Gently Down the Stream

Okay, so maybe I have something going on the side, too

2012-02-10T18:12:00.001-08:00

There are just too many amazing musicians in the world. Here's another one that I'm digging right now. His name is James Vincent McMorrow. His album is Early in the Morning. He's Irish.

He reminds me a little of Bon Iver, back when I was really digging For Emma, Forever Ago. Here's another song, Follow me down to the Red Oak--

He's awesome. Check it out.

I'm in love...

2012-02-05T17:49:00.000-08:00

I am deep in the throes of a mad, passionate music crush. I discovered Chris Bathgate's Tiny Desk concert on NPR a few months ago and had to download Salt Year immediately. I held off on A Cork Tale Wake until this week. Now I can't stop listening. Salt Year is spare and plaintive, the kind of music that resonates in your bones.

Kind of perfect for the exquisite bleakness of a Utah winter--it's music born of suffering. Strangely, that's what I like listening to when I'm content.

I also just really admire his skills as a musician and a writer. He's smart, in a way that I have no hope of ever being. I love watching him loop this song, Borders.

It cuts out there at the end, but dang. I could think for a thousand years and never come up with something that beautiful.

So, I'm evangelizing for him around here. Partially because I think everyone's life would be a little better if accompanied by his work. But mostly because I want him to come to Utah the next time he swings by the west coast. Good luck, I know. I really want to hear him play live, and I'm not going to make it back to Michigan anytime soon. So go to chrisbathgate.org and download away. Worth every penny.

Here's the Tiny Desk performance, too. Enjoy...

Registered Voter is good enough for me

2012-01-28T19:23:00.000-08:00

Oh, how I love presidential election years. They bring out the best in us all, don't they? The best of Newt Gingrich scares me, but I don't really want to criticize candidates. No, I want to criticize entire political parties, and anyone who has an iron-clad ideology, really. Which is every campaigning candidate. I think it's one of the pre-requisites of running: you have to be entirely certain (or at least appear entirely certain) that you are right and everyone else is dead wrong. And that is part of what bugs me about politics.

The center of my intense dislike of politics is hypocrisy, and here is how I see that play out in our two-party system. Both Republicans and Democrats (and Ron Paul, whatever he actually is) want to have their cake and eat it too, and that never, never works. For Republicans it comes off this way--Keep your dirty, liberal, lazy (and sometimes dark-skinned) fingers out of my wallet. But you don't mind if I tell you how, when, why and with whom you have sex, do you? Their strong stance on moral issues clashes with their laissez-faire attitude toward taxes and regulation of private enterprise and personal wealth. From where I'm sitting, how, when, why, and for whom you spend your money is as much a moral issue as abortion, gay marriage, or the legalization of marijuana (all of which, I'm afraid, are more important in appealing to certain groups of voters during a campaign than they are when it comes to actual governance). You cannot demand freedom in the economic sphere while simultaneously attempting to legislate the personal lives of the folks you don't like very much.

Democrats aren't much better. They just flip the script. Stay the hell out of my bedroom and the consequences of what I do there, but you don't mind if I reach in your wallet just for a minute or two...Aaaargh. It makes utterly no sense. If you are going to have an immovable position of freedom to do whatever you want in one area, don't you have to extend that liberty in all the other areas, too? Including regulation of business and taxation?

Or here's a novel idea. Compromise. Everybody could come off their high horse, even during an election year, and stop drawing lines in the sand. I'm not always right. Neither are you. Nor are the people who are on either side of any issue. We're all fallible humans, and that's not a bad thing. It only gets ugly when we pretend we're not, and spend years trying to convince voters that we're infallible, even when we're supposed to be governing.

I do realize that's an oversimplification of a far more complex system, but that's the kernel of my understanding of it. And I'd caution you not to assume from what I've written above that you know how I feel about anything from abortion to federal regulation of the private sector. Nor who I'm voting for. I'm happy to talk about those things, but not on a blog. I'm far too fallible, and aware of it, to broadcast those opinions on the Internet.

Nobody wants to be colonized

2011-01-20T16:08:00.000-08:00

My brain has been chewing on this subject for a while now--maybe even years subconsciously. So maybe it's time to write about it. This is another one of those "perhaps I shouldn't publish these particular thoughts" kind of topics. But, heck, what good is totally obscurity if you can't ramble on the internet about the stuff that bugs you?

A story. I had my first period when I was 13, at the beginning of eighth grade. I'm pretty sure I just lost at least half of my audience with that sentence, so to the three of you that are left--thanks for hanging in there with me. Anyway, the very first day of my very first period in eighth grade, I was walking to class in an utterly suffocating hallway when out of the chaos of teenaged limbs, some idiot grabbed my ass and gave it a serious squeeze. I have no idea who it was, and honestly, it wasn't the first time some stranger had inappropriately accessed my hindquarters. (Sidenote: to those of you who are thinking how awful it is that thirteen year old girls get treated this way by strangers-um, yeah. No kidding. And my experience is on the way, way, way mild end of the violations suffered by women. Sometimes little girls.) It wasn't an accident--not someone just brushing by that I interpreted wrongly; some stranger grabbed my butt.

That's never fun, but on this particular day it was doubly painful. My life had very recently changed--my body had changed and I was barely beginning to adjust to those changes and adapt to my new reality. Now, in addition to the humiliation of having someone take uninvited liberties with my body, I was consumed by fears of what I was doing wrong. Had I leaked? Had my maxi pad shifted in some visible and shameful way? Did he somehow know that I was on the rag, and this was my punishment for becoming a woman?

Because in my experience, women get punished for being women. We are punished for having women's bodies. I don't want anyone to misunderstand. This post--this complaint, I guess you could call it--is not a girls versus boys thing. I don't think men are to blame, or women, or really any individual or group. We just have this long history of devaluing women, specifically women's bodies, and it's so deeply embedded and subconscious that few of us escape it very well. And it hurts us--both men and women--when we systemically violate the sanctity of a human body simply because it has two x chromosomes.

It's not just the physical violations, either. It's been the psychological attacks on my female body that have done the most damage over the years. Women have a hard time winning--either you are too pretty, wherein your flesh becomes an object of desire, gratification or envy, or you are not pretty enough and yours is an object of derision and shame. Either way, you are not a person anymore--you are just an object.

I'm on the not pretty enough end of the bargain. I've struggled with my weight all my life, and I imagine that battle will not end until I lay this mortal by. I'm always the fat friend--the smart, nice girl who everyone thinks would make a great wife--for someone else. That's okay. Those are issues of my own making, admittedly (though not made in a vaccuum), but here's what drives me crazy, and what I think (I hope) is cogent to this particular subject. A few years ago I got serious about my health, and I lost a lot of weight. People, both men and women, started looking at me differently. Friends, family, people with whom I have close, loving relationships, praised me and I appreciated their praise. Casual acquaintances and even strangers also made comments, ones that I believe they meant to be kind, and I tried to accept with all the grace I could muster, but they weren't really kind. Here's the difference. The acquaintances and the strangers were simply judging my flesh. They don't know me, they don't know any part of me beneath what they see. And what they see should not be fodder for comment or judgement. My family and friends, the people who know me, when they would complement me, it wasn't just about how I looked--how they judged my body. They knew how I worked, how I strived, how I changed not just my flesh, but my mind and my spirit, to accomplish my goals. They were not planting their flag in my flesh. They weren't colonizing; they were celebrating my independence.

At Christmastime, I saw someone who has known me for many years--since we were children. We see each other maybe every few years, and it had been several since he saw me. He hardly recognized me. He couldn't stop going on and on about how much I had changed. About 15 years ago, he used to come in to the place I worked. It was my first real job out of high school--I was eighteen. And he could not believe that I was the same person as that pudgy teenager from way back when. I smiled, accepted the congratulations on my weight loss (isn't there a statute of limitations on that kind of thing--good lord, it's been years!), but fumed inwardly. Because honestly--the way my body has changed in the last fifteen years is nobody's business. The way it changes in the next fifteen or thirty or 50, well that's nobody's business either. This body is sovereign territory, and the ruling party does not take kindly to uninvited interference.

See, the thing is, my body is grand. It can create, and love and rage and think. It can sing and dance (awkwardly, admittedly)and climb. It astonishes me the more I get to know it, how glorious a thing this bag of bones and muscles and fat and blood and nerves is. Anytime some casual gaze falls upon it, or some horny adolescent of any age grabs it, physically or psychologically, it makes it a little harder for me to honor it the way it deserves. Why, in a world that is hard enough the moment we enter it, do we feel the need to make it any harder for someone else?

So, my suggestion is we stop gazing, grabbing and colonizing women's bodies--including the women who make their living on runways, ad campaigns and screens. They might not be above it, but we can be. I'm not suggesting we ignore beauty--go on and admire your wife's backside along with her wit--but leave Kate Winslet's alone.

I'm not entirely sure I'm right about any of this, or even that what I've written is an accurate reflection of what I think and feel. I'm still working out what I think and feel on this one. I'm also curious about other's experiences, especially men. I wonder a great deal if there is some analogous male experience--some way they feel colonized. So dear readers, if any of you made it to the end of this post (poor things...) please comment. But be nice. You can disagree, but try not to hurt anyone's feelings.

By the way, the irony of this post, when read in concert with the previous post about the differences between objectively and subjectively handsome men, does not escape me. I didn't say I was perfect! I just said everyone else should be! Ha ha ha....

Let's have a chat about books...

2011-01-11T19:58:00.000-08:00

So, I read quite a bit, and I write reviews for work every once in a while, so I thought maybe I'd share a few with the blogosphere. I don't like every book I read,
so some reviews are critical. I think that's a good thing though, whether you agree with me or not. I read some book reviewers and movie critics because I know what they like I won't, and what they don't like, I will probably enjoy. I think we should have an anti-staff picks shelf at the library. It would be fun and useful!

So, with that said--the inaugural "Gently Down the Stream" book reviews.

Please Ignore Vera Dietz by A.S. King (2011 Printz Honor)

There are going to be some people who have objections to this book, which is really too bad. King’s characters are the kind of kids who don’t get any breaks; in fact, they’re lucky if they don’t get broken. Her heroine is Vera Dietz, a bright high school senior growing up in less-than-stellar circumstances. Her parents were teenagers when they had her—an eighteen-year old alcoholic and a stripper who eventually decided that motherhood was not for her and took off with her lover to Vegas. Vera’s dad is now a recovering alcoholic and a reasonably successful accountant, but in their economically depressed town, Vera needs her pizza delivery job and the local thrift stores. She’s mourning the loss of her childhood friend Charlie who died under mysterious circumstances months before. Charlie, the son of a wife-beater and a doormat, had been drifting into a failing life of drugs, sex and trouble with the local “detentionheads”. He’d been drifting away from Vera in the months before his death, and Vera’s feelings for him have swung between loving and loathing. Now, nearly nine months after his death, Vera is unsure whether she should keep her head down and just survive, or whether she should speak what she knows and clear Charlie’s name.

There’s drinking, sex, and cussing, but none of it is gratuitous in any way. Kids who relate to Vera and Charlie’s circumstances need to see characters like Vera who, though flawed, is striving to take control of her own life and destiny. And kids who never have to face the kind of troubles in this book can gain some much needed empathy toward their less fortunate peers. It’s not a perfect book, but it’s an honest one, and I appreciate it.

Guardian of the Dead by Karen Healy (2011 Morris YA Debut honor)

This fits into the category of great opportunity ultimately squandered by poor execution. The YA market is currently (still….) dominated by heroines of various stripes who fall in love with a supernatural creature and are thrust into some monumental battle between good and evil. Healy, a New Zealander herself, roots her version in Maori cosmology. Her heroine, Ellie Spencer, is seventeen and away at boarding school while her parents are traveling the world in a post-cancer scare long-term vacation. (Who does this? Drop your life and your kid for a year while you gallivant? Odd.) Ellie’s best friend Kevin (platonic) has wrangled her into helping another classmate with a production of A Midsummer’s Night Dream at the local University. Ellie’s mysterious crush Mark seems to have some interest in her, and it turns out that he’s not just mysterious, he’s supernatural. He’s part of an ancient race of New Zealand fairy-like folks, and he’s trying to protect Ellie and her friends from his ravenous mom and other paranormal powers that would do them harm. Of course, it turns out Ellie has some latent powers of her own.

Admittedly, I was tired of this genre about ten seconds into reading Twilight, but I can’t understand how it hasn’t worn out its welcome in the publishing world. I think Healy has potential--this was an opportunity to do something really unique, but it just buzzes along in first gear. It never really soars, you know? Too bad. Next!

And here's a few for when you want to read "grown-up" stuff

All the Little Live Things and The Spectator Bird by Wallace Stegner

Stegner never fails to amaze me. Of the two, All the Little Live Things impressed me more. It’s probably the best thing I’ve read in years—devastating and beautiful. After a somewhat slow build of tension, Stegner blew the top of my head off with the ending. This novel finds Joe Allston, a somewhat curmudgeonly retired literary agent, and his wife Ruth newly retired and relocated to California in the 60s. They are still struggling with the death of their son, with whom Joe had a contentious relationship, when they find themselves hosting a hippie squatter on their land. Joe doesn’t like him, being opposed to all the values of the free love/free drugs generation, but can’t bring himself to kick him out either. At the same time, another newcomer appears in the form of Marian, a thirty-something mother with whom Joe is smitten. She’s like the daughter he wishes he would have had, even though she has some opposing opinions of her own. Stegner builds Allston’s philosophies about love, responsibility, wildness and order through his interactions with these two characters, blows everything away with a tragedy unlike anything I’ve ever read, then somehow ties it all together in a satisfying, if bitter, resolution. Masterful—and in my eyes, as good as anything he wrote.

The Spectator Bird takes place about ten years later, as Ruth and Joe are facing their friend’s, and thereby their own, mortality. Joe inevitably begins to recall and weigh his life, and he finds himself lacking—a spectator rather than an actor in his own story. He receives a postcard from a countess they boarded with on a trip to Denmark twenty years earlier just after the death of their son. That card leads him to pull out the journals he wrote that summer, and somehow his wife finagles him into reading them aloud to her. Dangerous memories are revealed and, finally, resolved between them as he recounts the life of this beautiful, tragic woman and the relationship that blossomed between all three of them. Not my favorite Stegner by a long shot, but still worth reading. Stegner, who had an enduring and successful partnership with his wife Mary, has something to say about both the challenge and the ultimate joy of being and staying married.

The Lonely Polygamist by Brady Udall

The Lonely Polygamist is a sprawling story about a sprawling, typical American family, albeit a polygamous family. Okay, so maybe some things about Golden Richards, his 4 wives, 28 children, a failing construction business and a forbidden flirtation aren’t exactly typical, but it’s surprising how relatable Udall makes his characters. They deal with the same things we all struggle to overcome—a desire to feel loved and connected in a world that is big and busy and chaotic and filled with competing needs. In this family, as in the whole world, it seems like nobody’s needs are being met, and the various ways characters try to overcome that conundrum are by turns hilarious and tragic. I hesitated to read this one, simply because my own thoughts and feelings about polygamy are not clear and most attempts at portraying it in media I find utterly uncomfortable and often offensive, but I’m so glad I did. It’s not about polygamy, really; it’s about family, just intensified exponentially by the sheer size of the Richards clan. The writing is admirable, as well. Definitely recommended.

Read on, my friends. Read on!

Alexander Siddig is subjective. Definitely subjective.

2011-01-11T18:47:00.000-08:00

There are two kinds of handsome men in the world. The first is what I like to call "objectively handsome." These are the kind of guys that are clearly good looking, but don't really do anything for you. They are symmetrical, appear healthy, have the ideal proportions, etc. But they don't make you wish you could kiss their face off or talk to them for hours, or, you know, not talk to them in affectionate ways. This sort of handsome man exists both in real life and on the silver screen. I'll restrict examples to the non-real life ones; it's not polite to discuss the ones you've actually met, I think.

Brad Pitt is a clear example of this. He's obviously genetically blessed, but he doesn't hold any attraction for me. I would not see a movie because Brad Pitt was in it. It's got to have some other interest for me, because watching Mr. Pitt for two hours just isn't enough. George Clooney. Ryan Reynolds. Any of a number of fresh faced lads on TV. Most of the men who've appeared on "The Bachelor" (or at least the ones I've seen--I haven't watched it, but those folks always end up on the cover of People magazine eventually). The animated princes in Disney movies. All objectively handsome.

Then there are the subjectively handsome ones. They might, or might not, be equally attractive on paper, but it doesn't matter. Something about these men resonates with some primal, subconscious need, or something. I don't know what it is--if it's a voice, the way they hold themselves, the way they move.

Don't misunderstand me, I don't put any stock in any of this, beyond just the fascinating and funny mystery of attraction. Why does one handsome man inspire little more than a half-hearted "meh--" from me, and another I just can't seem to get enough of. Some strange mix of nature and nurture like everything, I guess.

All this, however is just a long-winded way of saying that I loved Cairo Time. I don't really know if it was a good movie though, because my prefrontal cortex pretty much checks out, and my hypothalamus takes over when Alexander Siddig enters the scene. Dang. That man is... there are no words.

That's all I have to say about that.

Faith, Doubt and Tomatoes

2010-10-10T17:32:00.000-07:00

My tomatoes got a slow start this year. The late freeze in May shocked them a bit. In midsummer when they're usually starting to set fruit, there wasn't much going on. I was worried that either they wouldn't set fruit, or it would be so late that they wouldn't get ripe.

Here's what I didn't do. I didn't march out to the garden in the middle of July and rip out all my tomato plants. That would have been stupid. I waited it out, had faith in good soil and sunshine, and stuck it out. And I have tomatoes. My counter is covered in beautiful juicy orbs of red, yellow, and orange. They are beautiful and bountiful, more than I can eat.

I'm not a good spiritual gardener sometimes. In my backyard, I plant seeds, I work for them, tend them, and patiently wait for them to bloom and bear fruit. Some things work great, other things not so much, but every year I thoroughly enjoy my garden. In my life, I plant seeds, I work for them, I tend them, and when things don't go exactly as I hoped, I let doubt creep in and start pulling up the plants. I need to stop doing that.

Faith and hope are the key, I think, to breaking that bad habit. One setback, a metaphorical late-May freeze, doesn't ruin everything, yet I don't give things a chance to recover. This is my latest revelation of personal weaknesses (they're really starting to add up...). I hope, I sincerely hope, that Christ's atonement can help me fix this one. That somehow, he has some kind of spiritual greenhouse where he's been tending to my abandoned "plants" while I figured this stuff out. Or maybe it's like the seasons, and if I'm patient and plant more seeds, I'll get another go-round at the things that I've impetuously cast into the compost heap in my frustration and despair. Maybe spring will come around again.

Alma had something to say about that in the Book of Mormon. This is what I hope for. This is what I desire to believe:

"But if ye will nourish the word, yea, nourish the tree as it beginneth to grow, by your faith with great diligence, and with patience, looking forward to the fruit thereof, it shall take root; and behold it shall be a tree springing up unto everlasting life.
And because of your diligence and your faith and your patience with the word in nourishing it, that it may take root in you, behold, by and by ye shall pluck the fruit thereof, which is most precious, which is sweet above all that is sweet, and which is white above all that is white, yea, and pure above all that is pure; and ye shall feast upon this fruit even until ye are filled, that ye hunger not, neither shall ye thirst.
Then, my brethren, ye shall reap the rewards of your faith, and your diligence, and patience, and long-suffering, waiting for the tree to bring forth fruit unto you."

A quote from Joseph Fielding Smith

2010-09-19T20:38:00.000-07:00

This quote was from the Gospel Doctrine lesson today. Made me think.

“I maintain that had there been no restoration of the gospel, and no organization of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, there would have been no radio; there would have been no airplane, and there would not have been the wonderful discoveries in medicine, chemistry, electricity, and the many other things wherein the world has been benefited by such discoveries. Under such conditions these blessings would have been withheld, for they belong to the Dispensation of the Fulness of Times of which the restoration of the gospel and the organization of the Church constitute the central point, from which radiates the Spirit of the Lord throughout the world. The inspiration of the Lord has gone out and takes hold of the minds of men, though they know it not, and they are directed by the Lord. In this manner he brings them into his service that his purposes and his righteousness, in due time, may be supreme on the earth.

“… I do not believe for one moment that these discoveries have come by chance, or that they have come because of superior intelligence possessed by men today over those who lived in ages that are past. They have come and are coming because the time is ripe, because the Lord has willed it, and because he has poured out his Spirit on all flesh” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1926, 117).

The Magnifying Glass

2010-08-21T21:09:00.000-07:00

I had a great talk with an old friend last night (old because we've been friends since we were cubs, not because we're old. Just wanted to be clear on that...). She reminded me of some important stuff. So today, a list:

What I love about Saturday.

-"Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" on NPR while I mop
-A clean house. Mmmmmm....a clean house.
-The temple.
-A good, hard workout.
-Not getting showered and dressed until 3 in the afternoon, and not because I was lazy.
-Garrison Keillor on "Prairie Home Companion". I laugh a lot on Saturdays.
-Having a soundtrack to accompany me most of the day. I need music.

That's it, but that's a lot. So I'll be happy.

Just some stuff I've been thinking about

2010-08-18T21:18:00.000-07:00

If my job consisted of preparing and presenting storytimes all the time, it would be a very fun job. My job isn't supposed to consist of that at all, and when the ox is in the mire, and I must dig in and pull it out, it causes issues in my other duties. But it's so fun to sing songs and read stories and play with the munchkins. I totally could do that way, way more often.

So, there are a lot of things that people do that make me wonder, and this one is of the totally meaningless fluff variety, but I've gotta put it out there. I've noticed this wedding anouncement trend in the last many years that I don't get. In the interest of full disclosure, let me say this. I tend to be the kind of person who thinks that a wedding should be a very personal, intimate event between a man and a woman, and should be witnessed and celebrated by a small group of very close friends and family. And when you send those folks an invitation, they probably don't need a picture of you. I would be unlikely to send any picture in an anouncement. But these photo announcements that have 3 or 4 little pictures of the couple--I find those a little weird, too. Usually I'll bite my tongue and not mention it to anyone else. However, when the couple appears in different outfits for each of the 3 or 4 pictures on the photo announcement, well, I can't keep it in any longer. What is the point of that? Am I supposed to believe that these photos represent a cross section of moments from your courtship? It's clear that these are posed photos, taken on the same occasion--namely a shoot with your photographer--so why the costume change? Couldn't narrow down to just one favorite ensemble? It kind of reminds me of those quirky little four year olds going through the "wear everything I own all at once" phase, the one who comes out in the morning with her sunday dress, two pairs of tights, a long sleeve t-shirt, a button down and a sweater topped off with winter hat and mittens. Three pictures is questionable folks. Three pictures with three costume changes-that's just overkill.

Update: just saw another one of the wardrobe change announcements. This one had another twist. The bride's face is almost never facing the camera. There's probably five photos, and you can only see her eyes in 1 or 2. Hmmmmm.

The world that God created is utterly beautiful. I don't know why I get so caught up in the work of our hands that I don't enjoy the work of His. I went hiking in Rock Canyon Friday, and it was a beautiful day. The leaves are starting to turn, and I just wanted to cry because I was so happy to be quiet in the trees listening to the water running and feeling God's love for me so purely. On the way, there were three deer in an empty lot down in the riverwoods munching on grass. They had fuzzy antlers. I knew it was going to be a good day.

What part, exactly, of Cheetos is made with "real cheese"? And how do they disguise it so well?

I have spent three years looking for a brown skirt. I fully realize that such a thing even making the list of long-term problems in my life is an indication of how blessed I am. I'm just saying, a brown skirt should not be a three-year odyssey. First of all, there aren't that many brown skirts out there. Black, always available in a myriad of styles, price points, sizes. Gray, you're all good there too. Even white or navy, in the summer you'll find a plethora of possibilities. But brown? Not so much. And when I do find a brown skirt, there is always something wrong. They are always made for women 5'6" or under. And even brands that carry tall sizes rarely make brown skirts in tall sizes. And hems tend to be an inch and a half deep at the most, which means taking the hem down isn't an option.

Then, when you think you've found the holy grail, some dumb designer somewhere takes a perfectly good brown skirt and hot glues some sequins or ribbons or some other stupid embellishment that makes an otherwise serviceable garment unwearable. Aaaargh. All I want is a cute, wearable, brown wool skirt that won't turn into a mid-thigh disaster when I sit down at church. Is that asking too much?

As long as we're talking fashion, I can't wait for skinny jeans to just go away. And I hope I'm dead the next time they trend.

I think I have a very persistent poltergeist. First, I thought we were haunted at work. All the computer problems, the always freezing corner of the basement, an odd scent of cigarette smoke that lingered in the IT room sometimes. I was sure we'd disturbed some ancient tobacco smoking spirits with the whole south wing renovation. Then I thought my house was haunted. Weird noises, strange dreams, a sense that someone was waking me up in the middle of the night, then finding no one there. Kind of weird. But now, I swear, it's haunting my car. Every other time I get in my car, my mirrors are jacked up. It's probably just my clumsiness. I run into things all the time, so maybe I'm bumping them and just not noticing. Maybe it's the same problem as the mysterious bruises that I always have and never know how I got. But it's starting to freak me out. If I get in my car tonight and the rearview is funky, well, I'm going to be a little upset.

Job Interviews are not romantic...or effective.

2010-04-28T18:06:00.000-07:00

I must preface this post with a disclaimer. I do not want either your sympathy or your criticism for what follows. I'm just thinking out loud on the Internet. Dangerous, I know. That danger, though, is mitigated by the fact that there are very few people who pay any attention to what I say. Just a warning, if you are paying attention to this, and you feel like you should comment, just be nice, and understand that at this point, neither criticism nor sympathy will help. If you have a funny story to tell, that would be fab.

So, I'm heading to a milestone birthday in a woman's life.

Okay, so I just wrote this post, and I liked it. It was honest and I thought it was interesting, and when I went to post it, it disappeared. And I'm going to take it as a sign from the universe that it shouldn't be shared. So, you'll just have to wonder what it was about, because my lips are sealed. I love the title though, so I'm going to post it anyway.

Cheers, blogosphere. I'm out.

Random Observations: the sequel

2010-04-16T21:50:00.000-07:00

And, here we go again.

-I had a dream the other night. Gus was in the dream, and he was not behaving particularly well. He was jumping up and trying to chew on my hands, just your typical, everyday, Gus-like behavior. But there was this other dog. Fairly large, and very blond. Like a straw colored golden retriever with crimped fur. Beautifully behaved dog. Understood the whole "heel" concept, didn't bark, nip or jump. Incredibly easy. What was abundantly clear to me in this dream was that this well behaved dog was absolutely not mine.

And what was the dog's name, you ask?

Life. The dog's name was Life. Lord help me.

-I made hummus from scatch the other day. If you have never done this, and you have a blender or a food processor, please get some chickpeas, some lemon and garlic, some tahini and some olive oil and make some soon. It is so good, and nothing like the premade stuff in the store. It's worth the effort. And God bless my old Logan buddy Sam for teaching me how to make it many years ago.

-Tiger Woods totally ruined Stevie Wonder for me. Blast you, you cheating...I can't think of a word that I can actually write that also expresses what a...see, I have no words for men like this. Famous or not. And the last thing I need in my life right now is another reason to believe that men will inevitably break my heart in any non-platonic situation. Shame on him. And shame on all the rest of them that seem both so insistent and so adept at giving men a bad name.

-What makes people think it's okay to move the furniture in a public place? I have a great job. Don't misunderstand me. But some of our patrons drive me batty. Like the guy who drags one of our chairs out of the window nook into the corner EVERY SINGLE DAY. I'm sure he doesn't even think twice about it. But we didn't put chairs in those corners for no reason. We very carefully measure the distance between rows and walls. We put furniture where it doesn't impede the flow of traffic, including for those in wheelchairs. Everyday, when he moves the chair and leaves it in the corner, what he never, never considers is the fact that because of his arrogance in moving furniture (THAT IS NOT HIS)and leaving it (instead of at least returning it to its place), if someone in a wheelchair comes in, they are screwed. But I think about that. And I think about moms with strollers trying to maneuver through that obstacle. I think about it, because I see them have to struggle. I see them have to ask for or accept help because of someone's daily thoughtlessness. So every morning I move that chair back to where it belongs. And I get more and more tired of feeling like some folks are being carried, and some folks are doing the carrying. And that's not a very Christlike attitude, I know.

I have a friend who says that Celestial people always put their shopping carts in the right place. I'm starting to believe her. And they don't do it because it's the rule or the law. They do it because they love other people, even people they don't know, and don't want to do anything that could hurt other people. They think about their actions, and the ramifications of those actions for someone other than themselves. I'm clearly not there yet (it would be a huge blow to my self-confidence if I was perfect and still HERE...), but I want to be, and I'm trying. And to everyone out there who carries my thoughtlessness, thank you. I'll learn.

-I wish I could keep an octopus as a pet, even though it would surely be much more trouble than Gus. They are just so cool. And really, really smart.

-Did you hear about the guy who left the super-secret prototype of the new iPhone in a bar? Bwahahahahahaha! Two words for you, dude: shirley temple. Or: bottled water. Or, just: Don't drink.

-I've given up Glee and Project Runway. I was watching PR a couple of weeks ago, and as one of the designers was discussing another designer, I just realized that these are not nice people. That's not entirely true. The guy that won this year, I actually thought he was pretty classy through most of it. But most of them are really mean to each other. I don't know if it's the producers that provoke the kind of catty meanness that pervades that show, or if the designers are just really that petty, but I realized that as entertaining as the process and the products are, I just can't rationalize watching people be awful to each other. So no more PR for me.

With Glee, my little niece taught me a huge lesson. She watched part of an episode, and she wanted to watch the rest of it. But I realized that as fun and cute as part of it is, there would be things that she would have questions about--things that she shouldn't be thinking about at seven years old. I'm not one of those people who think everything an adult watches should be appropriate for a kid, too. That's just not realistic most of the time. But I started to realize that the attitudes and ideologies that I didn't want little Susanna to absorb are attitudes and ideologies that I'm not okay with absorbing either.

I've been thinking a lot lately about where I cast my eyes. Where do I look? Because where I put my eyes is where my desires will be. My desires will shape my values, and eventually my actions. As entertaining as both PR and Glee are, I don't really want to cast my eyes on Ryan Murphy or the Weinsteins anymore. I don't want them shaping my desires, my values or my actions at all. I'm ready to sacrifice those things to cast my eyes on something better.

I really wish, though, that Project Runway could cut all the meanness and pettiness out. I think it could still be both fascinating and funny, and I love watching them work and seeing what they come up with. Oh well. We all know that's not going to happen.

That's it. I haven't been thinking about anything funny lately. Joel needs to finish law school and go back to blogging. I miss the greatest blog in the universe. Oh, and I just gotta say, it has been the most beautiful week of the year. The teacup magnolias were gorgeous, and the cherry blossoms. Oh, the cherry blossoms! And I love little green buds on trees. Don't you think we could use extended spring? I could totally give up about six weeks of winter for more of this beauty. Now, if I can just get the garden ready to plant in two weeks, all will be well with the world.

Find the Pony, Clarky

2010-04-16T20:53:00.000-07:00

Long ago and far away, I was a missionary who was struggling. It felt really, really rough; though I was trying my best, nothing seemed to work, and I was not happy. My dear sister wrote me a letter, and reminded me of a story my dad likes to tell sometimes. It stuck with me, and inspired a phrase that has become a mantra of sorts. It's been running through my head tonight, so I thought I'd share it here on my blog. There is some mild cursing, but I can't imagine that anyone pays all that much attention to what I think anyway, so I'm not going to be too worried about it. Let's just put it this way: if earthy terms for poop offend you, now would be a good time to click on that next blog tab.

Okay, here's the story.

Once upon a time there were two little boys, Bob and George. They were identical twins, alike in almost every way, but in one way they were very different. Bob and George were recruited for a study on twins, so their mom took them to the university where two rooms with one-way mirrors had been prepared.

First, they put Bob in his room and observed his reactions. Bob's room was a kid's dream. It was huge, and stocked with just about everything a boy could possibly want--movies, video games, a trampoline, a basketball hoop, a bike ramp, a fully stocked kitchenette with soda and snacks and a freezer full of ice cream. It was a wonderland! The researchers watched carefully as Bob entered the room. He looked at the DVDs and video games for a minute, walked over and took a few half-hearted jumps on the trampoline, went to the kitchen and had a couple of spoonfuls of ice cream, then sat down on the couch with a sour look on his face. After about ten minutes, the researchers asked Bob what was wrong.

"I've seen all these movies. The games in here are boring and there's nobody to play with. I'm tired and I don't want to jump or ride bikes. And that ice cream hurts my teeth. Can I go home now?"

So the researchers sent Bob back to his mom and turned their attention to George. George's room was a little different. It was tiny, no bigger than 10x10, and piled nearly to the ceiling with horse shit. They watched George as he entered the room. He furrowed his little brow in confusion, walked around the pile, looking carefully at it, plugging his nose. And then the strangest thing happened. Slowly a huge grin spread across George's face. He began to laugh and dig in the pile, flinging it joyfully across the room. After a few minutes of this strange behavior, the researchers had to find out what George was thinking, so they asked him why he was so happy. Why was he enjoying himself so much in these circumstances?

"Well," George replied, "With this much shit, I figure there has to be a pony in here somewhere."

The moral of the story? When life piles on truckloads of shit, put a smile on your face, laugh alot, and find the pony.

The Teacher

2010-03-27T10:28:00.000-07:00

I was thinking the other day about my short-lived teaching career. This was the most frustrating thing about teaching for me: the kids I could help the most were always the one who wouldn't trust me enough to let me do it. Over and over again I tried to make them see that I could do anything I wanted in the classroom, and that all I wanted to do was to help them learn. If they failed over and over and over again, but kept trying, kept working, kept giving their best effort, none of the failures would matter. As long as they tried and worked and trusted me, I had the power to let them retake tests, improve projects, change grades. I wasn't willing to lie for them, to tell them and everyone else that they had mastered something they weren't really getting yet, but I was willing to hang in there with them until they got it. I was willing to figure out new assignments, new approaches to the task at hand. I was willing to give them more time, more instruction, more opportunities to get it right. I stayed awake at night trying to figure out how to help them because I wanted so badly for them to succeed. Some of them just didn't care, some were convinced they'd never get it. They didn't want to learn, they didn't want to try. And they felt terrible about themselves when they fell short.

I think I'm like my students on a grander scale, and Christ is like the teacher. All he wants is for us to learn, to hang in there with him, giving our best effort, trying everything he asks us to try. I've failed; in fact, I fail quite often, sometimes repeatedly at the same task (i.e. trying to be genuinely kind when I'd rather be left alone, not crumbling into a blubbering, tearful mess every time life doesn't go just as I'd like it to, facing whatever scares me this week, taking care of my body, staying focused in my study of the gospel...the list could go on forever). Every time I repent, there's a part of me that fears that this will be the last straw with Him. That this time, when I get on my knees and ask him to let me try again, it won't work. That He'll reject me. But He never does. Every single time, without exception, the answer I get is "try again. I still love you. I'm with you. Try again."

He paid the price for us to learn. He qualified himself to be our teacher, which means his power is infinite and eternal. He can arrange for makeup tests, for do-overs, for extensions on the due date. He just wants us to trust him enough to try. If we will do that, if we will work, give our best effort while we are here in his "class," he can teach us to be like him. That's what I want.

My pack

2010-03-12T13:24:00.000-08:00

This is Gus.

Gus is going to be my dog. I'm happy about this, and I know it's a good thing. We'll be a cozy little pack of two. I'm also scared.

I have to be the pack leader. The alpha dog. Because dogs can really only be as good as their keeper.

Also, I have to keep him healthy, strong, mentally stable and emotionally secure. I have to make sure his eyeballs stay inside his head. I had a nightmare about his eyeball popping out. This can happen with pugs.

Eeeeek.

He's so cute. He's going to chew on all my stuff.

What have I gotten myself into...

Be still

2010-01-10T16:50:00.000-08:00

I had an interesting experience while I was hiking one afternoon this fall, one that I've been thinking about and trying to figure out since. The central idea of this experience was a phrase that shows up in the scriptures--"Be still and know that I am God." It came clearly and powerfully to me that afternoon, like a gentle command. If you want to know more deeply that I am God, be still, He seemed to say to me. The action is be still.

My first reaction was honest frustration, I think because I did not yet understand what He was asking me to do. Be still seemed to me to be an impossible request--to stop being busy, to somehow find time to slow down and stop being chaotic long enough to feel something spiritual. I think that's a great idea, but I can't quit my job. I'm not eating right because I don't get to the grocery store on a regular basis. I'm lucky if I get 5 or 6 hours of sleep most nights. What do I cut out of my life in order to "be still?" Temple attendance? Visiting teaching? Clearly there was something I didn't understand, so I started searching.

I followed the footnotes in D&C 101:16 where that phrase occurs. It led me to one of the most iconic stories of the Old Testament, and a new understanding of that command to be still. In Exodus 14, Moses has led the children of Israel out of Egypt, but the Lord commands him to encamp in the wilderness by the Red Sea. His plan is to draw the pharoah and his troops out thinking that Moses has made a tactical mistake and led his people into a dead end. It works. The pharoah pursues them, and the Israelites in their spiritual immaturity begin to fear and murmur. In verses 11 and 12, they say to Moses "Because there were no graves in Egypt thou hast taken us away to die in the wilderness? wherefore hast thou dealt thus with us, to carry us forth out of Egypt? Is this not the word that we did tell thee in Egypt, saying, Let us alone, that we may serve the Egyptians? For it had been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the wilderness."

Moses, ever the patient prophet, responds with a command that echoes D&C 101. He says "Fear ye not, stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord...the Lord shall fight for you and ye shall hold your peace." The Egyptians are bearing down on them, they are encircled by wilderness, at the banks of the Red Sea, with no hope for escape. And the command is to be still--hold your ground, banish your fear, and trust your God to fight your battle for you.

I'm much like the children of Israel. I feel like I'm wandering in the wilderness right now--like I've hit a dead end with no avenue for escape. I am afraid. My trials are probably pretty small, but I fight not to be overwhelmed by my fear of them every day. I am guilty of asking the Lord, probably more than once, why on earth he would lead me to this point--why, when I've sought His will and done my best to submit to it, I would end up here. Fear not, He says, stand still and see the salvation of the Lord. Be still, Marilee, and know that I am God.

It's not about the busy-ness and the chaos of adult life. There's always going to be more to do than I can get done. It's about standing my ground; it's about trusting Him enough to seek Him and follow Him, even when I'm scared spitless, pharoah's troops are bearing down on me, and the Red Sea seems to be blocking my way. Fear not. Be still, stand still and know that He can and will deliver me.

When the pharoah was about to overtake them, the Lord commanded Moses to stretch his rod over the sea. He did, and the Lord sent an east wind that divided the sea and the Israelites walked on dry ground between walls of water to escape the Egyptians. When they were safe, the water receded and pharoah's chariots were washed away. The Lord had brought the children of Israel there to save them, not to scare them. He wanted, needed really, the Egyptians to see and know the salvation of the Lord. He wanted those who had repeatedly denied His commands to see the power that is available to those who trust Him and are obedient.

I'm trying to stand my ground. I'm trying to trust Him enough to stand still in the hope that as I do, somehow my own little "Red Sea" will recede and dry land will appear. I can't say the fear is gone, but I can be still, even in the face of that fear, and I know that He is God.

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

2009-10-10T18:16:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-27T15:17:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-09-17T20:12:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-12T20:15:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-09-02T19:02:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-09T09:25:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-08T21:48:00.001-07:00

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

2009-07-31T19:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-19T15:59:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-11T20:46:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-04T12:06:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-28T15:03:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-14T18:15:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-07T16:06:00.001-07:00

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

2009-05-04T17:17:00.000-07:00

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--

Shine on, you prissy diamond

2008-12-04T16:44:00.000-08:00

Okay. I read Twilight, and didn't like it. Gasp! I have big, big issues with "heroines" who are vapid, mindless satellites that exist purely to circle morosely (or giddily, depending on the day) around the sun that is their "love", and I also have bigger, bigger issues with fellow Saints who think just because an author shares membership in their faith they have a get out of jail free card for not thinking critically through a text. (I don't think we're supposed to celebrate lust, even if it is thinly veiled and not-so-graphically described. Let's be honest. Bella's a horndog.) But I read the first one, and attempted to read New Moon as well. I got about a third of the way through before I hurled the awful book across the room at the wall. When nice Jacob Black fell for brainless Bella, I just couldn't take it anymore and I quit.

So, imagine my glee when I found this amazing blog where all four (four!) books and the chapters of Midnight Sun are very snarkily synopsized! I can enjoy mocking Stephenie Meyer's magnum opus without actually reading the rest of them. See--I'm not a good person at all. And kind of a big hypocrite. But I gotta get a good laugh wherever I can find it right now.

Warning for the sensitive--this girl ain't LDS and she doesn't hold back with the profanity. F-words quite abound, and she takes the Lord's name in vain. Forgive me for corrupting you, but don't say I didn't warn you. Besides, "Twilight means never having to say you're kidding." HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Enjoy!

http://cleolinda.livejournal.com/602881.html

The Pipe Queens at the 420 house

2008-09-28T18:52:00.000-07:00

So, last month I made a cake for a silent auction, and as I was icing it in the wee hours of the morning, I was flooded with memories from my former life as a wedding cake baker back at USU. The great thing about any wedding services is that people lose their minds and all control of their money when their kids announce an engagement. I sometimes felt a little guilty at how much we were charging. It was a bit of a racket, I think. But it paid the bills and I'm grateful to have done it.

Anyway, all the fun stuff about being at Utah State had nothing to do with school. Should've taken that as I sign, I guess, that I was pursuing the wrong profession, but live and learn, eh. Some cake stories.

The first wedding cake Jamie and I did was quite literally prayed together. I was still living in Orem, Jamie was in Logan, and she had talked a friend of hers into letting us do her wedding cake for cost. She chose a lovely four-tiered fondant cake with a ribbon around each tier that she saw in Martha Stewart Weddings. Of course, she didn't know that we'd never done a wedding cake before, let alone a fondant cake. I drove to Logan the day before the wedding to knock this cake out. Future bakers of America--if you value your sanity, don't ever plan to bake, cool, ice and decorate a four-tiered wedding cake in 24 hours. Really bad idea. But how would we know? We started baking, but you really can't fill and ice the cakes until they are entirely cool or you end up with a greasy, sticky mess, so it was eleven that night before we started icing and decorating. Fondant is not hard, once you know a few little tricks to get smooth icing underneath it, and keep it from wrinkling and drying out. Fondant is incredibly frustrating if you are uninitiated (plus, it tastes like paste. Go with big swirls of chocolate ganache--not white, but infinitely more delectable) and we were definitely uninitiated. At 11:30 that night we had one butt ugly top tier, and 3 larger, more difficult tiers to go. We were in trouble.

This is why Jamie (and the Big Guy, too, really) is, has been, and always will be on my favorite people list. At 11:30, we locked the front door so no one would interrupt us, got down on our knees, and pleaded with the Lord to guide our hands and help us get a beautiful cake to this girl's wedding in twelve hours. We got up off our knees, and I swear, not even five minutes later Jamie's sister walks through the door. She'd done fondant before, and in less than a half hour she had filled us in on what we need to know about fondant. We busted that baby out, it was gorgeous, and we did not sleep a wink until it was delivered and set up at the reception center at 11 the next day. Jamie tried to force me to take a nap before I got back on I-15 to drive home, but every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was that beautiful cake, leaning like the tower of Pisa. I finally gave up, and groggily drove home.

That's definitely one of the hazards of the wedding cake biz--the possibility of an engineering breakdown that will result in collapse. Never happened to me with a finished cake, but I did send a filled (not yet iced or decorated, thank heavens) cake flying across the kitchen once. It actually was quite beautiful as it flew through the air, like it was in slow motion, and landed in a crumby heap on the linoleum. Too bad we didn't have a dog. Luckily, I had learned to bake and freeze well before the wedding, so time was not an issue. It did seem to be quite a waste though. A fourteen inch tier is a lot of cake.

Another hazard is the bride. They look so lovely and radiant on the wedding day, but don't let it fool you. Even under the calmest demeanor lurks a control freaky crazy woman with sometimes questionable taste. I did a goopy, heavily piped and swagged iced cake once, and the bride and her family promptly draped it with fake blue flowers and plastic grapes, the colors of which I have never seen in nature. That was fun. Or the hours of chocolate swirls drawn freehand with a parchment cone-beautiful, but agonizingly detailed. And here's a little tip for future brides and mothers-of-the-bride--I can't always match merengue flowers to a Pantone color chip, no matter how much you want the deepest possible red. Egg whites have a mind of their own.

My favorite moment, though, was when my friend Dustin walked in one day when we were decorating a cake, and hollered "Hey, it's the pipe queens!" Our address was 420 N, and our house had become known as the 420 house. I really think that folks could have gotten the wrong idea about us if certain people on campus started hearing about the pipe queens at the 420 house. One mood-altering addictive substance at a time, please!

I miss the days of three keys

2008-09-27T12:30:00.001-07:00

I'm the world's worst blogger. I'm sure of it. I never blog. Oh well.

So, part of the reason I never blog is because I rarely have all that much time to actually sit down and eat a meal or sleep a good 7 or 8 hours. When did life get this crazy, and how do you all do it with families and kids to take care of and all the other divine complications? This week, this whole summer, really, I've felt like it just never stops--work, church, family. My life has become an endless round of things I need to get done, responsibilities to take care of, bills to pay, programs to host, phone calls to make, fliers to deliver...and on and on and on. I don't remember how to spell fun (phun?), let alone how to have it. It's been a bit discouraging, and I've been feeling it around the edges of my brain for a long time, but this week two seemingly meaningless moments brought it into focus.

The first was last Friday, sitting at Movies 8 with my darling little niece Mary. Once a month I have a day with one of my nieces. I take whichever girl has her turn that month, and we go to the movies, or go swimming, or to the park or whatever they want to do, eat junk food, and hang out just the two of us. Then we take ice cream cones home for everyone, and I'm sure Gina hates me for hyping them up on sugar and then giving them back, but oh well, that's my job. Anyway, Mary wanted to see Wall-e, but it wasn't playing anywhere, so we had to settle for Kung-Fu Panda. There I am with this delightful creature in my lap, who is dripping rootbeer from a cup almost bigger than her, and oohing, and aahing, and oh-no-ing at all the scary parts, and I love how she loves it, how it is just pure fun and escape for her. And I started wondering when I stopped feeling that. And then I started wondering how I get back to feeling that. I realized that since about January, I've been to the movies maybe four times, twice to see Kung-Fu Panda. I like Jack Black, but not that much. I've been hiking once this summer, and camping not at all. And I fear my life will keep me from going to a single football game this fall. Not great tragedies, I know, but how do you balance living with what makes you feel alive?

The second moment sort of symbolizes why I can't remember how to have fun, I think. I was at the Smith's on Monday night at about 10:30 (I can't decide if grocery stores being open all the time is a blessing or a curse) buying food for RS Enrichment meeting this week. I was feeling entirely overwhelmed staring down an endless and awful schedule of sleeplessness and craziness this week. It felt like standing at the foot of Everest without a sherpa. I handed my keys over to the checker to scan my fresh values card, who chirped as he handed them back "Wow, you've got a ton of keys. I have, like, three." I encouraged him to cherish these days of three keys, that someday he might really miss the weightlessness of it. And I started to wonder if any of those keys on my ring, or the worries attached to them, could somehow be retired.

I don't know what this means. There is a part of me that scolds myself for being selfish, for wanting to feel entirely weightless, hopeful and alive again. There's part of me that says if I were more devoted, more compassionate, less selfish and egocentric, I wouldn't have this problem. I would have joy in spite of all this. There's another part of me that just wants someone to go hiking and camping and footballing with, or someone to go with me to see Tony Lucca and Ray Lamontagne. Everything, even the chaos, is more fun when there's some kindred soul to do it with, and my kindred souls are all sort of far right now in one way or another. And part of me thinks if I could just fall asleep and stay asleep on a consistent basis, everything would look rosier. I don't know, but I'm holding on, praying my guts out that Lori is right--that it will get better.

I wouldn't be surprised if I'm not the only one. We're all feeling a little uncertain and anxious, I think. Most of you just seem to be handling far better than I. But if you do feel discouraged and miss having fun, God bless you. I still believe in the deepest part of my soul that He wants us to be happy, wants me to be happy. And He'll take our hands if we let Him lead.

Scuba with the Scouts

2008-06-29T17:01:00.000-07:00

Joel's on my case about never posting on my blog. But I'm intimidated. His blog is hilarious. He finds the craziest (and also slightly offensive) stuff on the Internet and posts it with commentary on "The Greatest Blog in the Galaxy." If you haven't checked it out, and you are not easily offended by jokes about the WNBA, you really should check it out.

So, on to the real point of this post. For my birthday this year, I recieved SCUBA lessons at Scuba Ted's in Springville. This is one of those things I probably never would have thought of doing on my own, but now that I'm doing it, it makes perfect sense, and I thoroughly enjoy it. However, my scuba lessons are further proof that I have a terrible sense of timing, and God has a heck of a sense of humor.

I originally scheduled my classes for June 3rd, but that afternoon, Ted called to let me know that they didn't have enough folks to hold the class, and it would have to be rescheduled. No problem. The Monday/Wednesday classes wouldn't work with my schedule, so I told them I'd take the next available Tuesday/Thursday slot, which would start two weeks later on the 17th. Apparently there was some confusion about that, though. When I arrived at Scuba Ted's that evening, the instructor who was there asked me if I was in Jared's class. I said I guessed so, all I knew was that I was supposed to start my classes on the 17th, so there I was, ready to go. That's when Ted came in, and Ryan (the instructor) asked him about Jared's class. Ted said, "What class? Jared's not teaching a class tonight."

So, how bad can it be, right? There's another class scheduled, why not just join that one, right? Which was one of the options they gave me. Join Ryan's class, or reschedule again. I didn't want to reschedule again. What I didn't know, is that Ryan's class is a boy scout troop. Yep, you read that right. My scuba class is four 15 year old boys, their two leaders, and me.

I'm actually fairly certain that, like spiders, rodents, snakes and other creepy little critters, the scouts are more afraid of me than I am of them. Not that they're creepy little critters. In fact, they're kind of charming in an awkward, adolescent boy kind of way. They say crazy stuff about underwater torches and divers holding chickens (don't ask), and I swear we have to do everything three times to accommodate for the inevitably short teenage attention spans, but it has been fun. Not fun enough for me to open water dive with them at Blue Lake (where, apparently, you have to haul your scuba gear, tank and all, over the trail to get to the dive site) but fun nevertheless.

It's kind of ironic, really. When I asked the Lord to help me meet some new men, I meant fully-grown ones. Guess I'll be far more specific next time.

Sweet Sounds

2008-05-26T17:52:00.000-07:00

I was drifting off to sleep about 1 o'clock last night when I was surprised by the sound of two birds singing in the tree outside my bedroom window. It started me thinking about sounds that I love. I've actually been thinking a lot lately about the sounds that I love, keeping kind of a mental list of them. I'm not talking about music, or words, really. Just sounds that I would miss if I never heard them again. So, without further ado, here they are...

1. Birds singing. One of my favorite things about camping is waking up in the morning. I wake up to cold sunshine and bird songs. A couple of weeks ago I pulled a bunch of blankets and pillows outside and slept in my backyard. I realized that your body after thirty doesn't quite handle sleeping on the ground as well as your body at say ten, but it was so worth it to hear the birds at dawn.

2. The wind blowing through the aspen trees. Another lovely thing about camping in Utah--the rush of the wind rustling through aspen leaves. Admittedly, the sound is enhanced during daylight hours by the way the light reflects off the leaves. It sort of sparkles. But sinceI've had my windows open upstairs, I've noticed that the sound alone calms me and helps me to sleep. I'm grateful for the trees in my backyard, even if they do create more shade than my tomatoes want.

3. Fingers sliding up and down the neck of a guitar. One of my earliest memories is my Uncle Lanny playing his guitar at grandma's house. I could hardly wait for my hands to be big enough to play myself. I clearly remember my dad taking me to the pawn shop when I was eight and buying me my first guitar. The guy at the shop said he could tell it was for me by the spark in my eyes. That first time I heard the squeak of the string under my own fingers it sent a tingle up my spine. I haven't played much guitar lately, but the other day I was listening to Foy Vance on my iPod, and in the middle of "Indiscriminate Act of Kindness" I heard it, his fingers sliding up the frets, and I got the tingle up my spine again. I went home and grabbed my guitar (which was severely out of tune) and played for the first time in a good while. I felt like an eight year old again. Eight was a good year.

4 Elvis Presley laughing. There's something boyish and silly and charming and sad about him cracking up in the middle of "Are you Lonesome Tonight?" If you've never heard it, go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JoObczRKMQI.

5. Anything out of the mouth of this enchanting little creature. This kid is quite possibly the most talkative, expressive, not-yet-really-verbal person I have ever met. She's got a few words down now, but it's the grunts and sighs and screams that make the most sense from her. And she is so passionate about communicating that I almost dread the day when the words entirely replace the sounds, and she starts thinking too much like the rest of us. Auntie Mar loves you, Me-me.

6. My Dad's heartbeat. When I was little, I would crawl up on my Poppy's chest when he was napping and lay my head just above his heart. I could hear it beat slow and steady, and I'd try to synchronize my breathing with his. Every once in a while, when I catch him at home watching the news and resting, I'll cuddle up next to him and put my head on his chest, and think how blessed I am that it is still beating, slow and steady.

7. Water. Anything from rain drops to the rush of a river in spring to the rhythm of little waves lapping the shore of Lake Huron. You must hear the lake.

I'm starting a mental list of smells now, too. Like rain on cement, popcorn popping, orange blossoms, bread rising, sun-warmed skin, bedsheets dried out on a line, lilacs...

The world is exquisite.

What not to say when you're playing cupid

2008-05-23T09:13:00.000-07:00

So, after years of reading friend's blogs, almost all of whom are young mommies raising adorable little ones, I've decided to jump in and join the ranks of voluntarily exposed folks and publish my musings for the world to see. Does anyone else find this odd? Maybe it's a basic human need aided by modern technology--that desire to be known. I am at odds with that desire. Being known by those who are loving and kind is comforting. Being known by those who are apathetic or cruel just makes you vulnerable. Luckily, I've been blessed to come across more of the former than the latter, so I don't mind a few of the apathetic or cruel kinds.

Being known by people who love you is a wonderful thing, but like all human relationships, it's plagued by absurdity. Particularly absurd is the process of finding a mate, and it can be highly entertaining when people try to help. I'm single, LDS, and over thirty, and I do want to fall in love, get hitched, and have babies. My family and friends know this about me. And they want to help. Recently, I've had a flurry of offers to set me up with various single men my family and friends know. It's sweet and kind, and also most often unsuccessful. Which, don't get me wrong, is okay. My attitude towards set ups right now is basically two-fold. First, you never know. Just because all the set ups so far have been a little off, you never know when someone's gonna hit the jackpot and find you a gem of a man. It's sort of like playing the slots. No reason not to drop a quarter in as long as you're passing through the casino. Second, I'm so dang bored sometimes, so even an unsuccessful set up is appreciated as a distraction from my routine, and it provides fodder for blog posts.

However, I've discovered that there are good ways and bad ways of going about setting people up. Actually, there's only one good way, and it goes something like this. You think about the two people you want to set up, fully realizing that they are imperfect humans. You consider whether it's possible that they might enjoy each other's company anyway. If you come to the conclusion that they might enjoy spending time together, approach one of them, and have a very simple conversation. I would suggest something like this-

YOU: I know this great guy that I think you might like. Can I give him your (phone number/email address/whatever)?

At this point, it's wise to stop talking. Perhaps I'll want to know a little more about him, in which case I'll ask you. Or maybe I won't want to know more, and I'll say yes or no and that's it. Either way, now is a good time to let the person you are trying to set up take the lead.

Most folks who have tried to set me up, though, don't stop talking at this point. I understand why. They care about you, and they don't want you to be upset with them if you do end up going out and are disappointed. So they hedge their bets. This seems, in the heat of the set up approach, to be a wise idea. Lower expectations, less disappointment if you haven't hit it out of the park, right? WRONG! Trust me, anyone who's been single as long as I have already has low expectations. Don't need any help with that. In fact, your little insurance policy has a unintended effect on the person you are trying to help, one I'm sure you don't realize or you wouldn't ever do it.

Let me explain. That hedging of your bets usually plays out like this. Instead of a simple conversation, you might find yourself saying something like...

I know this guy I want you to go out with. He's an orthodontist. But he's kind of nerdy. Do you mind nerdy?

or

He has red hair, but he keeps it short. (Why would I have a problem with red hair?)

or

I haven't actually met him, but I work with his brother, and he has this single brother, and you're single, so it might work.

or, my own personal favorite

I'm pretty sure he's taller than you. (I like tall men, it's true. But that doesn't mean I don't like men who aren't tall. They just don't usually like me.)

Here's where it gets messy. While you're giving me every reason why I might not end up being charmed by this man, I can't help but think about what you are saying about me to the guy. I can hear you having the other edge of this conversational sword, and to me it sounds something like this..

She's smart, she owns her own house, and she's funny. But she's built sort of like a linebacker. You don't mind athletic types, do you?

or

She's cute, but she's talks a lot and she's way too opinionated.

or

She's got curly hair. Not like Medusa or anything, but it can get a little crazy.

or, my favorite again

I'm pretty sure she weighs less than you.

This is what inevitably runs through my head. And, I know on at least one set up, it must have sort of gone that way. One dear family member gave my email address to someone not too long ago, and I got a message shortly after. The gentleman introduced himself, and asked me to do the same in reply, since he had not been told much about me. In fact, the only thing he remembered was that I am 5'11" and tend to intimidate smaller men! Yep, that's how every girl wants to be introduced to potential dates. Honestly, Marden, you've known me for ten years, and that's the best you can do? Dude, you're supposed to be on my team!

Okay, it's time to hedge my bets. If you know me, and recognize yourself in one of the preceding scenarios, please understand that I love you for liking me enough to want to introduce me to other unlucky in love singles, and I am far more charmed than annoyed by your compassionate desire to hook me up. So keep 'em coming. I'll take any contenders. Even if they're nerdy. Or have red hair.