Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient.
Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. PLEASE help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please HELP me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient.
Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help ME to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be PATIENT. Please help me to be patient. Please help me to be patient. Please help me . . . .
I think you get the idea. Some days it is the best I can do. Contest winner tomorrow. Or the next day.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Apocalypse. And Appetizers (Though Not Necessarily In That Order)
The contest will keep running until the end of March. It will take me a day or so to get around to compiling everyone's multiple entries and to announce a winner. Check back at the end of the week to find out which one of you is the lucky lurker--or looker, since you are not all lurkers. Oh, wait, I don't believe in luck, so I'm not sure what compelling force in the universe will determine a winner, but whatever. Thanks for helping me to realize my 30-comment goal. I promise to write mundane posts for the next several weeks, with no tantalizing offers of free stuff so that you don't feel so obligated to respond.
I think my recurring dream referenced in the last post was accurately characterized by several of you. At its heart, my unfinished school-credits dream is more about worry than anything. Anxiety is, unfortunately, a fairly defining characteristic of my personality. My other frequent dream is also set in school. This time, however, I am the teacher and am always terribly unprepared. I also have the dream where I am cast in a play and don't know any of my lines, or even what the show is about. Themes of worry and preparation (or lack thereof) seem to be deep in my subconscious. I often find myself looking for my clothes in my dreams too--I think this one is more about fear of exposure; that I'm afraid my private self and my public self aren't consistent and I'll be found out.
Going with themes of preparation and worry, however, in the last few weeks I've had two VERY vivid dreams that have given me some serious reflection.
A quick aside here: I remember a lot of my dreams because my sleeping habits are so strange--a natural consequence of the newspaper job. Because my stretches of sleep range anywhere from 2-5 hours, I often wake up during R.E.M. sleep and therefore have more vivid memories of what I was dreaming.
Okay, back to my dreams that don't involve school, teaching or embarrassing exposure. In the first, I went to our local grocery store. It is called Winco and I love it more than any grocery store I've ever shopped at. The selection is great, the bulk section is enough to make serious-minded food storage types salivate, and the prices are extremely low. I even like bagging my own groceries--I get them all organized before I even get them home. Winco is a lot like an older HEB for all y'all in Texas, and like Macey's for the Utahns in our midst. Anyway, in my dream, I pulled into Winco's parking lot, only to find a line out the door.
I didn't question the line, but just got in it and waited my turn to get into the store. When I walked in, I gasped in horror. The store was nearly empty, particularly of produce. It is a bit how I imagine Russian grocery stores in 1970's, years of Communism having taken their toll on availability. There were armed guards checking ration cards before you were allowed to shop. I didn't dream long enough to find out what would have happened when they saw that I didn't actually have a card.
My second Armageddon-style dream took place at church. Wait, I didn't fall asleep during church, I dreamed that I was AT church. But it wasn't my local ward, it was Leura chapel in the Blue Mountains of Australia. I know it was the chapel because it is the most unique LDS building I've ever been inside. It was also the ward with the most nutters, which probably explains why this particular dream occurred there.
I had left my two little ones home, asleep, while I ran Plantboy and Jedi Knight to the church. I walked in with them for "just a minute." (In my dreams I'm the most rotten mother, often losing at least one of the three along the way.) I was surprised to see a large family of people there who hadn't attended for some time. The patriarch of this clan was sitting on the stand; he was obviously speaking that day. As I looked around, I noticed an uncanny resemblance among many of those in the congregation, and for some reason felt serious unease about so many of this particular family being in attendance.
The man stood to speak: he began talking about the evils of the U.N. and the US government. Then he began waxing poetic about the weapons stockpiled in his basement. Feeling intensely uncomfortable, I told Plantboy that I was taking Jedi and going home to the kids. Plantboy looked around and said he thought it was important that the priesthood brothers stayed, but that he thought I should definitely leave. Just as Jedi and I were leaving the chapel, the Bishop turned off Brother Crazy's microphone. Then he began shouting.
As I got out to the hallway, I realized that MORE members of Clan Crazy were in the hallway and, duh, they were all armed! In fact, they looked pretty militant--a cross between jihad fighters and white supremacists. Jedi and I were taken hostage (terrifying) and then on a wild goose chase through the catacombs of the church. Even the Leura building didn't have catacombs, but who can explain everything in a dream?
The rest of my dream we were in captivity; Jedi was afraid, but trying to act brave. The whole time I was torn between anxiety for Plantboy, fear for my babies home alone, and dread for the unknown. Terror indeed.
And then I woke up.
Those five words have seldom sounded as good to me as when I woke up from this latest dream just three days ago. Now, lest you decide to wax Freudian in the comments and explain that my subconscious is trying to tell me that our country is on the verge of imploding because Obama-is-actually-a-terrorist, save your breath. I have my own ides about what such dreaming means, and it might just be that I'm reading way too much news. (Brother Crazy and his multitude of offspring all looked like that horrible old man in Austria who was convicted of incest after keeping his daughter locked in the basement for most of her life.) My dreams probably mean that food storage has occupied my thoughts often as of late. Or maybe my imagination is too vivid for my own good.
Still, the sun looks like it will actually come out today, church was fantastic yesterday, and I bought all the groceries I wanted at the store Saturday morning, so it is hard to take myself or my stupid subconscious too seriously.
To end on a happier note, I'll give you two delicious recipes from the weekend--one experimental, the other perfected.
Southwest Eggrolls
This is my experiment. It came about because Plantboy and I got a babysitter for a couple of hours on Saturday so that he and I could go cruise the mall. This was a fun change; I've only been to the mall two or three times since we've lived here. It was raining when we got out of the mall, and as I actually combed my hair on Saturday, I told Plantboy he had to go get the car. Sweet man. While I was standing there, I smelled the yummiest and greasiest aroma coming from Chili's. I immediately thought of their spicy, fried southwest eggrolls. Then it was impossible for me to think of anything else. I made them for a pre-dinner snack as soon as we got home. The result was quite delicious. My recipe has no amounts. I was experimenting so my quantity was small--a half a dozen egg rolls--but you could make as few or as many as you wanted.
* black beans
* frozen white corn
* fresh jalepeno
* diced red pepper
* green onion
* shredded cheddar (optional; this might have made them slightly greasier and I'd probably use a combo of cheddar and Monterrey jack next time)
* lime juice
* cilantro
* egg roll wrappers (you can buy these near the herbs or pre-bagged salad at most grocery stores)
I tossed all of the ingredients together and then rolled them in egg roll wrappers. I dropped them in hot oil and they cooked really fast: about 45 seconds on each side. The faster you cook them, the less oil they will absorb. Drain them on paper towels, but eat them while they are still hot. Either dip them in pico de gallo or to make them milder, dip them in this stuff after you have stirred the ingredients really well. If it is took thick, add a little bit of milk:
* blue cheese dressing (or ranch if you are boring)
* lime juice
* a lot of cilantro
This treat was so good that I wish I'd doubled the batch and skipped dinner. Pretty fattening though. If you wanted to make them a meal, and more healthy, add some diced cooked chicken to your filling, put them in uncooked tortillas (Costco has these), brush them with olive oil and bake them until crispy. Voila! Southwest Chicken Chimichangas.
The second recipe is a favorite I make very occassionally--calories, calories--but I think I've finally perfected it. Skin and roughly chop four large baking potatoes (or any white potato) and then boil for about ten minutes. Add two medium-sized skinned, chopped yams to the water and cook them all until they are mashable. Separate the orange potatoes and the white into separate bowls.
To the white potatoes, add half a block of cream cheese, a quarter cup of milk, chopped chives (to taste), a Tbsp of butter and 1/2 cup of Parmesan (I used the shaky kind). Mash. To the yams, add 1/4 cup brown sugar and 2 Tbsp butter. Mash them, but leave them chunky. (Mashed sweet potatoes too often resemble baby food!) In an 8 x 8 pan layer white potatoes first, then yams, and finish with white potatoes. Sprinkle with cheddar. Bake until the cheese melts.
Ow, wow, are they good. But yes, calories calories.
Strictly speaking, a potato bake is NOT an appetizer, but still very, very yummy and I find that my recipe posts are not super interesting on their own so the potatoes got thrown into this post. (Yes, yes, what a mess!) If Slick is right and my dreams have something to do with what I'm eating, then it will be interesting to see what several days of eating leftovers turned into eggrolls does to me.
I think my recurring dream referenced in the last post was accurately characterized by several of you. At its heart, my unfinished school-credits dream is more about worry than anything. Anxiety is, unfortunately, a fairly defining characteristic of my personality. My other frequent dream is also set in school. This time, however, I am the teacher and am always terribly unprepared. I also have the dream where I am cast in a play and don't know any of my lines, or even what the show is about. Themes of worry and preparation (or lack thereof) seem to be deep in my subconscious. I often find myself looking for my clothes in my dreams too--I think this one is more about fear of exposure; that I'm afraid my private self and my public self aren't consistent and I'll be found out.
Going with themes of preparation and worry, however, in the last few weeks I've had two VERY vivid dreams that have given me some serious reflection.
A quick aside here: I remember a lot of my dreams because my sleeping habits are so strange--a natural consequence of the newspaper job. Because my stretches of sleep range anywhere from 2-5 hours, I often wake up during R.E.M. sleep and therefore have more vivid memories of what I was dreaming.
Okay, back to my dreams that don't involve school, teaching or embarrassing exposure. In the first, I went to our local grocery store. It is called Winco and I love it more than any grocery store I've ever shopped at. The selection is great, the bulk section is enough to make serious-minded food storage types salivate, and the prices are extremely low. I even like bagging my own groceries--I get them all organized before I even get them home. Winco is a lot like an older HEB for all y'all in Texas, and like Macey's for the Utahns in our midst. Anyway, in my dream, I pulled into Winco's parking lot, only to find a line out the door.
I didn't question the line, but just got in it and waited my turn to get into the store. When I walked in, I gasped in horror. The store was nearly empty, particularly of produce. It is a bit how I imagine Russian grocery stores in 1970's, years of Communism having taken their toll on availability. There were armed guards checking ration cards before you were allowed to shop. I didn't dream long enough to find out what would have happened when they saw that I didn't actually have a card.
My second Armageddon-style dream took place at church. Wait, I didn't fall asleep during church, I dreamed that I was AT church. But it wasn't my local ward, it was Leura chapel in the Blue Mountains of Australia. I know it was the chapel because it is the most unique LDS building I've ever been inside. It was also the ward with the most nutters, which probably explains why this particular dream occurred there.
I had left my two little ones home, asleep, while I ran Plantboy and Jedi Knight to the church. I walked in with them for "just a minute." (In my dreams I'm the most rotten mother, often losing at least one of the three along the way.) I was surprised to see a large family of people there who hadn't attended for some time. The patriarch of this clan was sitting on the stand; he was obviously speaking that day. As I looked around, I noticed an uncanny resemblance among many of those in the congregation, and for some reason felt serious unease about so many of this particular family being in attendance.
The man stood to speak: he began talking about the evils of the U.N. and the US government. Then he began waxing poetic about the weapons stockpiled in his basement. Feeling intensely uncomfortable, I told Plantboy that I was taking Jedi and going home to the kids. Plantboy looked around and said he thought it was important that the priesthood brothers stayed, but that he thought I should definitely leave. Just as Jedi and I were leaving the chapel, the Bishop turned off Brother Crazy's microphone. Then he began shouting.
As I got out to the hallway, I realized that MORE members of Clan Crazy were in the hallway and, duh, they were all armed! In fact, they looked pretty militant--a cross between jihad fighters and white supremacists. Jedi and I were taken hostage (terrifying) and then on a wild goose chase through the catacombs of the church. Even the Leura building didn't have catacombs, but who can explain everything in a dream?
The rest of my dream we were in captivity; Jedi was afraid, but trying to act brave. The whole time I was torn between anxiety for Plantboy, fear for my babies home alone, and dread for the unknown. Terror indeed.
And then I woke up.
Those five words have seldom sounded as good to me as when I woke up from this latest dream just three days ago. Now, lest you decide to wax Freudian in the comments and explain that my subconscious is trying to tell me that our country is on the verge of imploding because Obama-is-actually-a-terrorist, save your breath. I have my own ides about what such dreaming means, and it might just be that I'm reading way too much news. (Brother Crazy and his multitude of offspring all looked like that horrible old man in Austria who was convicted of incest after keeping his daughter locked in the basement for most of her life.) My dreams probably mean that food storage has occupied my thoughts often as of late. Or maybe my imagination is too vivid for my own good.
Still, the sun looks like it will actually come out today, church was fantastic yesterday, and I bought all the groceries I wanted at the store Saturday morning, so it is hard to take myself or my stupid subconscious too seriously.
To end on a happier note, I'll give you two delicious recipes from the weekend--one experimental, the other perfected.
Southwest Eggrolls
This is my experiment. It came about because Plantboy and I got a babysitter for a couple of hours on Saturday so that he and I could go cruise the mall. This was a fun change; I've only been to the mall two or three times since we've lived here. It was raining when we got out of the mall, and as I actually combed my hair on Saturday, I told Plantboy he had to go get the car. Sweet man. While I was standing there, I smelled the yummiest and greasiest aroma coming from Chili's. I immediately thought of their spicy, fried southwest eggrolls. Then it was impossible for me to think of anything else. I made them for a pre-dinner snack as soon as we got home. The result was quite delicious. My recipe has no amounts. I was experimenting so my quantity was small--a half a dozen egg rolls--but you could make as few or as many as you wanted.
* black beans
* frozen white corn
* fresh jalepeno
* diced red pepper
* green onion
* shredded cheddar (optional; this might have made them slightly greasier and I'd probably use a combo of cheddar and Monterrey jack next time)
* lime juice
* cilantro
* egg roll wrappers (you can buy these near the herbs or pre-bagged salad at most grocery stores)
I tossed all of the ingredients together and then rolled them in egg roll wrappers. I dropped them in hot oil and they cooked really fast: about 45 seconds on each side. The faster you cook them, the less oil they will absorb. Drain them on paper towels, but eat them while they are still hot. Either dip them in pico de gallo or to make them milder, dip them in this stuff after you have stirred the ingredients really well. If it is took thick, add a little bit of milk:
* blue cheese dressing (or ranch if you are boring)
* lime juice
* a lot of cilantro
This treat was so good that I wish I'd doubled the batch and skipped dinner. Pretty fattening though. If you wanted to make them a meal, and more healthy, add some diced cooked chicken to your filling, put them in uncooked tortillas (Costco has these), brush them with olive oil and bake them until crispy. Voila! Southwest Chicken Chimichangas.
The second recipe is a favorite I make very occassionally--calories, calories--but I think I've finally perfected it. Skin and roughly chop four large baking potatoes (or any white potato) and then boil for about ten minutes. Add two medium-sized skinned, chopped yams to the water and cook them all until they are mashable. Separate the orange potatoes and the white into separate bowls.
To the white potatoes, add half a block of cream cheese, a quarter cup of milk, chopped chives (to taste), a Tbsp of butter and 1/2 cup of Parmesan (I used the shaky kind). Mash. To the yams, add 1/4 cup brown sugar and 2 Tbsp butter. Mash them, but leave them chunky. (Mashed sweet potatoes too often resemble baby food!) In an 8 x 8 pan layer white potatoes first, then yams, and finish with white potatoes. Sprinkle with cheddar. Bake until the cheese melts.
Ow, wow, are they good. But yes, calories calories.
Strictly speaking, a potato bake is NOT an appetizer, but still very, very yummy and I find that my recipe posts are not super interesting on their own so the potatoes got thrown into this post. (Yes, yes, what a mess!) If Slick is right and my dreams have something to do with what I'm eating, then it will be interesting to see what several days of eating leftovers turned into eggrolls does to me.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
(Almost) Totally Random Thoughts. And a Contest.
Did you know there is a new book coming out called Pride and Prejudice and Zombies? Really. I'm having a hard time comprehending on just how many levels this is totally wrong. The author is giving full credit for having co-written this book with Jane Austen. Apparently most of the original language is preserved. The additions will be obvious as they will involve blood and mayhem and well, the undead. It really might be true that all of the great books have been written. Any other aspiring author is just wasting her time.
I had my recurring dream last night. It hasn't happened for some time because I haven't been school teaching. Only this time, it started off in an entire different direction. I was the mother of five: a fact I only realized some time in to the dream. The only two kids that I recognized were the youngest two who were the same as my oldest two. I didn't recognize my husband either, though it is probably safe to say that he was off stage the entire time. The oldest of these children was a horrible boy who shared an uncanny resemblance to Ozzy and Sharon Osbourne's gene pool. He shouted at me about how I'd never been there for him. I felt terrible, but wanted to explain that I'd only recently become aware of his existence. Instead I shouted right back at him, using some pretty choice language. (Actually, lately, I've been often dreaming that I am shouting at my children.) The argument occurred right before a major ward activity and I was busy stringing fairy lights along wires on the ceiling and couldn't deal with the demon-child. Then I found out he was sluffing school. Eventually, after the party, I made it to the school (which was my old high school, but not), only to be told that I was actually still enrolled there, had missed most of my classes in the last year and was in danger of not graduating, particularly because my calculus grades were so low. I was also expected to remember my old combination lock so that I could find my books. Then Padawan told me he was hungry. Oh, wait, that last sentence really happened.
The recurring part is only the last bit--about the schooling thing. It is very common for me to have dreams about incomplete credits (always calculus), poor grades and general panic until I wake up. At least this time I wasn't naked.
I believe I made a perfect cup of hot chocolate this morning. I start with a little bit of hot water and add sugar and cocoa--light on the sugar, heavy on the cocoa. I like it slightly bitter. I add skim milk for the last 2/3 of the liquid and get it nice and hot. Today I had a bit of heavy cream left over in the fridge and added a tablespoon or two of that. If not for that horrible dream I'd have wanted to get right back into bed.
To make breakfast for the kiddos today I had to get fresh dishes out of the dishwasher. My dishwasher is not the brightest appliance in the house and cannot seem to understand that it is supposed to wash AND dry the dishes. It does one or the other. Sometimes the soap doesn't come out, but the dishes come out dry with every bit of food within a three foot radius stuck to them in gritty particles. Today was a no-dry morning. I am completely okay with putting them away wet. Plantboy dries them all. Of course, he is highly efficient. He can dry and put them away faster than I can just put them away.
And my last random thought concerns the Easter Bunny. I just can't do it. Santa yes. He is nice and cozy and the stories about him are fun and he is just so human. But I cannot bring myself to create the magic of a huge freaky bunny for my kids. I just feel too foolish. I realize that to refrain while many other children do get this sick and wrong visitor may undermine my kids' Santa-belief but I think I am okay with that. I figure this was my last year with Jedi Knight and the whole Santa thing anyway. He is just too inquisitive. Santa is lost in the details.
Now, all of these random thoughts are going to be held together by a contest.
Why a contest? What is significant about March 24?
Not a thing. It is just that I'm absolutely curious to know who is out there. I found out this week that a few more people are reading this blog. People I know, and some that I don't know. A couple of these people have been reading for some time. I just want to know who is out there. I've noticed that people running contests will often triple their comments during a contest because everybody loves free stuff.
Here are the rules for entering and potentially winning the AWESOME prize: You must comment and answer at least one of the questions listed on the bottom of this post. If you answer more than one question you get more than one entry. I'll even give you an extra entry if it is the first time you've commented here. The second rule is that if you enter then you must send an address where your AWESOME prize can be mailed.
1. What is the weirdest book title you have every seen/read? Or, if you could warp a classic, what title would you mangle? (Like Moby Dick Cheney: A Memoir)
2. What do you think my recurring dream means? Or which dream of your own can you not shake?
3. How do you make the perfect cup of hot chocolate?
4. Do you put the dishes away wet or dry?
5. To Easter Bunny or not to Easter Bunny, that is the question. (No, really, that IS the last question. There is just no question mark?)
I must admit to having mixed motives here. I would love to get a 30-comment post, even if your reasons for commenting and entirely mercenary. Hey, tell yourself, "If its free, its for me."
I had my recurring dream last night. It hasn't happened for some time because I haven't been school teaching. Only this time, it started off in an entire different direction. I was the mother of five: a fact I only realized some time in to the dream. The only two kids that I recognized were the youngest two who were the same as my oldest two. I didn't recognize my husband either, though it is probably safe to say that he was off stage the entire time. The oldest of these children was a horrible boy who shared an uncanny resemblance to Ozzy and Sharon Osbourne's gene pool. He shouted at me about how I'd never been there for him. I felt terrible, but wanted to explain that I'd only recently become aware of his existence. Instead I shouted right back at him, using some pretty choice language. (Actually, lately, I've been often dreaming that I am shouting at my children.) The argument occurred right before a major ward activity and I was busy stringing fairy lights along wires on the ceiling and couldn't deal with the demon-child. Then I found out he was sluffing school. Eventually, after the party, I made it to the school (which was my old high school, but not), only to be told that I was actually still enrolled there, had missed most of my classes in the last year and was in danger of not graduating, particularly because my calculus grades were so low. I was also expected to remember my old combination lock so that I could find my books. Then Padawan told me he was hungry. Oh, wait, that last sentence really happened.
The recurring part is only the last bit--about the schooling thing. It is very common for me to have dreams about incomplete credits (always calculus), poor grades and general panic until I wake up. At least this time I wasn't naked.
I believe I made a perfect cup of hot chocolate this morning. I start with a little bit of hot water and add sugar and cocoa--light on the sugar, heavy on the cocoa. I like it slightly bitter. I add skim milk for the last 2/3 of the liquid and get it nice and hot. Today I had a bit of heavy cream left over in the fridge and added a tablespoon or two of that. If not for that horrible dream I'd have wanted to get right back into bed.
To make breakfast for the kiddos today I had to get fresh dishes out of the dishwasher. My dishwasher is not the brightest appliance in the house and cannot seem to understand that it is supposed to wash AND dry the dishes. It does one or the other. Sometimes the soap doesn't come out, but the dishes come out dry with every bit of food within a three foot radius stuck to them in gritty particles. Today was a no-dry morning. I am completely okay with putting them away wet. Plantboy dries them all. Of course, he is highly efficient. He can dry and put them away faster than I can just put them away.
And my last random thought concerns the Easter Bunny. I just can't do it. Santa yes. He is nice and cozy and the stories about him are fun and he is just so human. But I cannot bring myself to create the magic of a huge freaky bunny for my kids. I just feel too foolish. I realize that to refrain while many other children do get this sick and wrong visitor may undermine my kids' Santa-belief but I think I am okay with that. I figure this was my last year with Jedi Knight and the whole Santa thing anyway. He is just too inquisitive. Santa is lost in the details.
Now, all of these random thoughts are going to be held together by a contest.
Why a contest? What is significant about March 24?
Not a thing. It is just that I'm absolutely curious to know who is out there. I found out this week that a few more people are reading this blog. People I know, and some that I don't know. A couple of these people have been reading for some time. I just want to know who is out there. I've noticed that people running contests will often triple their comments during a contest because everybody loves free stuff.
Here are the rules for entering and potentially winning the AWESOME prize: You must comment and answer at least one of the questions listed on the bottom of this post. If you answer more than one question you get more than one entry. I'll even give you an extra entry if it is the first time you've commented here. The second rule is that if you enter then you must send an address where your AWESOME prize can be mailed.
1. What is the weirdest book title you have every seen/read? Or, if you could warp a classic, what title would you mangle? (Like Moby Dick Cheney: A Memoir)
2. What do you think my recurring dream means? Or which dream of your own can you not shake?
3. How do you make the perfect cup of hot chocolate?
4. Do you put the dishes away wet or dry?
5. To Easter Bunny or not to Easter Bunny, that is the question. (No, really, that IS the last question. There is just no question mark?)
I must admit to having mixed motives here. I would love to get a 30-comment post, even if your reasons for commenting and entirely mercenary. Hey, tell yourself, "If its free, its for me."
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Change Is Good. No. Really. It Is.
Thursday culminated several weeks' planning and many hours of effort to pull off our ward's Eight Cow Woman Birthday Luau. A sister in our ward, whose sister-in-law is the Enrichment Leader in a neighboring stake, gave me the idea after being told what a success it was. At first it seemed a little bit cheesy and gimmicky, but as I thought about the idea of doing something Hawaiian themed, that seemed very fun. In recent weeks, I have heard of many people doing the same thing and ideas for this are all over the Internet.
We had a dinner--Hawaiian Haystacks, of course. Then Tamathy shared the story of Johnny Lingo, which I had written out. I had written it out because I had planned on telling it myself and wanted to get it just right. Then, not wanting to make Enrichment into the STM-show, I asked Tamathy to do it, as she is an excellent writer and orator. She was wonderful, of course, and the sisters were mesmerized by her reading, but I wish I had just given her a brief outline of the story so she could have made it her own. After the reading, we separated for classes that were basically self-reliance things. We made the connection of self-worth and developing talents and self-confidence and self-reliance so that the theme matched the classes.
A month or two ago, when the planning for all the hoopla began, Nem posted about how ridiculous the "fluff" get sometimes with planning for church. She gave a couple of really over-the-top examples in that snarky voice that nobody does as well as Miss Nemesis. The comments generated by the post numbered into the forties or even fifties. People had a lot to say--some in complete agreement, others in defense of at least a degree of fluff. A few people were down right angry about things they'd been asked to do at church. An older and wiser voice of reason commented that everyone might consider stopping their whining and just getting to work. I've been thinking about it ever since, especially since my Enrichment calling sometimes seems all about fluff.
Here are the conclusions I have come to over the last few years:
* The purpose of any activity/program/lesson/meeting/whatever we do in the Church is designed to bring people closer to Christ, or at the very least be uplifting. If the thing we plan isn't doing this, then we must re-think our approach.
* Any activity involving women (of any age) will nearly always be social, unless you are in a ward or branch with serious unity problems. However, not every activity will be spiritual and/or uplifting. If you plan an activity to be merely social, that is probably all it will ever be. If an activity is planned to be uplifting then it can still be social. You rarely get spiritual by accident.
* Enjoying hanging out with your friends is not the same thing as a spiritual experience. It doesn't mean it is a bad or invaluable experience, but it is not the same. (Hanging out is the key word here. Some of my most spiritual experiences have come from one-on-one talking with friends about things that really matter.)
* It doesn't matter how fulfilling your activity is if the sisters' butts aren't in the seats. Sometimes the "fluff" gets them there.
* Some women show their love by doing all of those extras. Our current Enrichment Counselor is a perfect example--teaching, presenting and remembering names make her nervous and tongue-tied, but nobody puts in more hours to make a room look truly beautiful and welcoming to anyone who enters. She is also one of the most Christlike women I know. Being a fluffer doesn't automatically mean that you are shallow or missing the point (this person is a fluffer-nutter) any more than being a non-fluffer means that you get it.
* Tithing funds are sacred, and though your calling shouldn't cost you any money, if you are a person who likes to do a lot of that over-the-top thing then you should pay for it yourself.
* An RS activity should always involve at least some chance to serve.
* Women often talk about needing a "break." The fluff does a good job of helping sisters to feel loved, needed and wanted.
* As women, we might need fewer breaks than we think we do. (Remember how much many of you have expressed a hatred for the word "entitlement.")
Our classes and theme were very uplifting, but the sisters came away feeling treated too. They had each been invited personally, by phone call and invitation (which were fairly labor intensive this time; one of the sisters on my committee said that she wasn't so sure she needed all of the "raffia blessings" she was earning.) They'd had a nice dinner, of which they had to do very little work. They shared their talents, some of which were remarkable and surprising. They each had a candy lei for their necks. They had an opportunity to contribute toiletry items to a local homeless shelter. They had a folder with a cutesy cow sticker (ala picture at the top) on the front and a pencil reading "8 Cow Woman." For the few that brought children, there was a nursery. Their tables were decorated with pineapples and fruit skewers and leis and tiny flip-flops.
It was a ton of work, but at 9:30 that night I was able to honestly say through my exhaustion and the cold I felt coming on, "It was absolutely worth every minute." Because many of the sisters, as they left, took a minute to say, "What a lovely evening," or "I learned so much," or "The classes were wonderful," or "Everything was perfect."
Everything. I take that to mean the spiritual and the social. The formal and the fluff.
I think with RS especially, sisters need incentive to get out the door in the evenings. An activity claiming to be for all the sisters should have something for everyone because everyone's needs are different--a chance to serve, a chance to socialize and a chance to learn something.
These are going to be valuable lessons for me as I head into the next phase of my life. Last Sunday I was asked to have a new calling. I was initially told that it was to be the Beehive Advisor. I was over the moon. I loved this calling when I had it years ago. (All my girls have now gone off to college.) I thought, "No more party planning! A chance to teach and do the thing I'm the best at!" When I spoke to the president Thursday night, however, she corrected me. I am to be the new second counselor, not the advisor.
Time-wise there is not much of a difference in the two callings. Being in the Young Women's organization is always a huge time commitment, regardless of your calling. However, the difference between being a counselor and being an advisor is that I will rarely be teaching and instead will be planning activities nearly every Wednesday night. Like mini-Enrichment. Every. Stinking. Week.
*Sigh*
I know that every calling in the church is an opportunity to teach, but I was so looking forward to the security blanket of the lesson manual. My creative juices feel really dry right now. And these girls will need a lot of love--two of them in particular. I hope the lessons I have learned during my last 3 ++ years with Enrichment will translate into my new calling.
On a lighter note, my Hawaiian-themed activity this week got me thinking about something new to try food-wise. There is a restaurant in town called "Ron's Island Grill." As far as I know, it is only here but there are three different locations in the city. Plantboy discovered this place about a week after we moved and it has been a favorite ever since.
Their specialty is teriyaki chicken over rice and this forms the basis for most of their plates. Plantboy loves their red curry version of this with vegetables. It is really delicious. Last night we got to talking about it and decided that we could at least make an approximation. The result was fantastic, loved by the whole family, and is a recipe that will certainly make the regular rotation.
At first glance it sounds like a lot of work, but total kitchen time was probably only thirty minutes, even if some of the stuff has to cook longer than that. It is a meal that you assemble in layers, so everybody gets exactly what they want. Even better.
I started with 4 chicken breasts in the crockpot (we wanted leftovers) and a half a jar or Kikkoman's new teriyaki sauce. It is much thicker than their original, more the texture of barbecue sauce. There are three varieties of it and any one will do. The chicken cooked on low for about 3 1/2 hours until it was tender and shreddable. Plantboy did a combination of shredding and chunking.
This teriyaki is the basis for the rest, and it would be delicious and completely easy on its own just over rice, or BBQ sandwich style on a toasted bun, with maybe a slice of pineapple. Yummy. Still, Plantboy and I are very rarely able to stop at simple, so we decided to kick it up a notch.
At Ron's, he likes the red curry topping over the teriyaki, so on the stove, I mixed a cup of coconut milk, a generous tablespoon of peanut butter and a few tablespoons of red curry paste. I whisked all this together until it was warm and then turned it to low until everything else was ready.
We stir fried carrots, broccoli slaw (you've never bought this stuff? Look for it; it is brilliant in just about anything), red and green peppers, and celery for just a few minutes until everything was crisp-tender. Use whatever veggies you have on hand--mushrooms, green beans, even water chestnuts would be great.
On each plate, we layered rice (we used brown--easy to make, but takes about 45 minutes to cook so plan ahead), teriyaki chicken, red curry sauce and vegetables. The kids just ate chicken and rice, but they slurped it up. Even the baby Hoovered his because we cut the chicken in small enough pieces that he thought he was just eating rice.
For garnish we used a little bit of sweet, flaked coconut and I put chow mien noodles on mine too. (STM likes her chicken crunchy.) The fresh pineapple was left over from Relief Society, which was definitely a fringe benefit of heading up the committee. Isn't this meal lovely?
To conclude, as everyone has been waxing poetic about spring this week, I thought I'd throw in a picture of my little ones in the garden. We've grown by two planting beds this year and I am already dreaming about fresh produce.
Our spring break is this week, and so far rain is forecast until the middle of the week. If the coming of spring is characterized by the crocuses we have all been so fond of photographing, then spring break is characterized by the packs of teenagers driving too fast down my street and girls wearing flip flops and tube tops.
And, yikes, I just have to say it: tube tops are horrible in any size but just obscene in a double X.
Monday, March 16, 2009
On Which She Ruminated About Things Green and Lucky
When I had been on my mission all of three months, a third of the sisters in our mission left and 8-10 new sisters were scheduled to come in the space of two months. When everything shook down, it turned out that several of us, basically green ourselves, were going to be training new missionaries. I assumed that they would at least keep me in an area I was familiar with, but no.
I was given a Japanese companion fresh from the MTC in New Zealand who spoke little more than conversational American English. She brought one heavy suitcase and wore a pair of heels. Her name tag had somehow gotten buried in the suitcase, and I didn't understand what she had told me her name was, so we took a ninety-minute train ride involving two transfers across Sydney with all of our luggage and a tense car ride with a preachy zone leader to our new flat before I even knew her name. (That journey was very interesting all around--I'm thoroughly convinced that we met at least one of the three Nephites that day, but I will save that story for the Urban Legends blogspot I'll get around to starting one day.)
Our first day, I woke up to the sound of the rain pounding the basement apartment where we lived. The damp was pervasive even in the house. Five months later I would realize just how pervasive--the clothes I had stored under my bed had mold growing in them. We pulled out the map. The sisters before us had marked a few streets where they had tracted, but there was little to go on, and there was no scale on the map so distances were hard to judge. I had almost no clue what I was doing, having never seen a convert baptism; I figured that my convert-comp probably knew more about missionary work than I did, but she still looked at me with such trust that it just about paralyzed me. I only knew how to be obedient, so I tried to listen to the Spirit but then practically threw a dart to choose a street.
At 10:30 that morning, despite the terrible realization that I'd left my umbrella in my previous area and that my companion didn't have a jacket of any kind, we set out, on foot, to a street that was probably three miles away and across a freeway. It took several weeks, but as we became familiar with the area, we learned that we had probably picked the steepest street in our area to tract that rainy morning. The paver (and even cobblestoned!) driveways were uneven, slick, and rivaled the black diamond ski-slopes I had always carefully avoided during civilian life.
We kept going up and up and up the street. Sister Japan could do little more than introduce the two of us and my last name had two L's in it. I imagine we were quite a sight. Which is to say that we were probably a bit ridiculous. Halfway up the street I looked at my comp. She was BEAMING. I cannot think of another time in my life when I have seen such joy radiate from the face of an adult.
Incredulous, soaked and feeling like a disastrous failure, I said, "Sister Japan, are you happy?"
She smiled even broader and said, "Oh! I am so happy! Today is the first day of my mission!"
I would later learn that she was the only member in her family. That her parents had insisted she finish university before serving. That she had nearly every penny of her mission paid for before even submitting her papers. That she was nearly 25 years old.
In the three months we served together I received a crash course in faith, optimism, endurance, patience and focus. It turned out that my greenie was the real trainer. It was probably the most righteous three months of my whole life.
And we were blessed above all measure.
I spent nearly half of my field mission service training new missionaries. This allowed time for a lot of extra study. I enjoyed this extra study so much that I convinced a couple of more willing comps to get up early with me even when we weren't training. Missionaries are fond of bearing companion-a-monies and will often get emotional about what they learned from one another. "Sister So-And-So taught me about charity." "Sister Thingy taught me about prayer." You get the drill. When it came to me it was always, "Sister STM taught me how to work." I was never quite sure how I felt about that. My new comps would invariably tell me after about three weeks how terrified they had been to serve with me for the task-master reputation I had unwittingly earned. They would say, "I'm so surprised that that you are nice, too!" I was never quite sure how I felt about that, either.
My point is, that for all the things I did wrong on my mission, my level of diligence was not something I ever regretted. My last companion was a fantastic sister I had often served near on my mission, but never with. I got a surprise transfer with her for the last 3 1/2 weeks of my mission. The weather was beastly hot that December, but we got a reprieve to be up and out of the city and serve in the beautiful Blue Mountains. With both of us so close to going home, we decided to get serious about the exercise we had always intended to do. We woke up each morning and ran down the hill toward the national park, scaring the sulfur-crested cockatoos and galas from the same trees each morning, watching the sun rise over the Three Sisters. It was almost like vacation; oh, except for the 10+ hour tracting days because we had no one to teach.
We traveled into the city for my last zone conference and our cheeky district leader thought he'd make an example of us. He called on various elders and sisters to teach principles from the discussion--without any aid except the scriptures. There had been a big push in the mission for us to memorize the discussions. (This was before the "bar was raised" and missionaries were trusted to create their own discussions.) So Elder Teenager asked my companion and I to teach the sixth principle of the sixth discussion. To many of you this will not mean much, but to us it was a fairly big deal. I'd only TAUGHT the sixth discussion a handful of times during my whole mission.
After we finished teaching, and feeling extreme gratitude for having just reviewed that lesson the day before, a sister who came to the mission the same day I did said the following to me, "You are really lucky that you have the discussions memorized."
Lucky? Lucky!
I knew her reputation as well as I knew any sister's in our mission--there were only 25 of us: bad news travels fast. Was her reputation deserved? I have no idea. But I wanted to shout at her and tell her that "luck" had nothing to do with it.
Was I blessed? You bet--blessed with time to study because of all the training I was asked to do, blessed with a first rate education from age 4 to 21, blessed with parents who taught me to work hard, blessed with a mind that does what I want it to, blessed with a love to read and learn . . .
But lucky?
Was it luck that set the alarm at 5:30 all those mornings? Was it luck that we followed the schedule and rules in the handbook? Was it luck that kept me awake over the scriptures each morning? Was it luck that copied passages of scripture to be memorized during the horrifically long and often boring tracting hours?
I don't think so.
We use the word "luck" a lot. You are so lucky. Good luck. Today is your lucky day. That was a lucky break. Third time lucky. Thank your lucky stars. I'm just having a string of bad luck.
But what does it mean? Is there really any such thing as luck? A very scientific Internet search yielded the following etymology for the word "luck."
It probably means a chance occurrence or a random blessing in Latin, Hebrew or Greek.
There is much room for complaint here: the word "probably" and then the invoking of three different languages is frustrating to any real study, but it is illustrative. First of all, it tells us that the idea of luck is probably very old, dating back to a time when ignorant people either could not understand the reasons behind natural occurrences or confused superstition with faith. And I like the two definitions. "chance occurrence or random blessing."
The first is much like coincidence, but the second is something much more. It implies that the giver of blessings, God himself, is arbitrary. But the Doctrine and Covenants (130:20-21) teaches that all blessings are predicated on obedience to some law. The word "all" leaves no room for "random."
Sister Japan would not, for two minutes, have given herself an ounce of credit for being on a mission. She was so faithful and humble that she would have turned any such praise right back to the Giver of all good gifts. But I like to think that she had worked hard enough that her own eyebrows would have furrowed if someone had called her merely "lucky." Because it gets so shmoopy, I try not to do (at least very often) a Seriously So Blessed post, but really, what else can so much joy in my life be called?
So, you've got to ask yourself one question, "Do I feel lucky?"
I was given a Japanese companion fresh from the MTC in New Zealand who spoke little more than conversational American English. She brought one heavy suitcase and wore a pair of heels. Her name tag had somehow gotten buried in the suitcase, and I didn't understand what she had told me her name was, so we took a ninety-minute train ride involving two transfers across Sydney with all of our luggage and a tense car ride with a preachy zone leader to our new flat before I even knew her name. (That journey was very interesting all around--I'm thoroughly convinced that we met at least one of the three Nephites that day, but I will save that story for the Urban Legends blogspot I'll get around to starting one day.)
Our first day, I woke up to the sound of the rain pounding the basement apartment where we lived. The damp was pervasive even in the house. Five months later I would realize just how pervasive--the clothes I had stored under my bed had mold growing in them. We pulled out the map. The sisters before us had marked a few streets where they had tracted, but there was little to go on, and there was no scale on the map so distances were hard to judge. I had almost no clue what I was doing, having never seen a convert baptism; I figured that my convert-comp probably knew more about missionary work than I did, but she still looked at me with such trust that it just about paralyzed me. I only knew how to be obedient, so I tried to listen to the Spirit but then practically threw a dart to choose a street.
At 10:30 that morning, despite the terrible realization that I'd left my umbrella in my previous area and that my companion didn't have a jacket of any kind, we set out, on foot, to a street that was probably three miles away and across a freeway. It took several weeks, but as we became familiar with the area, we learned that we had probably picked the steepest street in our area to tract that rainy morning. The paver (and even cobblestoned!) driveways were uneven, slick, and rivaled the black diamond ski-slopes I had always carefully avoided during civilian life.
We kept going up and up and up the street. Sister Japan could do little more than introduce the two of us and my last name had two L's in it. I imagine we were quite a sight. Which is to say that we were probably a bit ridiculous. Halfway up the street I looked at my comp. She was BEAMING. I cannot think of another time in my life when I have seen such joy radiate from the face of an adult.
Incredulous, soaked and feeling like a disastrous failure, I said, "Sister Japan, are you happy?"
She smiled even broader and said, "Oh! I am so happy! Today is the first day of my mission!"
I would later learn that she was the only member in her family. That her parents had insisted she finish university before serving. That she had nearly every penny of her mission paid for before even submitting her papers. That she was nearly 25 years old.
In the three months we served together I received a crash course in faith, optimism, endurance, patience and focus. It turned out that my greenie was the real trainer. It was probably the most righteous three months of my whole life.
And we were blessed above all measure.
I spent nearly half of my field mission service training new missionaries. This allowed time for a lot of extra study. I enjoyed this extra study so much that I convinced a couple of more willing comps to get up early with me even when we weren't training. Missionaries are fond of bearing companion-a-monies and will often get emotional about what they learned from one another. "Sister So-And-So taught me about charity." "Sister Thingy taught me about prayer." You get the drill. When it came to me it was always, "Sister STM taught me how to work." I was never quite sure how I felt about that. My new comps would invariably tell me after about three weeks how terrified they had been to serve with me for the task-master reputation I had unwittingly earned. They would say, "I'm so surprised that that you are nice, too!" I was never quite sure how I felt about that, either.
My point is, that for all the things I did wrong on my mission, my level of diligence was not something I ever regretted. My last companion was a fantastic sister I had often served near on my mission, but never with. I got a surprise transfer with her for the last 3 1/2 weeks of my mission. The weather was beastly hot that December, but we got a reprieve to be up and out of the city and serve in the beautiful Blue Mountains. With both of us so close to going home, we decided to get serious about the exercise we had always intended to do. We woke up each morning and ran down the hill toward the national park, scaring the sulfur-crested cockatoos and galas from the same trees each morning, watching the sun rise over the Three Sisters. It was almost like vacation; oh, except for the 10+ hour tracting days because we had no one to teach.
We traveled into the city for my last zone conference and our cheeky district leader thought he'd make an example of us. He called on various elders and sisters to teach principles from the discussion--without any aid except the scriptures. There had been a big push in the mission for us to memorize the discussions. (This was before the "bar was raised" and missionaries were trusted to create their own discussions.) So Elder Teenager asked my companion and I to teach the sixth principle of the sixth discussion. To many of you this will not mean much, but to us it was a fairly big deal. I'd only TAUGHT the sixth discussion a handful of times during my whole mission.
After we finished teaching, and feeling extreme gratitude for having just reviewed that lesson the day before, a sister who came to the mission the same day I did said the following to me, "You are really lucky that you have the discussions memorized."
Lucky? Lucky!
I knew her reputation as well as I knew any sister's in our mission--there were only 25 of us: bad news travels fast. Was her reputation deserved? I have no idea. But I wanted to shout at her and tell her that "luck" had nothing to do with it.
Was I blessed? You bet--blessed with time to study because of all the training I was asked to do, blessed with a first rate education from age 4 to 21, blessed with parents who taught me to work hard, blessed with a mind that does what I want it to, blessed with a love to read and learn . . .
But lucky?
Was it luck that set the alarm at 5:30 all those mornings? Was it luck that we followed the schedule and rules in the handbook? Was it luck that kept me awake over the scriptures each morning? Was it luck that copied passages of scripture to be memorized during the horrifically long and often boring tracting hours?
I don't think so.
We use the word "luck" a lot. You are so lucky. Good luck. Today is your lucky day. That was a lucky break. Third time lucky. Thank your lucky stars. I'm just having a string of bad luck.
But what does it mean? Is there really any such thing as luck? A very scientific Internet search yielded the following etymology for the word "luck."
It probably means a chance occurrence or a random blessing in Latin, Hebrew or Greek.
There is much room for complaint here: the word "probably" and then the invoking of three different languages is frustrating to any real study, but it is illustrative. First of all, it tells us that the idea of luck is probably very old, dating back to a time when ignorant people either could not understand the reasons behind natural occurrences or confused superstition with faith. And I like the two definitions. "chance occurrence or random blessing."
The first is much like coincidence, but the second is something much more. It implies that the giver of blessings, God himself, is arbitrary. But the Doctrine and Covenants (130:20-21) teaches that all blessings are predicated on obedience to some law. The word "all" leaves no room for "random."
Sister Japan would not, for two minutes, have given herself an ounce of credit for being on a mission. She was so faithful and humble that she would have turned any such praise right back to the Giver of all good gifts. But I like to think that she had worked hard enough that her own eyebrows would have furrowed if someone had called her merely "lucky." Because it gets so shmoopy, I try not to do (at least very often) a Seriously So Blessed post, but really, what else can so much joy in my life be called?
So, you've got to ask yourself one question, "Do I feel lucky?"
Friday, March 13, 2009
Sure, You Spent $150, But What Will You Cook?
I'm a bit of a voyeur. At the grocery store that is. I love to look in other people's carts and see what they are buying. And I've decided something: People are nuts.
It might be safe to say that I'm at my most judgmental when I'm at the grocery store. I assume things about everyone, and feel intensely curious about what, say, makes that completely sane- looking woman buy 13 tubs of chicken liver? There were nuns at the grocery store today. I smiled kindly as I passed each of them (they were shopping separately--is that okay? Do they like different things? Do they each put labels on all their own food, like roommates?), but craned my neck to get a better view of what exactly they were buying. Cases of bottled water it turns out. Nuns can eat granola bars too.
Last week my favorite was a very sweet-looking Hispanic family who had filled three produce bags, to the top, with jalapeno peppers. Are they drying them? Is that a three years supply? Freezing? Making salsa? Go through that many in a week? I was still thinking about them when I pulled into the aisle with a man loading his cart with boxes of pudding and singing along with his iPod. His enthusiasm for pudding was only matched by his great relish of the song "Shout."
But each week, invariably, I end up in line behind the parent whose cart is filled top to bottom with four cases of soda, two kinds of ice cream, three bags of chips, 18 frozen dinners, six cans of Chef Boy-Ar-Dee, a case of Top Ramen, a baker's dozen loaves of white bread and a case of frozen pizza. Tucked into the available space are fruit snacks, pop tarts, pizza rolls, Cocoa Puffs, mozzarella sticks, hot dogs and chocolate. On top of this tempting load there is always perched a single bunch of bananas and a gallon of milk. In short, the cart is filled with things that are snacks, not meals to be prepared.
The bill always comes to some extraordinary amount: high fructose corn syrup isn't cheap, I guess. I'm especially impressed when said parent is accompanied by fat, complaining kids who look like they have the energy output of a three-toed sloth.
I'm not skinny. I haven't been skinny since I was, well, never. I'm not talking about eating disorders here. I'm not talking about genetics. I'm not even talking about force feeding your kids broccoli until they either give up and eat it or choose starvation over anything green. I'm talking about common sense. And in some cases I think I'm talking about child abuse.
It seems that lately when I go to the grocery store and see teenagers with their parents, the children outweigh them, and sometimes by a lot. Even the trimmer ones have that awful roll of tummy fat hanging over the top of their "skinny" jeans. When did food and all things digital become the driving forces in a young person's life?
I have a friend who is in her early 50's. Hard times have recently caused two of her daughters and their husbands to move in with her. One has a child, the other has a baby due any day now. These women are in their early 20's. These girls "don't cook." And if anyone can explain to me just what in the heck that means, I would be grateful. I hear this all the time. "Oh, I don't cook." What do you mean you "don't cook?" You don't read? You don't own a stove? You are so inept you can't figure out how a pan works? Anyway, my friend asks her charming sons-in-law the other day, independently from one another, what they want to eat for dinner; she was going grocery shopping and wanted to make a list. The reply? Each said "Burger King."
I buy snacks for my kids. And I make treats for my kids. We are not above burgers and fries a couple of times a month. They are picky like other kids--there are many things they won't eat. Dinner time is sometimes a battle, but we try not to be too up tight. When I make something for dinner that I know they won't like, I make an easy alternative so that no one is hungry. I'm really not trying to get all self-righteous here.
It just seems that the job of food is to give us energy for the activities we do--growing, working, exercising, whatever. Food might also sometimes be a source of socializing or comfort, but this is really secondary to food's job: fuel. If the food you (routinely) eat makes you sluggish, tired, unhappy and unable to do your activities then it is a simple matter to change. The grocery store is full of healthy things to eat too. Lots of those healthy things are sweet or crunchy or snacky or even easy to prepare. If people don't want to change their shocking habits for themselves, they should at least be responsible enough to do it for their kids.
Be good at the store this week: I'll be watching . . . .
Oh, as long as I am ranting. I have to make a comment on Robert Pattinson. You can't go anywhere these days without his moody face staring out of a magazine or poster or special-edition-Twilight-movie-book or Robert Pattinson fan book that is all about his movies since he has been in like, what, two? Since when is hairy, stoned and wind-blown the new sexy? (Johnny Depp might be the only truly notable exception.) But mostly I want to know who told Mr. P that he could sing?
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A Fellow Liberal Commie Pinko Who Is a Fellow
This is the email text sent from Plantboy today. Is it any wonder I'm totally in love with this man?
"Honey, a month or so ago the [water and electricity] board agreed to dip into $4.4 million in reserves to assist people who have lost their jobs and low-income folks pay their bills. One of the pieces of that agreement is to give a $30 credit to every customer. When that shows up in our next bill I would like to defer that credit and have it go to the customer care program that assists low-income individuals pay their bills. I love you and hope you got a nap today."
"Honey, a month or so ago the [water and electricity] board agreed to dip into $4.4 million in reserves to assist people who have lost their jobs and low-income folks pay their bills. One of the pieces of that agreement is to give a $30 credit to every customer. When that shows up in our next bill I would like to defer that credit and have it go to the customer care program that assists low-income individuals pay their bills. I love you and hope you got a nap today."
Monday, March 09, 2009
What Do Your Politics Say About This?
In our fair city, many years ago, there was a law passed dictating that neighborhood street repair would be paid for by the residents of the neighborhood in need of repair. On its surface this sounds pretty fair: no socialist taxation of the masses for the streets only a few use. To be assessed for the repairs, your property has to actually be adjacent to the proposed project, the assessment is paid by the linear foot, and you cannot be charged for more than a 100 feet regardless of the size of your property. Each year since its inception, a few streets have been repaired under its guidelines-mostly resurfacing and pothole filling--relatively inexpensive stuff. I have never heard of this practice in any other city we've ever lived in.
The cover story on our paper today was about this law and how it will affect a local neighborhood in the southern part of the city. Because of my tutoring, I actually drive in the neighborhood in question a couple of times each week. It is truly the worst residential street I've ever driven on: hilly with awkward grades, egregious potholes every few feet, crumbling roadway edges with no sidewalks though pedestrian traffic is common, and stop signs at awkward angles with terrible visibility. The neighborhood dates to the early 80's. Houses range from big to monstrous with large yards filled with dozens of mature trees of every variety. People move there because they like feeling like they are in a rural area, though in fact they are just ten minutes from downtown. South Eugene has its own culture, and though folks are probably 10 to 1 registered Democrats, it is probably likely they are even further to the left than that. More like socialists or hippies or even anarchists. The local high school is probably almost as out there as Berkeley in 1969. Really.
The road has deteriorated so badly, and it has taken so long for residents and the city to agree on a plan for fixing it, that the costs continue to mount. The current plan will likely be bid at just over 5 million dollars. Now five million is a drop in the bucket compared to, say, the severance pay for a disgraced CEO or the federal highway department's annual budget, but for less than 200 homeowners adjacent to the project, this number gets a little bit tricky. The city is paying for just over half, but the remainder is to be divided among property owners in such a way that each will be assessed between $10,000 and $20,000 as their portion of the project.
When I say "assessed," I mean just that. It is like a property tax. If all goes through and is approved then residents on the street will receive a bill for their portion late this year. If the homeowner doesn't respond within ten days to either pay the assessment in full or apply for interest-bearing financing through the city, then there is a lien for the amount put against the value of the property. If the entire city paying for the road seems a bit Socialist, well, I think this latter plan seems downright Communist.
Could you take an unexpected $15,000 hit this year? In this economy? Didn't think so.
There are many ideas--change the law; raise property taxes city-wide with the increase going solely to road construction projects to be prioritized throughout the entire city; abort plans to rebuild the road until it becomes so bad that the mayor loses the muffler from her Prius while out for a pleasure cruise and decides to pay for the whole thing; expand the assessment to included adjacent streets (particularly those who only have access via the repaired road), or to include everyone in that entire council district and thereby reduce each person's liability toward repairs, but still have the assessment targeted at users of the road.
This is not necessarily a Democrat-Republican issue, as city politics are supposed to be free of this sort of thing. (Unless you are Sarah Palin and get elected as mayor of the booming Wasilla Alaska because you are strictly anti-abortion. Because, yeah, Wasilla's mayor has so much say-so in getting Roe v. Wade overturned.) The issue does, however, bring up sharp differences in how people view the use of resources in their community, which has everything to do with your political ideology.
*Should all roads effectively be turned into toll roads? Users only pay for their construction and upkeep?
* If the local residents were so adamant about having a say-so in how the road was constructed (they protested a 4-lane plan, because they didn't want their street to become a "thorough-fare"), then do they bear the onus of paying for it?
* If all residents of the city are expected to pay for its construction, should those immediately adjacent have any say-so in what kind of road they get?
* Where do you draw the line at collective services you are willing to pay for? Military. Roads. Schools. Social Security. Insurance (not government, but still a collective resource backed by a huge bureaucracy). Medicare. Public Libraries. Grants to homeless shelters. Public housing. CHIP. National Parks and public parks. Free and reduced lunch (ALL school lunch is partially subsidized, by the way). Congress' paychecks. National Science Foundation. National Endowment for the Arts . . .
I need not go on, but you get the point. What, if any, services do you think the government can legitimately do better because it is collective and has enormous resources at its disposal? What is (are) the government program(s) that really makes your blood run cold when you see the percent tax taken from your paycheck each month? Nothing like starting the week out with a bit of controversy to get the blood flowing.
The cover story on our paper today was about this law and how it will affect a local neighborhood in the southern part of the city. Because of my tutoring, I actually drive in the neighborhood in question a couple of times each week. It is truly the worst residential street I've ever driven on: hilly with awkward grades, egregious potholes every few feet, crumbling roadway edges with no sidewalks though pedestrian traffic is common, and stop signs at awkward angles with terrible visibility. The neighborhood dates to the early 80's. Houses range from big to monstrous with large yards filled with dozens of mature trees of every variety. People move there because they like feeling like they are in a rural area, though in fact they are just ten minutes from downtown. South Eugene has its own culture, and though folks are probably 10 to 1 registered Democrats, it is probably likely they are even further to the left than that. More like socialists or hippies or even anarchists. The local high school is probably almost as out there as Berkeley in 1969. Really.
The road has deteriorated so badly, and it has taken so long for residents and the city to agree on a plan for fixing it, that the costs continue to mount. The current plan will likely be bid at just over 5 million dollars. Now five million is a drop in the bucket compared to, say, the severance pay for a disgraced CEO or the federal highway department's annual budget, but for less than 200 homeowners adjacent to the project, this number gets a little bit tricky. The city is paying for just over half, but the remainder is to be divided among property owners in such a way that each will be assessed between $10,000 and $20,000 as their portion of the project.
When I say "assessed," I mean just that. It is like a property tax. If all goes through and is approved then residents on the street will receive a bill for their portion late this year. If the homeowner doesn't respond within ten days to either pay the assessment in full or apply for interest-bearing financing through the city, then there is a lien for the amount put against the value of the property. If the entire city paying for the road seems a bit Socialist, well, I think this latter plan seems downright Communist.
Could you take an unexpected $15,000 hit this year? In this economy? Didn't think so.
There are many ideas--change the law; raise property taxes city-wide with the increase going solely to road construction projects to be prioritized throughout the entire city; abort plans to rebuild the road until it becomes so bad that the mayor loses the muffler from her Prius while out for a pleasure cruise and decides to pay for the whole thing; expand the assessment to included adjacent streets (particularly those who only have access via the repaired road), or to include everyone in that entire council district and thereby reduce each person's liability toward repairs, but still have the assessment targeted at users of the road.
This is not necessarily a Democrat-Republican issue, as city politics are supposed to be free of this sort of thing. (Unless you are Sarah Palin and get elected as mayor of the booming Wasilla Alaska because you are strictly anti-abortion. Because, yeah, Wasilla's mayor has so much say-so in getting Roe v. Wade overturned.) The issue does, however, bring up sharp differences in how people view the use of resources in their community, which has everything to do with your political ideology.
*Should all roads effectively be turned into toll roads? Users only pay for their construction and upkeep?
* If the local residents were so adamant about having a say-so in how the road was constructed (they protested a 4-lane plan, because they didn't want their street to become a "thorough-fare"), then do they bear the onus of paying for it?
* If all residents of the city are expected to pay for its construction, should those immediately adjacent have any say-so in what kind of road they get?
* Where do you draw the line at collective services you are willing to pay for? Military. Roads. Schools. Social Security. Insurance (not government, but still a collective resource backed by a huge bureaucracy). Medicare. Public Libraries. Grants to homeless shelters. Public housing. CHIP. National Parks and public parks. Free and reduced lunch (ALL school lunch is partially subsidized, by the way). Congress' paychecks. National Science Foundation. National Endowment for the Arts . . .
I need not go on, but you get the point. What, if any, services do you think the government can legitimately do better because it is collective and has enormous resources at its disposal? What is (are) the government program(s) that really makes your blood run cold when you see the percent tax taken from your paycheck each month? Nothing like starting the week out with a bit of controversy to get the blood flowing.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Size Matters, Even When You Are Four
I watched a friend's four year-old yesterday. James and Padawan are in the same primary class; James is about three months older. Here is the transcript of their conversation within six seconds of the time he walked in the door.
Padawan: Hey, James, you know what? I'm four.
James: I'm four too. And I'm taller. And I've got two pocketknifes. (There was some detailed description here of said weapons; James might be taller but he still talks like he has a mouthful of marbles.)
Padawan: Guess what? Jedi Knight and me just got our red pillowcases back.
James: I'm getting a dirtbike.
Padawan: We had the white pillowcases and then we had the Christmas ones, and our Christmas ones were covered with Teddy Bears.
Silence.
James: Cool.
I'm so grateful for four years old. It is probably the last time in Padawan's entire existence that he'll think teddy bears are cooler than pocket knives or dirt bikes.
Next question, perhaps less loaded than the one posed earlier this week--what do you think of other people disciplining your children? I don't necessarily mean if you are there, but if you are gone? I'll explain: I was fairly reluctant to agree to watch James yesterday. When he comes visiting teaching with his mother I end up biting my tongue through fourteen fights and he seems to get out every toy in the house, unable to stay interested in anything for more than a few minutes. He also jumbles up the toys, which drives me extremely crazy. (Actually, my kids too--this is a habit/obsession I've gifted them with.)
I understand that kids fight, but Padawan doesn't fight with all kids, mostly just James. James is the youngest of four (two of which are in their teens) and he seems unable to open his mouth without calling names. He doesn't really tease when he says them either. He'll also say things like, "I'm going to kill you," in a totally deadpan voice. Charming. His mother is not oblivious, but I cannot figure her out. Her intervention seems to almost exacerbate every problem because she talks loud, doesn't mask her extreme impatience well and does that you-apologize-right-now-or-else-its-the-end-of-the-world thing.
Yesterday started off fairly well; without visiting teaching in the mix I was able to keep a better eye out. The big boys decided to shut a door to keep the baby out and, sure enough, within just few minutes, Padawan came running out of the room, "James called me stupid and says I have to leave the room and he won't play with me anymore."
I walked right in, squatted down in front of James and said firmly, "You will not call names in this house. This is Padawan's room and if you want to play in here you will play together." He had this really smirky expression and just glared at me. I looked very directly back at him and said in a low voice, "James; I'm absolutely serious. If you continue to be mean then you will have a turn at time out." He was as good as gold after that--even about not getting out too many toys because I told him that he would not be allowed to get out a new mess without cleaning up the previous. Again, firm, serious, but still friendly.
So what do you think? Do you let other people's kids run amok at your house, fully expecting your own to do the same, or do you intervene? And while, to me, the "good" answer seems fairly obvious, my school-teaching experience tells me that there are plenty of parents who disagree with any other person expressing disapproval to their child, regardless of how well deserved.
Padawan: Hey, James, you know what? I'm four.
James: I'm four too. And I'm taller. And I've got two pocketknifes. (There was some detailed description here of said weapons; James might be taller but he still talks like he has a mouthful of marbles.)
Padawan: Guess what? Jedi Knight and me just got our red pillowcases back.
James: I'm getting a dirtbike.
Padawan: We had the white pillowcases and then we had the Christmas ones, and our Christmas ones were covered with Teddy Bears.
Silence.
James: Cool.
I'm so grateful for four years old. It is probably the last time in Padawan's entire existence that he'll think teddy bears are cooler than pocket knives or dirt bikes.
Next question, perhaps less loaded than the one posed earlier this week--what do you think of other people disciplining your children? I don't necessarily mean if you are there, but if you are gone? I'll explain: I was fairly reluctant to agree to watch James yesterday. When he comes visiting teaching with his mother I end up biting my tongue through fourteen fights and he seems to get out every toy in the house, unable to stay interested in anything for more than a few minutes. He also jumbles up the toys, which drives me extremely crazy. (Actually, my kids too--this is a habit/obsession I've gifted them with.)
I understand that kids fight, but Padawan doesn't fight with all kids, mostly just James. James is the youngest of four (two of which are in their teens) and he seems unable to open his mouth without calling names. He doesn't really tease when he says them either. He'll also say things like, "I'm going to kill you," in a totally deadpan voice. Charming. His mother is not oblivious, but I cannot figure her out. Her intervention seems to almost exacerbate every problem because she talks loud, doesn't mask her extreme impatience well and does that you-apologize-right-now-or-else-its-the-end-of-the-world thing.
Yesterday started off fairly well; without visiting teaching in the mix I was able to keep a better eye out. The big boys decided to shut a door to keep the baby out and, sure enough, within just few minutes, Padawan came running out of the room, "James called me stupid and says I have to leave the room and he won't play with me anymore."
I walked right in, squatted down in front of James and said firmly, "You will not call names in this house. This is Padawan's room and if you want to play in here you will play together." He had this really smirky expression and just glared at me. I looked very directly back at him and said in a low voice, "James; I'm absolutely serious. If you continue to be mean then you will have a turn at time out." He was as good as gold after that--even about not getting out too many toys because I told him that he would not be allowed to get out a new mess without cleaning up the previous. Again, firm, serious, but still friendly.
So what do you think? Do you let other people's kids run amok at your house, fully expecting your own to do the same, or do you intervene? And while, to me, the "good" answer seems fairly obvious, my school-teaching experience tells me that there are plenty of parents who disagree with any other person expressing disapproval to their child, regardless of how well deserved.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Self Reliance Vs. (?) Unity
My visiting teacher is the Queen of Food Storage. Perhaps this is a title I'm not actually authorized to bestow, but I've never known anybody like her. (Do not close the window right now: this is not, I repeat, is NOT a food storage post.) The Queen also homeschools her two children. Her oldest, a girl, is a week older than Jedi, but she is on at least a fifth grade level in all of her subjects. Her four year-old is reading fluently. While she was over here one day, we got to talking about things that might keep you from the store for a few months--unemployment, natural disasters, THE QUARANTINE FROM AVIAN BIRD FLU, you know, pleasant, spiritual, visiting teaching stuff. She said, "We'll need to do everything from home," and she made a list of several thing including, "teaching our children." Very interesting. I realized, on that day, that among all of her other reasons for homeschooling, self-reliance is near the top of the list. I had never heard this viewpoint before.
I have a sister I've been assigned to visit for a year. She is active and takes callings. She has several close friends, a few of which she has been quite instrumental in re-activating. She has been a stay-at-home mom for her entire adult life, even when times have been very hard. She and her husband pay cash for everything and live simply. She will not let us visit. Ever. The few days she has said, "Just drop by," she isn't home. When we drop by notes or goodies, she will sometimes acknowledge them, but very rarely thanks us. At first I thought she hated me, but as I've persisted to know her through other avenues, I've come to see that for her, at least in part, agreeing to visiting teaching visits is somehow acting less than self-reliant.
Some years ago, Suburban Hippie and I sat next to each other in Sunday School while our teacher took us through King Benjamin's excellent sermon about caring for the poor in the Book of Mosiah. He makes it plain that it matters not why a person is in need, it is up to us to meet that need. SH and I were amazed as the discussion in the class deteriorated into the reasons why it is bad to give to the homeless. Most of the people volunteering comments were individuals for whom I have immense respect.
Nearly a year ago, The Queen was asked to teach a fifth Sunday lesson about food storage. A man in our congregation talked about food storage as a missionary work tool, citing a conversation he had with a neighbor as he moved into his house. The neighbor was amazed at the amount of canned food this ward member had stored in his garage. At some point the neighbor asked what would happen during a crises when word got out that this member had a garage full of food. He replied, "That is why I keep a loaded shotgun." There was some very nervous laughter in our Sunday School class at that point--and other laughter that was not so nervous, which made me even more nervous.
Years ago, Plantboy served as a financial clerk under a new (and extremely compassionate) bishop. He had done his work for several weeks without ever saying anything to me about what he did, when he came home looking quite sick one day. When I asked him what the matter was, he told me that he had written out a check to pay a bill on a satellite dish. Plantboy and I didn't even have cable--it was too expensive. It was very hard for me to write the fast offering check the next month: after all, why should I be paying for someone else's folly? I felt I was being punished instead of blessed for being self-reliant.
So why all the anecdotes? As I look around, I've begun to realize that for all of the handbooks and talks given on the subject, self-reliance is an idea that means different things to different people. Does it mean you don't have any credit card debt? Does it mean that you have the credit card debt, but that you pay your bill each month? Does it mean that you have monthly limit on the Visa you use for "extras" and that your dad pays it every month? Does it mean that you are trying really hard to get back on your feet and feel okay about the bishop occassionally paying your bill out of fast offering funds?
In the March Ensign there are some excellent articles on self-reliance. I especially enjoyed Elder Ballard's talk. There is much to learn, and always a long way to go with this ideal.
The following quote, appeared both in Elder Ballard's talk as well as the gospel classic talk from Elder Marion G. Romney, "Without self-reliance one cannot exercise the innate desire to serve. How can we give if there is nothing there? Food for the hungry cannot come from empty shelves. Money to assist the needy cannot come from an empty purse. Support and understanding cannot come from the emotionally starved. Teaching cannot come from the unlearned. And most important of all, spiritual guidance cannot come from the spiritually weak."
It was this quote, and a few others, that got me to thinking that if we are not extremely careful, our desire for self-reliance can undermine the unity we should feel toward our family, ward members and neighbors. I think it can also undermine our understanding of the atonement.
I think we can give, even when our own reserves (of whatever) are low. Have we not often been taught and seen evidenced in our own lives that when you are feeling down, the best thing to do is find someone else to cheer up? I think of the poor families that fed my husband and I on our missions and the joy it brought them to share what little they had. Sometimes those who are enduring the greatest emotional turmoil are best equipped to listen and understand others with similar issues. Who has not had periods of extreme spiritual weakness when we must go to others and the Savior in complete submissiveness and ask for help? It can be argued that these are the times of greatest growth.
Perhaps we must all come to a place where we can reconcile The Parable of the Ten Virgins with that of the Widow's Mite. In the first, the five wise virgins were instructed not to share, because if they did then nobody would have enough, not even those who had worked hard for what they had. In the second, the widow was praised for giving up the very last mite that she had instead of feeding herself. Would I go hungry myself to make sure my children had enough to eat? For sure. But what about another ward member? A neighbor? That is where I'm not as sure.
I'll close these ramblings with King Benjamin, "For behold, are we not all beggars? Do we not all depend upon the same Being, even God, for all the substance which we have, for both food and raiment, and for gold, and for silver, and for all the riches which we have of every kind? And behold, even at this time, ye have been calling on his name, and begging for a remission of your sins. And has he suffered that ye have begged in vain? Nay; he has poured out his Spirit upon you, and has caused that your hearts should be filled with joy, and has caused that your mouths should be stopped that ye could not find utterance, so exceedingly great was your joy. And now, if God, who has created you, on whom you are dependent for your lives and for all that ye have and are, doth grant unto you whatsoever ye ask that is right, in faith, believing that ye shall receive, O then, how ye ought to impart of the substance that ye have one to another."
Isn't he saying that no matter how hard we try, we will never actually be self-reliant because we will always be indebted to God? Indeed, thinking we can do it all on our own makes us guilty of pride and aligns us with Satan's easy, pre-mortal dismissal of a savior.
So what do you think? How do you reconcile the idea of self-reliance with the idea of unity? In a Church where both important concepts are preached with regularity, what do you define as "self-reliance?"
I have a sister I've been assigned to visit for a year. She is active and takes callings. She has several close friends, a few of which she has been quite instrumental in re-activating. She has been a stay-at-home mom for her entire adult life, even when times have been very hard. She and her husband pay cash for everything and live simply. She will not let us visit. Ever. The few days she has said, "Just drop by," she isn't home. When we drop by notes or goodies, she will sometimes acknowledge them, but very rarely thanks us. At first I thought she hated me, but as I've persisted to know her through other avenues, I've come to see that for her, at least in part, agreeing to visiting teaching visits is somehow acting less than self-reliant.
Some years ago, Suburban Hippie and I sat next to each other in Sunday School while our teacher took us through King Benjamin's excellent sermon about caring for the poor in the Book of Mosiah. He makes it plain that it matters not why a person is in need, it is up to us to meet that need. SH and I were amazed as the discussion in the class deteriorated into the reasons why it is bad to give to the homeless. Most of the people volunteering comments were individuals for whom I have immense respect.
Nearly a year ago, The Queen was asked to teach a fifth Sunday lesson about food storage. A man in our congregation talked about food storage as a missionary work tool, citing a conversation he had with a neighbor as he moved into his house. The neighbor was amazed at the amount of canned food this ward member had stored in his garage. At some point the neighbor asked what would happen during a crises when word got out that this member had a garage full of food. He replied, "That is why I keep a loaded shotgun." There was some very nervous laughter in our Sunday School class at that point--and other laughter that was not so nervous, which made me even more nervous.
Years ago, Plantboy served as a financial clerk under a new (and extremely compassionate) bishop. He had done his work for several weeks without ever saying anything to me about what he did, when he came home looking quite sick one day. When I asked him what the matter was, he told me that he had written out a check to pay a bill on a satellite dish. Plantboy and I didn't even have cable--it was too expensive. It was very hard for me to write the fast offering check the next month: after all, why should I be paying for someone else's folly? I felt I was being punished instead of blessed for being self-reliant.
So why all the anecdotes? As I look around, I've begun to realize that for all of the handbooks and talks given on the subject, self-reliance is an idea that means different things to different people. Does it mean you don't have any credit card debt? Does it mean that you have the credit card debt, but that you pay your bill each month? Does it mean that you have monthly limit on the Visa you use for "extras" and that your dad pays it every month? Does it mean that you are trying really hard to get back on your feet and feel okay about the bishop occassionally paying your bill out of fast offering funds?
In the March Ensign there are some excellent articles on self-reliance. I especially enjoyed Elder Ballard's talk. There is much to learn, and always a long way to go with this ideal.
The following quote, appeared both in Elder Ballard's talk as well as the gospel classic talk from Elder Marion G. Romney, "Without self-reliance one cannot exercise the innate desire to serve. How can we give if there is nothing there? Food for the hungry cannot come from empty shelves. Money to assist the needy cannot come from an empty purse. Support and understanding cannot come from the emotionally starved. Teaching cannot come from the unlearned. And most important of all, spiritual guidance cannot come from the spiritually weak."
It was this quote, and a few others, that got me to thinking that if we are not extremely careful, our desire for self-reliance can undermine the unity we should feel toward our family, ward members and neighbors. I think it can also undermine our understanding of the atonement.
I think we can give, even when our own reserves (of whatever) are low. Have we not often been taught and seen evidenced in our own lives that when you are feeling down, the best thing to do is find someone else to cheer up? I think of the poor families that fed my husband and I on our missions and the joy it brought them to share what little they had. Sometimes those who are enduring the greatest emotional turmoil are best equipped to listen and understand others with similar issues. Who has not had periods of extreme spiritual weakness when we must go to others and the Savior in complete submissiveness and ask for help? It can be argued that these are the times of greatest growth.
Perhaps we must all come to a place where we can reconcile The Parable of the Ten Virgins with that of the Widow's Mite. In the first, the five wise virgins were instructed not to share, because if they did then nobody would have enough, not even those who had worked hard for what they had. In the second, the widow was praised for giving up the very last mite that she had instead of feeding herself. Would I go hungry myself to make sure my children had enough to eat? For sure. But what about another ward member? A neighbor? That is where I'm not as sure.
I'll close these ramblings with King Benjamin, "For behold, are we not all beggars? Do we not all depend upon the same Being, even God, for all the substance which we have, for both food and raiment, and for gold, and for silver, and for all the riches which we have of every kind? And behold, even at this time, ye have been calling on his name, and begging for a remission of your sins. And has he suffered that ye have begged in vain? Nay; he has poured out his Spirit upon you, and has caused that your hearts should be filled with joy, and has caused that your mouths should be stopped that ye could not find utterance, so exceedingly great was your joy. And now, if God, who has created you, on whom you are dependent for your lives and for all that ye have and are, doth grant unto you whatsoever ye ask that is right, in faith, believing that ye shall receive, O then, how ye ought to impart of the substance that ye have one to another."
Isn't he saying that no matter how hard we try, we will never actually be self-reliant because we will always be indebted to God? Indeed, thinking we can do it all on our own makes us guilty of pride and aligns us with Satan's easy, pre-mortal dismissal of a savior.
So what do you think? How do you reconcile the idea of self-reliance with the idea of unity? In a Church where both important concepts are preached with regularity, what do you define as "self-reliance?"
Sunday, March 01, 2009
I Don't Care If He Is Happy, As Long As He Is Surprised
On Wednesday I called my mum for a bit of a chat. We spoke about my dad's 60th birthday coming up this weekend and the surprise party she was putting together for him. She then said, "I really wish you could be here."
It was the first time I had considered this. As I mentioned a week or two ago, Plantboy and I are planning a trip "home" in April. My mom also turns 60 in March, but knowing that we would see them later in the spring I hadn't considered coming for either of their birthdays. After mom and I hung up, I checked Delta for fares and I was pleased about the affordability. Especially if mom was willing to go halves. After a surprisingly easy number of arrangements, I boarded a plane, BY MYSELF, in Portland on Friday. (I hadn't been alone in the airport for thirty minutes when I'd bought a hamburger, Dr. Pepper and the most luscious, chocolaty, $4 cookie you have ever seen. Now do you understand why it is bad, very bad, for me to spend too much time alone?)
After a lovely two-hour conversation with an Indian woman who is a mechanical engineer, Mom picked me up at the airport, and filled me in on the plans for the surprise party. She was trying to figure out a way to get Dad out of the house Saturday afternoon so that she could go to the party room at the restaurant and decorate it. I suggested, very unselfishly I might add, that he and I could go skiing for the afternoon. It would be no problem to borrow my sister's gear and get him out of the way for a few hours. She agreed and then we talked about how to convince him that he wanted to eat at a Mexican place he only has marginal feelings for. It had been a long day and she said, with no small amount of impatience, "I don't care if he's happy; I just want him to be surprised!" That became the mantra for the weekend.
About an hour later I walked into my dad's kitchen and said, "Surprise!" The look on his face was priceless. One surprise down.
He was so thrilled and distracted to see me that convincing him of the rest was easy. "You don't want to go to Cabella's on your birthday, Dad! I'm never here--we should go skiing!" Um, okay. "You don't want to go to a steakhouse on your birthday, Dad! I'm never here--and I'm really craving Mexican food!" Um, okay.
Skiing was fantastic. The day was sunny, clear and almost warm. The snow wasn't too icy or crusty, though it hasn't snowed for a week, and we met people from all over the country. It struck me more powerfully than ever before just how lucky I was to grow up where I did and with the opportunities I had. It is impossible for me to imagine a happier way to help the first man in my life celebrate his birthday. When I was growing up, my mom and sister hated to ski, and it was always my special thing I got to do with the boys. My abilities are extremely average, but there is nothing better to clear the mind than cruising as fast as you dare straight downhill until your breath won't come any more, and then stopping on a ridge and looking out as far as you can see past layer upon layer of mountains, gulping great gasps of frigid air.
Not all was perfection, however; the muscles in my thighs don't really think that skiing is an activity that should be attempted biennially. My older brother and I have begun to think that there are some activities that we just have to do more often or quit all together. I'm voting for more often. It has worked for my dad--he could have outskiied me by at least six runs yesterday though he is nearly twice my age.
At the ski shop I bought a sticker for my dad to put on his helmet, so that he always remembers what he did the day he turned 60. And I had to have this hat. Isn't it just so cute?
That night we made it to the restaurant, just when Mom and I wanted to, but frustratingly late for my dad. He was fuming because he kept saying that we'd never get back home in time to meet the other kids for ice cream and cake at 7:30 as late as we were leaving. We smiled and stalled and acted in all ways innocent of any plotting.
The surprise over my appearance was nothing compared to seeing a roomful of family in the place he least expected them. I thought my mom was going to have to go after the defibrillator paddles. Six of my dad's brothers were there with their spouses, a couple of nieces and nephews, his mother, three of his children and/or their spouses, and six of his nine grandchildren. Dinner was a little better than marginal, and the company was fantastic. After my dad recovered from the shock a bit, one of his brothers called out, "I hope you brought your Visa!"
The weekend has been lovely, irresponsible and different. My dad is now highly suspicious of anything anyone tells him, having been lied to so many times this week, but I'm sure he'll get over it. I think I'm missing my kiddos, and I will return to them rested, rejuvenated and re-committed.
It was the first time I had considered this. As I mentioned a week or two ago, Plantboy and I are planning a trip "home" in April. My mom also turns 60 in March, but knowing that we would see them later in the spring I hadn't considered coming for either of their birthdays. After mom and I hung up, I checked Delta for fares and I was pleased about the affordability. Especially if mom was willing to go halves. After a surprisingly easy number of arrangements, I boarded a plane, BY MYSELF, in Portland on Friday. (I hadn't been alone in the airport for thirty minutes when I'd bought a hamburger, Dr. Pepper and the most luscious, chocolaty, $4 cookie you have ever seen. Now do you understand why it is bad, very bad, for me to spend too much time alone?)
After a lovely two-hour conversation with an Indian woman who is a mechanical engineer, Mom picked me up at the airport, and filled me in on the plans for the surprise party. She was trying to figure out a way to get Dad out of the house Saturday afternoon so that she could go to the party room at the restaurant and decorate it. I suggested, very unselfishly I might add, that he and I could go skiing for the afternoon. It would be no problem to borrow my sister's gear and get him out of the way for a few hours. She agreed and then we talked about how to convince him that he wanted to eat at a Mexican place he only has marginal feelings for. It had been a long day and she said, with no small amount of impatience, "I don't care if he's happy; I just want him to be surprised!" That became the mantra for the weekend.
About an hour later I walked into my dad's kitchen and said, "Surprise!" The look on his face was priceless. One surprise down.
He was so thrilled and distracted to see me that convincing him of the rest was easy. "You don't want to go to Cabella's on your birthday, Dad! I'm never here--we should go skiing!" Um, okay. "You don't want to go to a steakhouse on your birthday, Dad! I'm never here--and I'm really craving Mexican food!" Um, okay.
Skiing was fantastic. The day was sunny, clear and almost warm. The snow wasn't too icy or crusty, though it hasn't snowed for a week, and we met people from all over the country. It struck me more powerfully than ever before just how lucky I was to grow up where I did and with the opportunities I had. It is impossible for me to imagine a happier way to help the first man in my life celebrate his birthday. When I was growing up, my mom and sister hated to ski, and it was always my special thing I got to do with the boys. My abilities are extremely average, but there is nothing better to clear the mind than cruising as fast as you dare straight downhill until your breath won't come any more, and then stopping on a ridge and looking out as far as you can see past layer upon layer of mountains, gulping great gasps of frigid air.
Not all was perfection, however; the muscles in my thighs don't really think that skiing is an activity that should be attempted biennially. My older brother and I have begun to think that there are some activities that we just have to do more often or quit all together. I'm voting for more often. It has worked for my dad--he could have outskiied me by at least six runs yesterday though he is nearly twice my age.
At the ski shop I bought a sticker for my dad to put on his helmet, so that he always remembers what he did the day he turned 60. And I had to have this hat. Isn't it just so cute?
That night we made it to the restaurant, just when Mom and I wanted to, but frustratingly late for my dad. He was fuming because he kept saying that we'd never get back home in time to meet the other kids for ice cream and cake at 7:30 as late as we were leaving. We smiled and stalled and acted in all ways innocent of any plotting.
The surprise over my appearance was nothing compared to seeing a roomful of family in the place he least expected them. I thought my mom was going to have to go after the defibrillator paddles. Six of my dad's brothers were there with their spouses, a couple of nieces and nephews, his mother, three of his children and/or their spouses, and six of his nine grandchildren. Dinner was a little better than marginal, and the company was fantastic. After my dad recovered from the shock a bit, one of his brothers called out, "I hope you brought your Visa!"
The weekend has been lovely, irresponsible and different. My dad is now highly suspicious of anything anyone tells him, having been lied to so many times this week, but I'm sure he'll get over it. I think I'm missing my kiddos, and I will return to them rested, rejuvenated and re-committed.
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