. I'm not kidding. I can't take it. I know, I know, I'm supposed to swoon when the lovers finally find themselves in each other's arms, but I'm just not the swooning type. I'm the laughing type, and I want a major helping of giggles, intentional or otherwise, along with the lurve. In fact, in some ways the lurve is kind of optional. I just really want to laugh.

Which is why I find supernatural YA romance particularly disturbing. These full grown adult woman are writing ridiculous fantastical romance novels and feeding them to teenage girls (and, let's be honest, their own demographic, cause you know many Twilight fans haven't been under 18 in years..) without even a hint of awareness that what they are selling is laughably false. Now, let's be clear. The fantastically false part is not the vampires, fairy kings, werewolves or other paranormal creatures. It's the teenage boy who sits in a teenage girl's room (or sometimes in her bed! Shame on you, Maggie Stiefvater.) watching the object of his affection sleep, and doesn't touch her, tries valiantly to "behave" and doesn't seem to mind that the idiot girl is torturing him. Do these women know any teenage boys? You invite an 18 year old male into your bed (or your bedroom, in the case of the infamous Edward Cullen) night after night after night, and you're either going to have sex, or he's going to hate you for the provocation. There aren't many other options, and I think perhaps we should be honest about that.

See, I can't laugh at that kind of illusion, as ridiculous as it is. I can laugh at the romantic heroine who ends up with bioluminescent plant life all over her hindquarters after her first romp in the hay (quite literally) with her botanist paramour, or the high school humiliations of Janette Rallison's teen rom-coms, or the inappropriate use of the word fecundity in a historical romance, but I just can't take another paranormal teen romance with a hero who does not exist in real human relationships. Real men are fantastic. I'm just waiting to find anything that resembles one in a contemporary fantasy romance written for teens.

2. Okay, so not all real men are fantastic. Some of them are just weird. That's all.

3. I made a goal last week to pay off all my credit card balances in a year. Any guesses what happened next? Who do you know who needs new tires and a plumber? Oh well. I'm gonna pay for the tires, and fix the sink without a plumber (scary, I know, but I think I can do it) and still pay off the ccs. By the end of 2010. I'm also going to lose about 50 lbs, because I'm pretty sure I can't do it and still buy food on a regular basis. Any advice for how to live for a year without spending money on anything? I'm trying to figure out if this is evidence that God doesn't like me very much, or that He foolishly believes I'm way tougher than I look. Or, you know, there's option number 3--the one where God has nothing to do with it, and I just keep letting things get out of hand, and if I only knew how much worse it would be if He didn't have my back...

4. Speaking of tires, I'm really dumb, and I think my poppy is starting to get a little concerned about it. What tipped me off is when he called me today and said, "Hey, are you dumb?" When it comes to cars, I am terminally stupid. This is just a fact. These are the dumb car situations I have found myself in during the last 12 months:

-Today, my front passenger tire was so bad, the tread was entirely gone and it was split on one side. My steering wheel has been shaking for weeks, and it finally had a major seizure as I was driving home on my lunch break to make bread dough. So, I faced my worst fears and checked the tires. And that's when I realized that my worst fears were not the worst possible fears. Paying for new tires is not as bad as a blowout, especially if the blowout happens at high speed and causes pain and damage. Duh, Clarky.

-Every winter I get stuck in the snow at about 2 or 3 in the morning. This happened on Christmas night last year. I got stuck pulling into my driveway. I live alone. You don't wake people up at 2 am unless they share your DNA or are covenanted to remain with you in the conjugal sense throughout eternity. So I spent an hour and a half last Christmas digging and pushing my car out of the snow alone. Good times.

-I ran out of gas in my dad's big black truck in the parking lot of the Orem Fitness Center. I was in the way, so I tried to push the truck and steer myself into an empty space by myself. (Are you seeing a trend here? Whatever you do, never, never ask for help. That's my mantra.) So, finally this guy comes over and asks if he can help, pushes me into the space, asks if I'd like a ride to the gas station. Marden and Gina and the girls were coming to swim, so I declined. Then he tells me this: "Ya, so my wife and I were pulling in and I saw you and I was like, hey, do you think that guy needs help, and my wife was like, honey, that guy is wearing a dress. Of course she needs help." *crickets* Wow, thanks man. Like pushing a two ton, out-of-gas truck through the parking lot alone wasn't humiliating enough. You are one helluva ray of sunshine, dude. But, I thank him for helping me push the dang truck. May heaven bless you, sir, never to run out of gas, and to learn when it's better to hold your tongue.

-I've needed a jump after leaving my headlights on all day. Twice.

-And finally, my fave dumb car moment was when I locked my keys inside in the parking lot at work. While the car was still running. I called my dad, who kindly went to my house, got the spare key, and saved me. The first thing he said when he pulled up? "Hey, are you dumb?"

4.Um...I have to have this:

It speaks to my soul.

5. Do you remember those wildlife shows like Wild Kingdom, where they would chase big dangerous animals around the savannah in a jeep or a helicopter so they could shoot them with a tranquilizer dart and remove them to a secure location so they won't be a danger to themselves or others? These last few days I've been looking over my shoulder, straining to hear the chop-chop of the helicopter blades, hoping they're coming at me with a nice knock-out dose of sleepy juice. A girl can dream, can't she?

7. Speaking of dreams, I've had some weird ones lately. I dreamed I broke my iPod, and I woke up in tears. It's become a crutch. Every time the world gets to be too much, I plug in so no one will talk to me. This is not a good sign, is it?

6. I also need one of these:

Not necessarily of someone else's dog, but dang-a portrait in legos? I could have had one with what I spent on new tires this week. *sniff* Someday...

My inner mountain goat is grounded indefinitely

So, I've lived in Orem since I was five, with short hiatuses (hiati?) for mission and college, but I had never, never been to the summit of good old Timp. I figured it was about time to rectify this situation. I wanted to do it last summer, but it didn't work out. At the last minute this week, I decided Saturday was as good a day as any, the only problem being little time to recruit a hiking buddy. But I'm sick to death of not doing things because I'd have to do them alone. I'm old, all my friends have husbands and children who monopolize their time, and at this point in your life, unless you have a spouse (also known as the built-in date, and I don't want to hear about how hard it is to coordinate child care so you can use your built-in date. Waa. I would move mountains to go out with a man I liked even a little bit. You liked him enough to marry him, so quit whining, hire a babysitter, and go have fun together. Trust me, someone should be having fun on a date, and heaven knows it ain't me.) who is sort of obligated to coordinate schedules with you on a regular basis, it's kind of hard to get together, especially at the last minute. Like I said, I'm kind of pissy about not doing things I want to do unless I can wrangle someone into joining me, so I said to hell with it. I'm climbing Timp. Alone.

Which is cool, except for one thing. I struggle to follow a trail. I don't know what's wrong with me. I think of myself as a generally capable, reasonably bright kind of girl. I have a college degree, a career, a mortgage that gets paid on time every month. I can do hard things. Until I'm hiking, then I just can't seem to figure it out. I can't spot the cairns, or I totally miss switchbacks. How do you miss switchbacks? In fact, how do you miss the end of the trail? But that's another story for another day.

I referred to my hiking guru, bro-in-law Marden. His opinion was as follows: a sunny Saturday in September? There would be more than enough BYU students alone to keep me from getting lost, not to mention the boy scouts and mutual groups. All I had to do was get to the trailhead, and follow the other folks. He so does not understand the extent of my navigational disability.

So, I got up early this morning and drove to American Fork Canyon. Of course, the parking lot was filled. There is apparently some dirt road you can park on without getting ticketed, but I couldn't find it, so I asked the ranger guy where I could park. He said park on the turnouts on the road, or if there's nothing there, go park at the Salamander Flats campground, and take the Great Western Trail from there to the trailhead at Timpanooke. It's about a mile or so long, so it's an extra couple of miles on an already long hike, but what are you going to do. There were no spaces on the road, so it was off to the Salamander Flat parking lot. Remember, the sun has not come up yet, so I haven't really seen where I was going. I also figured there would be a sign that would say Great Western Trail. I was wrong. They number the dang trails, and ask me if I knew which number the trail that would take me to Timpanooke was. So I just took a trail that looked like it might be the one.

Luckily the sun was coming up by now. Unluckily, I was on the wrong trail. I started getting suspicious when I noticed about a mile into it that I was totally alone, and going in not quite the right direction. So, I turned around, found the right trail, and finally got to the trail head at Timpanooke. Mind you, at the trail head I had probably already gone 21/2 or 3 miles just to get there. But, no big deal. I started booking it up the trail, passing a couple of groups here and there in my efforts to make it a real workout and not just a friendly little stroll. (I've been lazy this week with the whole exercise thing, so I was feeling guilty.) All good. I got lost, but I recovered.

Somewhere along the trail, I got confused again, I think because there were a bunch of teenage girls resting at the switchback, so I didn't really see it and the rocks just kept going in the same directions. Luckily (but sort of humiliatingly) the teenage girls directed me. Disaster averted again. I got up to the saddle and the summit without incident, starting to feel the effects of my enthusiastic start nonetheless, but it was all good. So, my feet hurt. Big woop. I'm tougher than my feet. And it's a beautiful view. Breathtaking, and unnerving, but in a good way.

Coming down from the summit to the saddle, though, apparently my inner mountain goat took over. I missed another switchback. I had gone about a quarter of a mile along a very difficult route, when I realized the people who were right behind me were no longer right behind me, and the trail smelled suspiciously like livestock, and I was going in the wrong direction, AGAIN. Dang. I think I was on a portion of the mountain that is primarily used by goats. I sheepishly (get it? Sheepishly? Ha ha ha) turned around and found my way back to the people trail, where I'm sure the other folks were thinking something along the lines of "Has this chick been lobotomized? Does she NEED to be lobotomized?", but I just laughed and continued on. Third disaster averted.

Of course, I wasn't anywhere near done, yet. Just below the saddle is where the trail diverges into the Aspen Grove and Timpanooke sides. Of course, I attempted to take the Aspen Grove side. Then I realized I'd taken a wrong turn again. Well, the two old ladies who pointed out to me that I was heading toward Aspen Grove realized I'd taken a wrong turn again. Aaaaargh. I swear I'm not as stupid as this sounds. Or I hope I'm not as stupid as this sounds.

The rest of the way down was okay, except my feet were killing me (I hate rocky trails because they mess with your feet, but what's happy feet to rocks and mountains? Classic author reference? Anyone? Anyone?). And, I just have to interject here. College freshmen are idiots. Especially the girls. I'm sorry to say it, but oh my...can we possibly find more inane conversationalists? Luckily I had my iPod. If I had to listen to that any longer, I might have had to slit my own wrists. Plug me in, honey.

Anyway, back to the saga. After almost 9 hours of hiking (remember the extra miles before I got to Timpanooke? I was really, really feeling those at this point), all I wanted to do was get to my car, drink the rest of my water, and head in a hurry to a very hot shower. This time, I knew which trail to take-the Great Western Trail is #150. At the road, I hesitated...do I continue on this trail, which is supposed to hook up with the Salamander Flat campground, or just follow the paved road? I went with the trail for maybe a half a mile before I determined that perhaps trusting my own judgement was a mistake, and turned around to make it back to the road. That's another superfluous mile, mind you. I made it back to the road and started hoofing it. But Salamander Flats didn't show up when I thought it should, and I freaked out. In hindsight, I should have just kept going, seeing as I was maybe 200 feet away from the entrance, but I couldn't see the sign around the corner, and nothing was looking familiar. Of course it wouldn't, because it was dark when I drove there in the morning, but at this point I was too dang tired to think logically. So, panicked that I had missed it, or turned the wrong way onto the road, I turned around and walked back down looking for the entrance to Salamander Flats. When I got back to the entrance to Timpanooke campground, I was totally ready to cry, and of course, my cell phone got no reception. It did on the saddle, when I had no need for it. Aaaaargh! I was ready to call my brother and beg him to come pick me up at the Timpanooke campground. But I couldn't, so I turned around again, and headed back up the road, praying that a grizzly would appear, take a swipe at my head, eat my liver and put me out of my misery. The bear didn't appear, but about another mile up the road (and I mean that in the literal sense, as in after all this hoofing it out in the woods, I was on an incline, again), the entrance to Salamander Flats did, and I finally made it home.

I should be grateful, really. I can just imagine what a task it is for my guardian angels to keep me out of trouble on the trail. If it was all up to me, I would probably still be on trail 189(where does trail 189 go? I still have no idea), somewhere deep in the Uintah forest, wondering why in the name of all that is holy there weren't more folks on the trail, and where the dang book you sign at the summit is. It's probably good that winter will be here soon. I don't even try in the wintertime. And just for the record, I love hiking, even when I'm lost (which is most of the time).

Better than the alternative, or How can I be lonely when I'm surrounded by all these people?

I had an epiphanous (not a word, I know) moment the other day at the library. My YW teacher from when I was about fourteen came in, and I helped her find a book and we talked for a minute. She asked me what I was doing these days, where I was living. I told her I had bought a place here in Orem. She asked me if I lived alone, to which I answered yes, then she asked me if I liked living alone. What I should have said at this point was an enthusiastic, and entirely dishonest, yes--of course I'm thoroughly enjoying living alone. See, as a single Mormon woman, you are supposed to desire to be a wife and a mother, but you're never, ever supposed to feel sad about not having it. And you're certainly not supposed to express that sadness.


I don't quite know yet where I'm going with this, and it's scary to tell the truth about how I feel. So bear with me. Or stop reading here. Your call.


I do want to be a wife and a mother. I want it more than anything. I've tried and tried and tried to make myself want other things, to be ambitious about other things. But this is what I want. I don't want a dog, or a roommate or another degree or a prestigious career. I want a really good man to love in my bed and a baby or two or five sleeping (or not sleeping, I don't care!) in the other rooms. And I am confused and frustrated and so sad about my inability to fulfill the one real desire I have. I don't get it. It hurts. Some days (like Tuesday), it flattens me. If I'm lucky, and I usually am now, it waits until I'm all alone before it flattens me, but it does. Runs me down like a Mac truck.

But when someone asks me if I like living alone, I can't say that. I can't tell the truth because in addition to continuously failing at this one real desire in my life, if I admit how rotten I feel about it, I've failed again. If I don't feel all bright and shiny about it, well, then I've failed at service, compassion, charity, and the use of the Atonement, as well. I'm selfish if I even care that I have feelings about it at all.

The only thing worse than being the sad sack spinster is being the sad sack spinster who doesn't put on her happy face when in the company of any other human being.

So, I'm supposed to find comfort and peace in what? My nieces are kind of fascinated by my living alone. Leslie, who is nine, asked me the other day about it. "Who comforts you, Aunt Mar? When you're alone and you get scared, who comforts you?" Wow. The only person I know who is intuitive enough to both understand how hard it can be, and willing to state the truth of it, is a nine year old. The truth is, nobody does. When the bogey man comes at 3 am, and every fear and hopeless thought and dissappointed desire crawls out from under my bed and spreads its cold tentacles over my mind, the only ally I have is God. And as much as I love Him and know He loves me, I generally find Him disturbingly silent at these times. I beg and plead for Him to remove this cup. And yet His will...His will.

So I fight the fears, the hopeless thoughts, the disappointed desires. I know intellectually that I'm not alone, because honestly, I know I couldn't take it alone, but it sure as hell feels like I am without aid at those moments. Then I come to work, try to be kind and compassionate to the people at the library when I'm exhausted and sad. When people ask how I am, I say great and smile and try to change the subject. And I look around at all these people who are close to me physically all the time--patrons and colleagues and church folks and sometimes even family--and yet I can't find a way to move beyond the mundane surface of our lives. I can't make them kindred, can't let them see me any more than I can break through their facades.

Intimacy takes so much time. It requires time and touch and a willingness to bear one another's burdens in an exhausting way. It means we eat together, and decide what color to paint the walls together, and pray together and disagree together, and wind our arms around each other, and sometimes fight and then make up together. And that requires face time, every single damn day. And it is essential. That's why we mate. The comfort of an intimate friend can literally save us. Yet we can't, with mortal limitations, offer the comfort of our intimacy to all that many souls. You can't be with me at 3 am when my demons arrive, because you need to be there at 3 am for your wife, or your husband, or your child.

I don't begrudge you that. Don't misunderstand me. But you'll have to understand why, when I'm fighting the hell out of my demons at 3 am alone, the discomfort of living in a house with people I share no intimacy with does not appeal to me. The only thing worse than living alone for me would be sharing my house with strangers, and that's the alternative. So, that's what I said to my YW advisor who only sort of knew me 20 years ago. When she asked me if I liked living alone, I told her the truth--No. I don't like living alone. But it's better than the alternatives. And, with a tinge of discomfort, she politely closed the conversation and went on her way.

I've written myself into a tearful corner, I fear, and it's 11:16 pm and I still need to walk home. There are happy, joyful things in my life. Trust me, there are. So many that I am embarrassed that this effects me so. But it does. I crave an intimate friend, yet I no longer no how to build that kind of relationship. And I fear putting that kind of effort into another friend of the kind who finds a new best friend and doesn't have time to eat, and fight, and laugh, and talk with me very much any more. In the Garden, God commanded Adam and Eve to cleave unto each other. I need the kind of intimate friend I can cleave unto, I can remain with. A decidedly un-modern, entirely un-feminist perspective, I know. And yet.

The New Girl

This gorgeous little creature is my niece Eva. She was born this afternoon to her brave and beautiful mama Cathy and her very proud papa Jon. She weighs 5 lbs 6 oz, is 18 inches tall, and has the pinkest, plumpest little rosebud of a mouth I have ever seen. She's going to have a great smile. She's sweet and snuggly and smells divine, and I can't wait to get to know her.

"And the child that is born on the Sabbath day is bonny and blithe and good and gay."

Welcome to the world, baby girl!

Welcome to the (tomato) Jungle

I am not a gardener. If you saw my yard, you would heartily agree with that statement, trust me. It's got a very, very long way to go, before it's pretty and pleasing. I need more money and more time to make it into my little corner of Eden, but I do like to dig in the dirt and watch stuff miraculously change from tiny little seedlings into ginormous sheets of tomato vines. Kind of like this...







Yep, this is the tomato jungle. The green beans were eaten before they could even get their first set of true leaves, and the strawberries won't be great until next year, but the tomatoes outdid themselves. I always forget how big they get when I'm planting, and I plant too many, too close, and I get this monstrosity. It got so bad that one of the tomato plants tried to escape over the fence into the neighbors yard, see...












but the fantastic thing about tomatoes is that I can mess them up, and I still get really yummy fruit. Really, really yummy fruit.





mmmm...tomatoes.

The cucumbers have been prodigious producers. I can't pickle 'em fast enough. And I have some serious Thai basil. Next year, I will have tomatoes, cucumbers, basil, and hopefully green beans, beets, strawberries and maybe a pumpkin or a watermelon, too. With some gorgeous flowers, benches for my outsided table, and no lawn. Oh, the daunting project of getting rid of the rest of the lawn both scares me and invigorates me.



"Anyone who has a library and a garden wants for nothing." Cicero

Floating in oblivion on a resevoir of awesomeness

We just returned from the annual Clark family fishing trip, and all is well. No major meltdowns (well, except for the torrential floods of tears when it was decided that the Saturday night fishing trip would be grown-ups only. More on that later.) Only one major health issue, likely brought on by an abundance of sugar, and made more interesting by striking while we were on the water. More on that later, too. I want to begin by letting you know that I GOT SKUNKED! Not a single keeper! Seriously. Here is photographic evidence of my pathetic fisherwomanness this year.



That fish is not even bigger than my hand! But, I got to eat the keepers that other, more skilled fishermidgets brought back, and it was so, so, so good. I love fish, and I especially love trout that was very recently swimming. Nothing like it. Mmmmmmm...trout. Another reason I would fail at every attempt at vegetarianism. Here are the fishermidgets and their catch.




Okay,so here's what I did catch..... POP GEAR EARRINGS! On Saturday night (the kiddo free fishing event) when I pulled up the anchor I also pulled up a shiny string of metal lures. Now, most people would throw it back, or maybe recycle if they were feeling all adult and responsible. But not me. What do I think of when a shiny little piece of metal covered with muck from the bottom of the resevoir magically appears? Why, jewelry, of course. And maybe a really cool belt. And for those of you that squirm at the idea of wearing accessories that have been swimming with the fishies--get over it. Where do you think your water comes from, folks? Resevoirs. It gets cleaned, and then you drink it. Yep, you do. So the pop gear gets clean, attached to ear wires and I wear it. I love a good resevoir. I know, some of you are also shaking your heads right now, thinking--Clarky, you can go to the outdoor store any time, pick up all kinds of shiny metal fishing things to make jewelry with, sans mud and muck, you silly girl. To which I say--free and found is always cooler.

Another triumph this trip was earning my trailer backing merit badge. Usually one of my brothers pulls the boat while my poppy pulls the ATVs, but this year JP was home with Cathy who was on bedrest while awaiting the arrival of little Eva (yay for nieces! Can't wait to meet my new littlest best girl!) and Joel and Jill would be coming up late. So a couple days before at family dinner, Dad looked over at me and Marden and said "So you'll have to pull the boat." I thought he was talking to Marden, but he wasn't. I was going to be the boat hauler, and honestly, I was a little intimidated. But I swallowed my fear and did it. And get this, I backed the trailer onto the dock to launch, with another boat on the other half, even. It was only a little dicey at the beginning, and I had to pull forward and straighten out a time or two, but I did it. And when we got home, I backed the boat into the back yard, navigating the narrow passage without guidance, and placed it perfectly. I'm very proud of myself, and now am qualified to take the boat or the ATVs without help, thank you very much. Chicken Corners, here I come.

One of my favorite parts of the trip, though, is just hanging out with the fam and enjoying the company of my delightful nieces. These five little goobers are the joy of my life.

I adore these little faces, and having them in my life these last nine years has taught me a lot about love and how to love people. Kids are hard. They are unreasonable and often selfish. They see no reason to adjust their moods to suit other's needs. They are impulsive. They get sick, and when they do it likely will involve boogery secretions or explosions of poop. They are cranky if you let them get too tired or too hungry, but they usually don't want to stop whatever they're doing to sleep or eat. Kind of like me, minus the boogery secretions and poop volcanoes. I've mostly learned to control that. They've taught me about being patient, both with others and with myself. They've taught me to take responsibility for my own choices and show compassion for the choices that others make. We are, all of us, doing the best we can with what we know. They constantly remind me that life is cold and hard unless you greet the world with unrestrained exhuberance and an inexhaustible supply of laughter. Look at the smile on Mary's face. I don't think she has ever smothered a smile in her life. Of course, she doesn't really attempt to smother a tantrum yet, either, but that will come. The price of their affection is simply time and gentleness, and they forgive. They are always eager to learn something new (Susie is now a budding pool shark, and she kept trying, even though she's barely big enough to get her cue on the table). They have glorious lives ahead of them, and for all the anxieties Mom and Dad and grandparents and aunties and uncles might have about their futures, they will live tremendous lives. I'm grateful and honored to be a little part of their lives, and I can't wait to see what they become. If you want to know God, learn to really love a child.

Now, if you want to feel God, get thee to the hills, and drink in a view, maybe one a little bit like this...

Stupid Grasshopper

So, I love to grow stuff. I hesitate to call myself a gardener, because if you saw my yard you would laugh. It's not so much a garden as, well, a tomato patch. But more on that later.


The fun thing this year has been the various pests that have decided to move in with me. I can deal with just about anything creepy crawly as long as it's reasonably small and stays outside, but a couple of little creatures have not followed my rules this year, and it has resulted in some screeching on my part.


I'll start with the most mortifying (and, let's face it, humiliating) part. I had a little compost pile out in the far corner of my yard. I feel good about composting. It's good for the garden, and creates an opportunity for all that yard waste and kitchen scraps to do some good in the world. Philosophically, I'm inclined to compost. But in the real world, I'm not inclined to effectively compost. You have to have the right mix of stuff, and it has to be the right temperature, and be wet, but not too wet. And I'm kind of a lazy bum with all that kind of stuff. So I just piled up my sod and tossed all the vegetable peels and apple cores and eggshells on, and only occasionally took the pitchfork out to stir it all up. That was where I ran into problems. Around the 2nd week of June, I decided I better get out there and give it a good stir since I hadn't really attended to the compost all spring. I started turning it over, and then, as I got into the deeper recesses of the pile, suddenly about five or six mice came scrambling out. EEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKK! I screamed and ran into the house and locked the door, because apparently, I am lame like that.


Then I called Gina because a. she's the only person I know who would not judge me by the mice in my compost, and b. surely she would know what to do. Her first response was, "Hey, at least if you have mice you can be reasonably sure you don't have rats." Gee, that's comforting. Then she did a little internet search, found out that mice in the compost pile was not exactly an uncommon problem, and gave me several options for what to do next while I stayed locked inside my house, looking at the window for signs of movement in the compost pile. *shudder*


I decided to take my usual approach to problem solving--Ignore it and hope it goes away. Ha ha. Not really. I decided pretty quickly to get rid of the compost pile, but the thought of stirring it up again as I shoveled it into lawn bags, which may require closer contact with the rodents than I am comfortable with, made me want to vomit. So it took a couple of weeks to get my courage up. Meanwhile, I just avoided the compost pile. But the problem with talking to Gina about my many issues is the ten little ears that inevitably overhear everything from the latest ridiculous development in my personal life to the mice in the compost pile, and cute Leslie was fascinated by the mice. (They're fascinated by my personal life, too. Recently, they've started asking me if I love someone, and when I tell them "of course, I do, I love you!" they respond with exasperation, "no, Aunt Mar, are you in love with a boy? Do you want to kiss him?" And they don't believe me when I tell them the truth. I tell them no, I'm not in love with a boy I want to kiss, and they ask "does he have curly hair?" Seriously?)


When the girls came over for the long awaited "Sleepover at Auntie Mar's" last week, the first thing Les wanted to do was see the mice. She begged and begged until I relented and grabbed the pitchfork to see if I could awaken the nesting little beasties. Ew. So I plunged the pitchfork into the center of the pile, and was sure I heard I high-pitched squeal. Susie swore she heard it, too.


Yep, I think I gored a mouse with a pitchfork.


That was just far more than I could take, and I refused to further disturb the compost pile. But in the week that followed, I had an epiphany. Part of the reason nothing else has done well in my garden is that the tomatoes are in the only really consistently sunny bed. The trees shade everywhere else, except the compost pile! So, why not turn the compost pile into a new bed for planting next spring? Brilliant! With sufficient motivation, I found the courage to face the compost. I swallowed my fear and started shoveling.


But strangely, even as I got into the lower layers of the pile, no rodents emerged. The mice had vacated! Woo-hoo! Maybe they were afraid of the pitchfork of mortal doom, I thought. I was so deep into my "where have the mice gone?" reverie that I failed to notice the wasps until one stung me.


I don't think it was the pitchfork of death that drove away the critters. It was the wasps. As I spread out the rest of the compost yesterday to make the new bed, more and more wasps began buzzing around. (For the record-I didn't cuss. Okay, maybe one "damn wasps", but damn doesn't count) That's when I discovered their nest. Aaaargh. They got the poison spray can of death, and I got stung. But I also got a new vegetable bed, so I'll put that in the win column for me.


Anyway, you're probably wondering what this has to do with grasshoppers. Honestly, it's a stretch, but grasshoppers are another of those little things that creep me out, but only when they find their way in. They don't belong inside. And they're creepy. So this grasshopper was sitting on my bathroom sink, staring at me as I was putting on my makeup the other day. There was a little cup next to the sink, so I trapped the grasshopper with it. I didn't want to have to catch it and release it in case it escaped and jumped at me, so I just left it. But the next day I started feeling guilty about the slow, torturously painful death I must be putting it through, so my choices were down to smoosh it to kill it or catch and release. I decided to go with the humane answer. But the feisty little creep somehow escaped. When I got the cup outside and opened the lid, the dang thing was gone! Aaaaargh again. The next morning I found it on my shower curtain, and the little beast hopped off and onto my chest. EEEEEEEEEEKKKK again. And you know how sometimes they land on something and sort of won't let go? Yes, this was one pesky sucker. I hate grasshoppers.


Anyway, I also think I have a cricket living in my closet. I commend you for actually reading to the end of this post. Maybe someday I'll have something inherently interesting to write about, like universal health care or the nature of the soul, but not today obviously. Coming soon-photographic evidence of my sad, sad garden, but super fly tomatoes. I'm proud of them maters.

Dream about flying

But every now and then
when I am sleeping,
I still have a dream about flying.
And I wake up crying.
-Alexi Murdoch, "Dream About Flying"


So, I've heard these are good. Dreams about flying, I mean. People talk about how they soar. I wish I could have this kind of flying dream.


But no. My flying dreams are more like this--Instead of soaring, I do this kind of modified breaststroke/doggie paddle thing, and there is no horizontal movement. It's all vertical. I paddle and I go higher; I stop and I go crashing to the ground. And usually, the dream starts where I'm already high enough that it would be really, really painful to crash, so I have no choice but to keep paddling until, I don't know, I guess until I hit the stratosphere.


Maybe I need therapy.


Anyway, the real reason I brought this up is simply this. Patty Griffin is awesome, and if you've never listened to her, you really should. Try 1000 Kisses. And you should listen to Alexi Murdoch as well. He wrote a song called "Dream about flying" that I love, and his cd Time without Consequence is a fave of mine. Give him a listen.


One of these days, when I get it all together in my waking hours, I'm going to soar in my dreams, and I bet you Patty Griffin will be singing the soundtrack when I do.

I wish you could see me when I'm flyin' in my dreams.

The way I laugh way up high,
the way I look when I fly.
The way I live.
The way I fly.
-Patty Griffin, "Chief"

This is why I could never really be a vegetarian.

Have you seen that soyjoy commercial where they sort of trace the history of soy? Buddhist monks eat it, and farmers rejuvenated the soil of the dustbowl with soy and blah blah. At the end it says something like "we take that historic bean, mix it with fruit and bake it into soyjoy" but every time I've seen that commercial, I hear "we take that historic bean, mix it with fruit and bacon into soyjoy." Which, really, the thought of bacon in a soyjoy bar should probably make me a little barfy, but I hear bacon, and my mouth waters. Bacon. Pork fat and salt, kids. What's not to like?

I'm going to go eat some edamame and ride a bike or something. See if I can excise these evil nutritional thoughts. Have a lovely fourth, y'all. Blow stuff up, eat some salty grill-marked flesh of beasts (mmmmm, flesh of beasts), and enjoy the people you love!

Random Observations-June edition

Here we go again with the weird things that jangle about in my head most times...

-Multi-tasking is a bad idea. Sure, the whole concept is meant to make us more productive and efficient, to maximize every moment of our short lives where our value is determined only by what we accomplish or amass (and if you don't hear the dripping sarcasm there, you obviously don't know me very well), but it so, so rarely works out that way. Most tasks worth doing, folks, are worth focusing our attention on as solely and single-mindedly as we can. That's not always possible, of course, as you mothers of young children especially know, but that's no reason not to try when you can. So, from my experience, let me share with you a couple of things that should not be attempted together.

A. Do not attempt to gurgle mouthwash and dry your hair at the same time. I did this the other day, thinking I would save a minute or two in the morning. Took a swig of Listerine, grabbed the blow dryer, flipped my head upside down (a familiar hair drying technique to all my fellow curly girls out there) and AAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGHHHH!!!! Suddenly, Listerine was filling my nasal cavity and burning the gentle respiratory tissue there. So not wise. Do not try this at home, folks. Or anywhere else for that matter. I think I'm still recovering.

B. Truly, most bathroom activities probably call for single-minded focus, either because they are intricate (i.e. mascara application--it's tough enough get it right, especially if you are sleep-deprived) or because it's just kind of nasty (i.e. brushing your teeth while you pee...ew). But here is my number one multi-tasking offense. You should never, never talk on the phone while taking care of business in the lavoratory (please use Brit pronunciation, okay?). Tell the truth, now, you know you have done this, and it's just wrong. Unless you are a small child or are physically unable to take care of your own toileting, there should be no communication during this task. Even in a public restroom, there's nothing wrong with postponing the convo until everyone's out of the stalls. And there is something devious about talking on the phone while you're on the toilet, because the person on the other end of the line is an unknowing, and probably unwilling victim. If we're talking on the phone, and you really need to pee that bad, excuse yourself and call me back. If I call when you are midstream, hon--let it go to voicemail! If we were sitting at your dinner table having a lovely conversation, and you needed to visit the watercloset, you certainly wouldn't invite me to continue the conversation in the bathroom, so don't think it's any better just because I'm not physically present. Focus on the pee, then focus on the socializing. Don't mix it up, kiddo.

There are more multi-tasking mistakes, I'm certain, and I'd like to hear your best ones, so if you are reading this, please leave your favorite multi-tasking mistake in the comments. Like trimming your bangs while driving on the freeway, or anything involving a hot glue gun....

-Speaking of delicate nasal tissue, there are some bad, bad babysitters in the world, and my parents hired several of them before they gave up on teenagers and just left my 9 year old sister to watch us when they went out. I know, I know, nowadays DCFS would be on their tails for leaving a child that young in charge, but honestly, Gina was so much better than any of the teenage girls they hired that I remember. For example, there was the neighbor girl who slapped me repeatedly because I wouldn't eat my dinner. Neither of my parents ever laid a finger on me or any of my siblings as a punishment, but this chick had the gall to hit me because I wasn't hungry? Her sister was nicer, but a little flighty. She took us outside late one winter night for some reason, and promptly shut the locked door. Smart. So we had to walk through the snow in our pajamas to her mom and dad's house. Kind of an adventure, but kind of a duh moment, too. A cold duh moment. The worst however, was the budding sociopath who made my sister and I play dead to scare the devil out of our little brothers. She was mad at them because they wouldn't go to sleep. She had sent them to bed early because they, as they alway did, boisterously joined in the "Yee-Haw" at the end of the opening credits to "Dukes of Hazzard". (Sidenote: I had a mad crush on Bo Duke. He can still come sit next to me.) Of course, it was too early for them to sleep, and they were dismayed by the unfairness of it all, so they spent the next two hours hootin' and hollerin' and playing nerf basketball and jumping on the bed. Finally this babysitter got Gina and I out of bed, told us to lay down in the corner of the living room, put a blanket over us and warned us not to move a muscle. Then she got my dad's letter opener out of the desk (it looked like a dagger) and yelled at my brothers to come out. When the boys appeared, she wielded the letter opener and told them that she had killed us because they wouldn't shut up, and if they didn't go to sleep now, they were next. Jon and Joel were probably no older than three and six at the time. Wow. She was the last straw, babysitter-wise.

What does that have to do with delicate nasal passages, you ask? Well, nothing, except that believe it or not, that wasn't the worst babysitter experience I ever had. The worst was the babysitter who got Gina and I out of bed late one night when I was probably only four or five. She put a line of black pepper on the table and told me it would be really fun and funny if I snorted the pepper up my nose. It would make me sneeze just like in the cartoons! For the record, black pepper up your nose does not make you sneeze, and it's not fun or funny. It's simply painful. It burns. Bad. I think I'm still recovering.

-So, Mom and Dad finally gave up on babysitters and just left us home with Gina loosely in charge (which the rest of us took to mean she would take the fall if anything went wrong, but we didn't really have to mind her...ha ha). She was eight or nine, so I was seven, J.P. was six, and Joel would have been about three or four. My parents trained us all on what to do in an emergency, who to call if we needed something, what to say if someone called and asked for Mom or Dad. One night, my dad decided to call home and see if Gina remembered the lessons about phone calls. We had been instructed not to say our parents weren't home, but instead to insist that they were there but unable to come to the phone. So my dad calls, Gina picks up, and Dad asks to speak to her mom. Gina, the champ, says the right thing. She can't come to the phone right now...she's in the shower. My dad, unable to resist the urge to push the test a little farther, then asks to speak to her father. Gina gamely replies that he can't come to the phone either because he's in the shower, too. So now, instead of being neglectful parents who leave their four little birdies home under the supervision of their extremely capable eldest daughter so they can have a much needed dinner and a movie together, now she is giving the impression that they are neglectful parents who leave their children unsupervised for a little water-soaked nooky, instead. I believe at this point my poppy burst out laughing and let Gina know it was him. Pretty funny. Kids are a riot.

-The other night at a family dinner, Gina said she would totally go to the public baths in Japan again if she could, which I find so odd. Gina served her mission in Nagoya, Japan, and although I understand that it's a culturally accepted practice there, I just can't imagine myself being comfortable naked in public, even though it's same-gender. I don't know what it is, but I just think there are only about two people who should see all of me in the buff- me and my man. And if I could avoid seeing me in all my unclothed glory, that would be totally okay. Sadly, whoever designed my bathroom thought it was a good idea to put a very large mirror directly opposite the shower, so that's somewhat unavoidable. Even with my doctor and my midwife, I'd rather they only see individual parts unclothed, not the whole shebang. Here's how I see it: with my man, there's a payoff to the uncomfortableness of nudity. At least there's supposed to be when you're doing it right. And the nudity is part of a multi-faceted intimate relationship. (Not that I'd really know-my man is still a stranger to me, dangit, and to borrow a really bad metaphor that was widely used in YW classes and seminary in my day, no one's licked the icing off my cupcake. A really, really awful analogy, that is not only sort of icky, but also misrepresents the power of the Atonement of Christ. But I won't go into that right now. I'll just laugh, and return the original train of thought...). But in a public bath, it's a bunch of strangers with whom you have no relationship at all. Maybe it's my Puritan North American upbringing showing, but that's just weird. Then again, maybe it's the no relationship at all thing that makes it palatable. If I may never see these fellow public bathers again, who cares if they see my cavernous belly button or my dimply bum cheeks? Would you hop into the public baths if you had the chance? Why, or why not in the comments please. But it's a serious question, so don't post in the comments if you've got something nasty to say about it. I don't want to know about your deviance if you have any, so keep it clean, all right?

-Julie Heckert might be the coolest person I know. I never see her without coming away with a good laugh as well as something to think about. She's the only person I know who can use the word "fecundity" in a birthday greeting without being icky, and she introduced me to my new favorite "how the haitch did that get past the marketing department" romance novel title: The Very Virile Viking. I'm not kidding. It really exists, and we have two copies at the library. Find me the next time you drop by the OPL, and I'll show you. I was a doubter at first, too, but I've seen it with my own eyes.

Okay, I think that's enough for one day. Probably way, way beyond enough. Let's see, we've covered bathroom communications, sociopath babysitters, nudity and trashy romance novel titles. I bet you are so glad you don't have to live in my head. Wish I could say the same, but I'm starting to get used to my craziness.

Next post: My friends rock, or how I beat the bad birthday karma for good.

Dogs and Children Complicate Things

It's been an eventful weekend. What I have learned is simple, yet important. I have learned that for their own comfort and well-being, you probably should not trust me with your dogs or your children.

So it started yesterday afternoon. Leslie and I had our "day together" with breakfast at Magleby's, a trip to the Farmer's Market, and a viewing of the delightful film Up (if you haven't seen it, go see it immediately. Drop whatever you're doing right now and go to the movies. It is so, so good). To appease the little birdies whose turn doesn't come for a month or two, I usually stop at Iceberg and take twist cones home, but since I also had my brother's dog Mose for the weekend, and the poor pooch hadn't been out of my backyard in two days, I figured we'd pick up the dog and take all the girls for a walk to Iceberg instead.

Thus far, it was simply a lovely Saturday with my nieces. We loaded Mary and Dot into the big stroller, and Leslie and Susie argued about who got to hold the leash, and all seven of us set off to get an ice cream. We got to Iceberg without incident, hitched Mose's leash to a table out front, and went inside to get their cones. My friend Marianne was there with a friend of hers, Joan, so we said hi and chatted while waiting for the ice cream. When they called our number, I got the girls situated with their cones and headed back outside to load them up and head back home. Of course, my timing being impeccable as always, this was the moment the skies decided to dump an entire spring's worth of rainfall in five minutes. It began to pour, one of those crazy, rare-in-Utah storms where it's like standing in the shower fully dressed. And there I am with 5 girls under nine and a poor, soaked pug. Within 30 seconds, the baby, the three year old, and the seven year old were all crying, and I was trying to figure out what the haitch to do. I had Leslie shepherd the girls back into Iceberg to eat their cones, while I tried to figure out what to do with the soaking wet dog. Of course, by now I am quite literally soaked to the skin as well. I unleashed Mose from the table and tucked him in the stroller, trying to put the rain cover down so he'd stay in and stay dry. I'm literally dripping (inconvenient outfit, too--dripping jeans would have been preferred to a dripping denim skirt that was being dangerously wind blown I think. My apologies to anyone who got an eyeful of my gams), and my engineering skills are rapidly failing, as I can't for my life figure out how to get the cover snapped down. Finally, I picked up the dog, wrapped him in a blanket, and stood in the foyer of Iceberg, which was now a puddle from the wind and rain, and stood there wondering how in the name of all that is holy I was going to get these five girls (and the pug) home.

As I was praying for the storm to cease, and little Dot splashed in the resevoir/entrance, Marianne and Joan mercifully came and offered to drive us home. After some pleading with the oldest, who didn't want to go without me (the stroller would not have fit in the back, sadly), and a few urgent wails from the baby, they piled in and made their way home to get dry. I put the dog in the stroller, figured out the rain cover, and ran home in the storm with 30 lbs. of wet pug. I think now that he's experienced the delight of being pushed around in a stroller, he'll never want to walk on his own four paws again. He's lazy like that. But strangely, I thoroughly enjoyed that trip home in the rain. There's something about that moment when you know that things really couldn't get much worse that is so liberating. I'm sure I was a sight, but I was an unexpectedly happy sight. Back at Gina's, I found out that Caroline had asked her mom that morning if they could have an adventure. Well, my dear Care, be careful what you wish for.

Anyway--don't trust me with your dogs or children, part deux, focuses on the dog part. I decided to take Mose on a walk in Rock Canyon this afternoon, and since I was at Mom and Dad's, and Jon and Cathy were heading to the Durfey's without Zoey, I figured I'd take her along on our walk. Jon and Cathy were cool with that, so I found two leashes, stuffed my pockets with doodie bags (I'm a responsible dog walker, you see) and headed to Provo. We had a lovely walk until we came across two very large dogs, collared but unleashed on the trail. Mose is a pug, Zoey a Cairn terrier, both little dogs. I can't blame either of them for freaking out when 300 lbs of canine come barrelling down the trail with no owners in sight. Zoey was so scared that her head actually shrunk, she slipped her collar and went tearing back down the trail. So there I am, screaming at the two big brutes to stay the hell away from my dogs (I did cuss, it's true, and particularly disappointing considering that I was listening to general conference on my iPod. See ya, Holy Spirit), trying to catch up to Zoey.

Complicating this ridiculous scene is Mose, the laziest pug in the universe, who moves at the approximate pace of the continental plates, even in an emergency. Zoey wouldn't stop, and wouldn't let me get within 3 feet of her until we got to the car, and about halfway down the trail, Mose decided to just stop and laid down on the trail. Picture it--Me with Mose, who is not exactly a featherweight, tucked under one arm, a bag of dog crap in my other hand, jogging down the trail trying to keep up with Zoey who refuses to chill out and behave. For the record, I don't blame her. For the first 20 years of my life those two dogs would have reduced me to tears. Okay, for the first 20 years my life pretty much any dog would have reduced me to tears. Good times, good times.

So, let's recap what we've learned:

-Pixar makes a helluva good movie.
-I don't want a dog of my own. Other people's dogs are lovely and delightful. Having responsibility for one every day would so not work in my schedule right now. I can't take the chaos. Even the sudden storm at Iceberg with the girls would have been no problem if I didn't have the shivering wet pug to think about.
-Other people are not lovely and delightful when they don't take responsibility for their pet and keep them leashed in public places. Your choices do effect other people, so keep 'em leashed, folks.
-Along the same line, I'm even more convinced that my short man/dog owner man rule is a good one. I could happily deal with either of those not-exactly-ideal situations, but not both. Sorry to all dog lovers or the vertically challenged, but both are issues for me. Short attractive man-green light. Tall attractive dog owner-green light. Short attractive dog owner-not so much. Is that entirely shallow?
-Caroline is unflappable. Which is great, because her Auntie Mar is flappin' all over the universe like the unbuttoned butt flap on a pair of long johns in a wind storm. Terrible metaphor, I know.
-Sometimes God won't stop the storm when you ask, but he's likely to send a couple of angels like Marianne and Joan to help you weather it.
-And finally, if you love your children and your dogs, don't let me take them off your hands. It's like begging the universe to throw a wrench in the gears!

Beautiful

I have such issues with that concept...but I don't want to talk about it. So just look. These are little drops of my beautiful.

Random observations

In no particular order...



-My ideal pet would be an outside bird.

-It would be nice if false hope was as entertaining in real life as it is in the clearance racks at Target.

-I've always really, really enjoyed rain. I imagine it has something to do with living in the desert, but I've generally found it refreshing and invigorating. However, this year, as I have been anxious to prep my new garden beds, something strange has happened. Every day I've had off for the last six weeks, it has rained. Digging a wet bed ruins the soil. I can't plant until the compost is dug in. Aaargh. (postscript: since I began this post, it stopped raining and the garden is planted. Pray for my poor tomatoes in my hard, clay-ey, rocky soil. They're troopers, so far. They've been in the bed for a week, and they're growing. But there's only so much you can do to improve the soil in one season with a truckload of compost and a bag full of vermiculite. The soil I want will take years to build. They have like 30 feet of topsoil in Michigan. Somebody tell me again--why do I live here? Okay, start making the list again--the mountains, my family, that little detail of a mortgage, a good job...feel free to add to the list in the comments. Should I stay or should I go? Realizing, of course, that it's all pointless, cause I ain't goin' anywhere right now. But it's fun. Here I'll go first, Marilee should move to another state because a good Mormon girl in her 30s will never meet a good single Mormon man in Utah. Come on, join in the fun!)

-On the other hand, did you noticed the lilacs this year? Exquisite!

-Does anyone really care who wins American Idol? Okay, clearly, people care. But does anyone else get the feeling that an episode of American Idol is sort of like a high school homecoming assembly on a steroidal budget? To be fair, I only watched about 45 minutes of the finale, but still. There's the tacky lighting, funny costumes, alumni who, honestly-- don't they have anything better to do? I believe that this year Coke paid for a new scoreboard back on the AI football field in exchange for placing pop machines back stage. Two words for the music world: Ray Lamontagne.

-Speaking of American Idol, I'm a little disturbed. Musically I'm not a big fan of any of them. But watching the finale, I found myself thinking that it was kind of too bad that Adam guy is not into girls. Cause he could be hot. I think it's his chin, his jaw or something. Or his mouth. Dang, the boy has a beautiful mouth. I have to remind myself that he probably has girly hands to keep me from getting carried away.

-Which brings me to this. I can't stop thinking about this one scene in Gone with the Wind (a terrible, mysoginistic film). Rhett says:"You need kissing badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how." Amen, brother. Just so you know, I'm currently taking applicants for the position. But only from single men who don't make me nauseous. Which is why, even in this job market, I fear the position may go unfilled. Which is unfortunate. I mean, I'm no Vivian Leigh, but come on! There's got to be at least one good hearted, reasonably attractive, employed, non-vomit-inducing man out there who's up to the task. If you find him, give him my phone number.

-Another comment about the whole outside bird thing: if I wasn't absolutely certain my HOA would string me up by my toes and teach it to peck my eyeballs out, I would totally get a chicken. Fresh eggs, compostable droppings. I'd like to see Mose do as much to contribute to his upkeep. (Just so you know, Joel, I really do love your dog. Especially because every time he hangs out with me, I'm reminded why I don't want a dog of my own. Thanks for that, man.)

-There was a girl at the library the other day who may have been taller than me. It's hard for me to tell, it happens so rarely. It kind of startles me when there are women as tall as me around. It's funny though, I never say anything when I run into equally tall women, because people say things to me all the time and I don't always like it. I love being tall, and I wouldn't trade an inch of my height for anything (diminished dating pool notwithstading), but I don't understand why people have to say things about it. I had no say in this, beyond my choice to wear or not wear heels (and the answer is always wear--do you know anyone who couldn't use a couple of extra inches of visual leg length? Me neither), height is predetermined. It especially bugs me when I'm in heels, which I love and can't imagine not wearing, even if they became painful and damaging to my feet. You know, if a really short guy walks in the room, I have enough sense not to ask him how tall he is (a question I've been asked by numerous strangers). And if a really tall guy walks in the room, well, I have enough sense to tell him to come sit next to me...;)

That's it for now. I'll try to get back to blogging before another six months is up. Not that it matters, because who the haitch reads anything I write on here anyway. It's just kind of fun to write again. I'm out--