This morning I finished my newspaper route just before six o'clock. It was still very dark, but a perfect mid-fall morning: clear and cold. The crisp air made the stars seem even brighter, cutting straight down into me. Orion soared overhead in his winter habitat; Cassiopeia was even vividly recognizable from my childhood memories; the Big Dipper was tipped clear on its side, ladling its contents over hundreds of millions of square miles.
I was exhausted--I've been trying to get by on five hours of sleep too many days in a row--but I felt that contented sense of accomplishment that follows a job well done. Even a mundane job. I was eagerly anticipating crawling back into my warm bed and getting another hour's rest. The song on my iPod was "One" by U2, though it was the Mary J. Blige cover version. I think "One" is probably my favorite song of all time, and Ms. Blige's version beats the pants off even the sublime original.
I walked over to my car and looked up into that awesome, cold sky, held my arms aloft and let those remarkable lyrics just wash over me:
Did I ask too much?
More than a lot
You gave me nothing
Now that's all I got
We're one
But we're not the same
Will we hurt each other?
Then we do it again
You say
Love is a temple
Love a higher law
Love is a temple
Love the higher law
You ask me to enter
But then you make me crawl
And I can't be holding on
To what you got
When all you got is hurt
One love
One blood
One life
You got to do what you should
One life with each other
Sisters.
Brothers.
One life
But we're not the same
We get to carry each other
Carry each other . . . .
I was transported a billion miles away from that cold dark street and I felt like a part of the music, like a key cog in the immense functioning of the universe, a person who might make a difference with the power to help carry others. Arms still aloft, I spun around and looked skyward at all of God's glorious creation, as if I might somehow embrace it all. It was one of those moments when you are completely by yourself, and yet your connection to every living thing is so powerful that you feel like a sister to each human child and red-gold maple.
Then I heard a noise.
I stopped and looked. A man with a dog, whom I sometimes see in the morning on a different street, was walking toward me, just fifteen feet away. He glanced at me in the dark and quickly switched to the other side of the street. No doubt to get away from the crazy woman, who at least had the sense to keep her barbaric yawping to herself. All my momentary poetry turned to prose and, holding my head down, jumped in the car, missing first gear in my haste to get away.
Ten minutes later I crawled into bed, all glorious sense of possibility drained away, today feeling no more or less special and essential than yesterday or the day before. Exhaustion was more powerful than my insight into the divine.
But for a moment, just before dawn, I knew that the whole universe was possible, my potential limitless, my capacity to DO immense. You must download that song--it is the best $1.29 I've ever spent.
Showing posts with label funny or not so much. Show all posts
Showing posts with label funny or not so much. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Thursday, October 07, 2010
We'd Like to Interupt the Regularly Scheduled Programming
Plantboy is out of town.
That is why I'm blogging at 11:15.
It is probably why we've been eating chicken nuggets from paper plates for two days. It is why there is so much stuff on my bed that I might be sleeping on the couch, and going to bed way too late. It is certainly why I stayed up last night watching chick flicks and sipping hot cocoa.
And it might be why I dyed my hair. After all, the grow out line wasn't that dramatic.
Dying it as dark as I did is the fault of "A Room With a View." I was too engrossed to jump up and rinse right at 25 minutes. It might have been 35 minutes before I pulled myself away from Lucy and George and Italy.
Or 40 minutes. Yes, of course I have a pause button.
The point is that I've gone dark in the winter time the last few years and I really like it. After a few washes it will fade to a color people (including myself) are more familiar with. Seeing as how I've been blond since July, however, today's contrast is very stark.
Still, it was a bit harsh to run into a friendish sort of a person tonight who exclaimed, "Oh my GOSH!!! What have you done to your hair???" She is also much taller than me, so when she patted my hair I felt especially stupid. She followed her first remark with this gem, "I loved your pretty blond, what were you thinking?" I wanted to tell her EXACTLY what I was thinking. And a big part of me really wants to tell you too. But I won't. I think I'll just go lather, rinse and repeat.
I miss Plantboy . . . .
That is why I'm blogging at 11:15.
It is probably why we've been eating chicken nuggets from paper plates for two days. It is why there is so much stuff on my bed that I might be sleeping on the couch, and going to bed way too late. It is certainly why I stayed up last night watching chick flicks and sipping hot cocoa.
And it might be why I dyed my hair. After all, the grow out line wasn't that dramatic.
Dying it as dark as I did is the fault of "A Room With a View." I was too engrossed to jump up and rinse right at 25 minutes. It might have been 35 minutes before I pulled myself away from Lucy and George and Italy.
Or 40 minutes. Yes, of course I have a pause button.
The point is that I've gone dark in the winter time the last few years and I really like it. After a few washes it will fade to a color people (including myself) are more familiar with. Seeing as how I've been blond since July, however, today's contrast is very stark.
Still, it was a bit harsh to run into a friendish sort of a person tonight who exclaimed, "Oh my GOSH!!! What have you done to your hair???" She is also much taller than me, so when she patted my hair I felt especially stupid. She followed her first remark with this gem, "I loved your pretty blond, what were you thinking?" I wanted to tell her EXACTLY what I was thinking. And a big part of me really wants to tell you too. But I won't. I think I'll just go lather, rinse and repeat.
I miss Plantboy . . . .
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Home Is Where the Battle Is
Today in church during our Young Women class (Aside: is it Young Women's class? I never know how to tense this correctly. If the name of the organization is Young Women, then shouldn't it just be Young Women class? After all, we don't says Boy Scouts' meeting. We just say "Boy Scouts." Maybe the confusion comes from the fact that they are both a lower case group of young women and part of an organization called Young Women. End aside.) the teacher was conducting a lesson on Making Your House a Home. A concept which is very broad and involves all kinds of things. We discussed spiritual, emotional, physical environments as well as all kinds of craftiness. Of course.
Anyway, during one part of the lesson, she read a quote from somebody who had spent some time in Holland and they commented on how welcoming each home looked, with its large glass windowpanes accented only with fresh curtains and a windowboxes filled with bright geraniums. The person being quoted (circa 1967!) also noted that the homes were often given a name. These names carried such cheery designations as Sunny Corner, Sunbeam, Sun Cottage, Peace Haven, Tranquility. She then asked the girls to imagine what their own dream home looked and felt like and what it might be called.
I remembered the pictures of the houses I diligently cut out of Better Homes and Gardens each month when I was a kids, as well as the few I designed myself during the I-want-to-be-an-architect phase. (That was right before I realized I had zero art talent.) Spiral staircases. Three story great rooms. Dens with 20 feet stone fireplaces. Kitchens with huge butcher-block islands under shiny copper pots and amazing smells. Walk in pantries filled delicious, decadent things to eat. Lofts where children play cheerfully together and always put their toys away into bright, color coded bins. Two story libraries with sliding ladders along rich, mahogany book shelves. A laundry room with benches and hooks and shoe cubbies and a chute from the second story. . . you know, all the normal stuff people dream about. And then my mind flashed to my own home and its barely organized chaos, tiny bedroom and ever-cluttered spaces with my three little Jedi constantly underfoot and in my ears. My mind drifted as the teacher got feedback from the girls and then she asked, "What name would you give your home now?"
"Death Star."
Titters on the back row from the girls who have been brave enough to babysit here.
Oh? Did I say that out loud? Oops.
Anyway, during one part of the lesson, she read a quote from somebody who had spent some time in Holland and they commented on how welcoming each home looked, with its large glass windowpanes accented only with fresh curtains and a windowboxes filled with bright geraniums. The person being quoted (circa 1967!) also noted that the homes were often given a name. These names carried such cheery designations as Sunny Corner, Sunbeam, Sun Cottage, Peace Haven, Tranquility. She then asked the girls to imagine what their own dream home looked and felt like and what it might be called.
I remembered the pictures of the houses I diligently cut out of Better Homes and Gardens each month when I was a kids, as well as the few I designed myself during the I-want-to-be-an-architect phase. (That was right before I realized I had zero art talent.) Spiral staircases. Three story great rooms. Dens with 20 feet stone fireplaces. Kitchens with huge butcher-block islands under shiny copper pots and amazing smells. Walk in pantries filled delicious, decadent things to eat. Lofts where children play cheerfully together and always put their toys away into bright, color coded bins. Two story libraries with sliding ladders along rich, mahogany book shelves. A laundry room with benches and hooks and shoe cubbies and a chute from the second story. . . you know, all the normal stuff people dream about. And then my mind flashed to my own home and its barely organized chaos, tiny bedroom and ever-cluttered spaces with my three little Jedi constantly underfoot and in my ears. My mind drifted as the teacher got feedback from the girls and then she asked, "What name would you give your home now?"
"Death Star."
Titters on the back row from the girls who have been brave enough to babysit here.
Oh? Did I say that out loud? Oops.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Stars Are People Too. Sort Of.
Last Friday Night, Plantboy and I watched the Hope For Haiti Telethon. The DVR has kept awards shows from being nearly as much fun as they used to be, as now we skip the awful performances instead of watching purely for mock value. Still, now and then we can't resist and we tuned in real-time to see who turned up at George Clooney's request (Oh! Pick me!), and if the iTunes $7.99 album price was really going to be worth another avenue for donating to organizations who are helping in the aftermath of the Haitian earthquake.
Of course you understand that any snark that follows here is not meant in any way to make light of the horrors still being experienced daily in Port Au Prince and surrounding areas. And I actually think that this kind of benefit concert-thing is one of the best uses of star power/influence/world domination/money. Still, it doesn't change the fact that when famous people get together, their self-importance borders on the ridiculous. Scratch that. It doesn't BORDER on ridiculous. It sets up camp right in the middle of Ridiculous. Or maybe permanent settlements.
If you missed the show, even better. You will come with no pre-conceived opinions and only listen to mine. (And so my own plan for world domination gains traction.)
And speaking of world domination, we should perhaps address Taylor Swift first. Nearly everybody wore black or gray or some variation on being appropriately somber. Ms. Swift wore white. I think she was adorable, and white can also be a color of mourning as well as hope. I liked it. She did a cool cover of a song by an alternative band, which is very interesting. Nothing to make fun of here, though Plantboy did say, "Do you think she ever actually eats?"
All right, all right, perhaps I should have saved the best for last, but I just couldn't help it. Kid Rock, Sheryl Crow and Keith Urban's cover of "Lean on Me" was just so amazing. Besides the fact that each of these singers has a fantastic voice, the harmony was sublime. Loved it. Worth the cost of the whole album, this, though each song is available on its own, too. And yet, as wonderful as it was, I wish the men had taken cue from Ms. Crow and buttoned their shirts up (even your snazzy, snappy, leather shirt Keith. That tatoo on your chest should be for Nicole's eyes only, if you know what I mean.) And who else thinks that Kid Rock might be bald?
While some stars are hairless, others are plainly suffering from a surfeit of hair. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad Brad showed. I really expected he and the Angester to be down at the epicenter trying to adopt Haitian quintuplets. Maybe they wouldn't let him into the country on account of the creatures that he might be transporting in his face. Is this for a movie? Or is he making kind of a statement? And if it is a movie, I sat through three hours of him as an old man last year, I really don't think I could sit through one where he sports this disgusting mass this year. Maybe he grew the beard to distract the audience from that hat. Isn't he supposed to be cute? Honestly, what good IS Brad Pitt if he isn't cute?
I think this picture isn't actually from the performance as Mr. Timberlake sat at the piano the whole time. The song he sang, "Halleluja" has actually gotten the most downloads off iTunes. I think it is because this song has never before been released singly on iTunes--you can only buy it as part of an album or it is not available (except as an American Idol snippet from a few years ago), and let's face it, the song is awesome. Even if, I'm sorry to say, Justin, your fedora is not.
In an unrelated note, Justin T. looks a lot like my little brother, who I think is becoming a doctor, but maybe he has been tricking us all these years.
Ms. Roberts, you are just so cute, and though your hair is expertly colored, I really miss your red locks. (You too, Nicole. Why exactly DO women want to be blond?) I halfway wanted to call the telethon so that I could talk with Julia, but then I thought, "What are the odds?" When she gave her speech, she gave the horsey smile a rest and buttoned up that innocent looking coat only to reveal that the line of buttons was totally crooked. Not a pea coat, per se, but the coat definitely looked like something that might have come out of my 9th grade sewing class. Her hair was so disheveled it looked like she'd spent the afternoon in a wind tunnel. Plantboy said, "Oooo, boy, I don't think she went to wardrobe OR the wigmaster before getting on camera."
"Hello, hello. No we don't want your donation. You're Jewish. Isn't this somehow your fault?" Was that over the top? I'm sorry. I used to really like Mel Gibson, but in the last few years I've decided that he is just crazy as a loon. Again, isn't Mel supposed to be good looking? One day you wake up and realize that all of this once-hunky movie stars are older than your parents and it makes you weep.
Do you remember that really annoying shampoo commercial from some years ago wherein the sexy hair model said, "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful?" And you were thinking, "I don't hate you because you are beautiful; I hate you because you are stupid." Okay, I have to own it. I hate these women because they are beautiful. *Grrrrr* All women are NOT created equal.
Sing it Coldplay. But give Brad his hat back when you are finished. His beard is lonely.
Yeah, she was awesome doing this song, even if my feeling toward her as a performer has never been anything but lukewarm. We knew a guy in Texas who went to high school with her in Pennsylvania. Every story he told about her contradicted the life story image her publicists have carefully constructed. Oh, and her hair was nearly black. And while nobody should be surprised to learn that shiny white is not an actual hair color, I'm just sayin' that Christina must have her roots done EVERY DAY.
I know that in real life these two are engaged, but it is just so weird to see Jim without Pam, and it is really hard for me to see laid-back midwestern guy with posh British girl. Still they look happy. I bet it lasts . . . . um . . . . four years. Practically an eternity in Hollywood terms.
Sting. Oh, Sting. How I love the Police. Which haven't been around since the 80's. And oh, Sting. How you keep coming back. If You Love Someone Set Them Free was good. Oh! And Fields of Gold takes me back to many spring time afternoons during my senior year of high school. Then there was that song they put on a car commercial a few years ago. Then there was the fiasco that was Friday night. We tried and tried to listen. You are STING after all, and it was a Police song. After about two very confusing and discordant minutes Plantboy said, "You know, his lyrics are really repetitive." Moments pass and then, "REALLY repetitive." We waited and waited while you did your version of wailing on your guitar and then one of us said (it is hard to remember; it may have been simultaneous), "This just really sucks."
When I put in a google image search for "Hope for Haiti Telethon" half of the first ten million hits (roughly) came back with the tortured and brooding vampire boy. Before your heart stops beating, no, Pattycakes refrained from singing. Thank whatever deity pleases you most here. He did, however talk. No, mumble. As if he wasn't hard enough to understand before (even in his native British), he has now grown a beard the size of a small hedgehog, the hair from his back finally winning the war for his face. The jury is still out if the beard is just giving up on shaving every day (this is probably 2-3 days' stubble for Sir Robert), or if his cameo role in New Moon made him realize that most girls prefer werewolves.
And is it ironic that in the books Edward is always referred to as marble smooth and Jacob is the big, hairy werewolf, when in person, these two characters are exactly the opposite? Taylor Lautner couldn't grow hair on his face if Bella's life depended on it.
Though she didn't during her speech on Friday night, apparently Nicole Kidman really CAN smile. But honestly, look who she is sitting with, what's not to smile about? Did I mention that Keith Urban performed? In a black, leather, snappy shirt? I wonder if he and Taylor Lautner see the same pluckist. (That is like a stylist for hair removal.)
And another. How did this one sneak in? I think this is from when he stole the show at last year's Idol finale.
"Want a beer, Keith?"
"No thanks Kid, I'm a recovering alcoholic."
"Cool. I'm just the regular kind of alcoholic."
Madonna only comes out at night. She is terrified of what the sun will do to her face. As Plantboy says, "She DOES take good care of herself."
And as Science Teacher Mommy says, "How much botox can one woman have before permanently paralyzing her face?" Or, "How much plastic surgery do you get before they just automatically enroll you in the witness protection program?"
Is that a stogie? Nice job Leo. What are you like, 60? He looks less like a Hollywood actor and more like someone on Saturday Night Live playing a Hollywood actor.
Another one? It is like somebody took over my computer and just started clipping and posting pictures of Keith Urban. Darn it.
Bono, dude, I love you man, but could you please offer some sort of explanation for why you suddenly cropped up ten years ago with sunglasses glued to your face? Everywhere?
I like me some bangs. So much, in fact, that I cut some into my own hair about a year ago. It was a great move and I have no regrets. I'm really liking Beyonce's bangs. But I wonder if she is? She kept her eyes closed during her entire song and I think it was because her bangs were in her eyes. She also sang one of those songs that clearly had the word Haiti inserted into older lyrics in order to create a last minute, "unique" song, that she wouldn't have to learn. It sounded like it was written in the limo on the way to the studio. Still, she sounded great and I'm really glad she didn't opt for the red lingerie in public look. Which she has been known to do.
What is the deal with Anderson Cooper? Is he cute or just creepy looking? Is he old or young? Is he buff or geeky? Is he human or a robot? Liberal or factual?
This signature performance of the night was pretty good. I thought they didn't have Bono's mic turned up nearly high enough, though the sound of this song, with The Edge on guitar, was clearly very U2. Rihanna sang very well, considering how embarrassed she must have been to have forgotten her pants. I don't think she understood that just because you wear black doesn't mean you have actually toned down your look. When Bono held her hand at the end of their song, he started getting really into it and raised her arm slightly. I was convinced there was going to be a major wardrobe malfunction.
Now onto how I spent the rest of the weekend.
Saturday night I put together a meal that will knock your socks off and into the dryer. The preparation is relatively easy, but the result surpasses anything you could buy in a restaurant, if you could even find a meal like this anywhere. Bookmark this page and when you grocery shop before Valentine's Day, just keep in mind this sweet spread. No honey for Valentine's Day? No problem. Just gather your girlfriends close and indulge in this goodness together. You'll be too happy to care. But if the last scenario is the case, I highly recommend the chocolate dessert.
I may have posted one or two of these recipes before. My apologies.
Your preparation for the Meal of the Month needs to start the night before. Yes, I know it sound ludicrous, but it will be worth it, trust me. The preparations here are for four people.
Lemon-Rosemary Artisan Bread
Before going to bed the night before you will do the actual cooking for this dinner, combine three cups of all purpose flour, 1/2 tsp. of active, dry yeast, tsp of sugar, 1 3/4 tsp salt, 2 tsp chopped fresh rosemary and 2 tsp chopped lemon zest in a bowl. Stir in 1 3/4 cup warm water until the dough is shaggy and sticky. Let it raise in a lightly greased bowl, covered with plastic wrap for 18 hours. That is NOT a typo. We'll get back to the bread later.
Rosemary Chicken
Also before going to bed, place 4 raw chicken breasts in a pan that can be covered. Drizzle with olive oil, balsamic vinegar, juice from two lemons, garlic powder, chopped fresh rosemary and black pepper. Do you want specific amounts? Sorry. I also can't tell you to do it "to taste" because I am certainly not going to advocate eating raw chicken. Trust me, this is hard to mess up. If you balsamic vinegar is young, don't use as much because it tastes vinegar-y. If it is older, it will be sweeter and had more tangy richness and you can be a little bit more generous. (Note: Marinades with acid in them, like lime, lemon or vinegar can do a great job of tenderizing your meat if they are given ample time to sit on them.)
With about two hours to go before you are going to eat, turn your bread dough out on to a surface that is lightly floured and dusted with cornmeal. Do NOT knead, just shape it. I like to cook mine on a baking stone, though many similar recipes tell you to use a Dutch oven of some kind. I also like to divide my loaf in half and shape them long and skinny--somewhere between a baguette and a loaf. This makes them cook faster and easier to limit ourselves to just eating half the recipe in a single sitting. Place loaves (or loaf) on the the cooking surface, Cover with the plastic for another 90 minutes
Now you are going to make your first side dish--Cindy's Perfect Pasta Salad. This a shout out to my friend who gave me the recipe. She said this serves eight, but who is she kidding?
Boil 2 cups small pasta until tender. Drain and run with cold water. Combine 2 chopped large ripe tomatoes (or a pint of grape tomatoes), 1 diced red pepper, 1 small, slivered purple onion (or 4 green onions), 3/4 cup fresh cilantro (the ingredient that makes this dish unusual and wonderful), 1 large cucumber chunked up, and 1 can of black olives in a large bowl. In a small bowl combine 4 ounces of feta with 2 cloves crushed garlic, 1 1/2 Tbsp dried oregano and 2 Tbs fresh lemon juice. Whisk in a tbsp of olive oil until just blended. You still want much of the feta to be chunky. Pour over the salad and stir in the cooked pasta. Refrigerate.
This picture isn't exactly right, but it is close. We ate ours too fast for me to remember to photograph it. Imagine pasta where the tofu is.
Still with me? Heat up your oven to 400 degrees and turn on the grill. Bake two loaves for about 27 minutes--I like mine a little less dark and crusty than the picture below. A large loaf will take closer to 40 minutes.
While your bread is cooking, throw the chicken on the grill and steam some asparagus. (Stir-fried green beans and carrots would work too if your man resists asparagus the way mine does.) Pull the chicken off the grill and tent some foil over it if you don't quite have your table set yet.
Just before serving the asparagus, saute a couple of tablespoons of butter with a handful of pinenuts until golden brown. Pour them over your artfully arranged asparagus spears and squeeze the juice of a lemon over the top. Serve immediately.
For dessert, you should serve chocolate lava cake--which I gave the recipe for last year around Valentine's Day,
or you could make trifle. Kanaboke emailed me for my thoughts on trifle earlier this week and it got me thinking what a lovely contribution such a dessert would be to this meal. So here is Trifle: Science Teacher Mommy Style. (Yes, I know I lived in Australia for a year and a half, but don't kid yourself, this is the all-American version as they used Jell-O in Oz. I avoid Jell-O every chance I get.)
You need four ingredients for my trifle:
Pound Cake
Family Sized Vanilla Pudding Mix
Quart of heavy whipping cream
Mixed berries (Fresh if you have them. Frozen in you must.)
Cut your pound cake into cubes and set aside. Make your vanilla pudding with a mixer, using half milk and half cream. Put the milk in first until the pudding is all blended in and then add the cream slowly while you continue whipping. It will be super rich and fluffy. It doesn't soak into the cake as much this way and has more of a mousse-like texture. Actually, you should probably make two boxes worth, you want some left over for the trifle when you are done licking the spoons. Whip up a cup and a half of cream with just enough powdered sugar to barely sweeten. The pudding makes this plenty sweet, you want the cream to make it rich.
In a pretty glass bowl--a trifle bowl if you are awesome like that--layer cubed cake pieces on the bottom with pudding on top. Add a layer of berries then whipped cream. Repeat at least once (depending on the size of your dish and the number of people you are serving) and finish with the whipped cream layer. I like to smooth my creamy layers so that the end result is flat instead of lumpy and holds together a little bit better when you dish it out. Garnish with berries.
Die happy.
Of course you understand that any snark that follows here is not meant in any way to make light of the horrors still being experienced daily in Port Au Prince and surrounding areas. And I actually think that this kind of benefit concert-thing is one of the best uses of star power/influence/world domination/money. Still, it doesn't change the fact that when famous people get together, their self-importance borders on the ridiculous. Scratch that. It doesn't BORDER on ridiculous. It sets up camp right in the middle of Ridiculous. Or maybe permanent settlements.
If you missed the show, even better. You will come with no pre-conceived opinions and only listen to mine. (And so my own plan for world domination gains traction.)
And speaking of world domination, we should perhaps address Taylor Swift first. Nearly everybody wore black or gray or some variation on being appropriately somber. Ms. Swift wore white. I think she was adorable, and white can also be a color of mourning as well as hope. I liked it. She did a cool cover of a song by an alternative band, which is very interesting. Nothing to make fun of here, though Plantboy did say, "Do you think she ever actually eats?"
All right, all right, perhaps I should have saved the best for last, but I just couldn't help it. Kid Rock, Sheryl Crow and Keith Urban's cover of "Lean on Me" was just so amazing. Besides the fact that each of these singers has a fantastic voice, the harmony was sublime. Loved it. Worth the cost of the whole album, this, though each song is available on its own, too. And yet, as wonderful as it was, I wish the men had taken cue from Ms. Crow and buttoned their shirts up (even your snazzy, snappy, leather shirt Keith. That tatoo on your chest should be for Nicole's eyes only, if you know what I mean.) And who else thinks that Kid Rock might be bald?
While some stars are hairless, others are plainly suffering from a surfeit of hair. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad Brad showed. I really expected he and the Angester to be down at the epicenter trying to adopt Haitian quintuplets. Maybe they wouldn't let him into the country on account of the creatures that he might be transporting in his face. Is this for a movie? Or is he making kind of a statement? And if it is a movie, I sat through three hours of him as an old man last year, I really don't think I could sit through one where he sports this disgusting mass this year. Maybe he grew the beard to distract the audience from that hat. Isn't he supposed to be cute? Honestly, what good IS Brad Pitt if he isn't cute?
I think this picture isn't actually from the performance as Mr. Timberlake sat at the piano the whole time. The song he sang, "Halleluja" has actually gotten the most downloads off iTunes. I think it is because this song has never before been released singly on iTunes--you can only buy it as part of an album or it is not available (except as an American Idol snippet from a few years ago), and let's face it, the song is awesome. Even if, I'm sorry to say, Justin, your fedora is not.
In an unrelated note, Justin T. looks a lot like my little brother, who I think is becoming a doctor, but maybe he has been tricking us all these years.
Ms. Roberts, you are just so cute, and though your hair is expertly colored, I really miss your red locks. (You too, Nicole. Why exactly DO women want to be blond?) I halfway wanted to call the telethon so that I could talk with Julia, but then I thought, "What are the odds?" When she gave her speech, she gave the horsey smile a rest and buttoned up that innocent looking coat only to reveal that the line of buttons was totally crooked. Not a pea coat, per se, but the coat definitely looked like something that might have come out of my 9th grade sewing class. Her hair was so disheveled it looked like she'd spent the afternoon in a wind tunnel. Plantboy said, "Oooo, boy, I don't think she went to wardrobe OR the wigmaster before getting on camera."
"Hello, hello. No we don't want your donation. You're Jewish. Isn't this somehow your fault?" Was that over the top? I'm sorry. I used to really like Mel Gibson, but in the last few years I've decided that he is just crazy as a loon. Again, isn't Mel supposed to be good looking? One day you wake up and realize that all of this once-hunky movie stars are older than your parents and it makes you weep.
Do you remember that really annoying shampoo commercial from some years ago wherein the sexy hair model said, "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful?" And you were thinking, "I don't hate you because you are beautiful; I hate you because you are stupid." Okay, I have to own it. I hate these women because they are beautiful. *Grrrrr* All women are NOT created equal.
Sing it Coldplay. But give Brad his hat back when you are finished. His beard is lonely.
Yeah, she was awesome doing this song, even if my feeling toward her as a performer has never been anything but lukewarm. We knew a guy in Texas who went to high school with her in Pennsylvania. Every story he told about her contradicted the life story image her publicists have carefully constructed. Oh, and her hair was nearly black. And while nobody should be surprised to learn that shiny white is not an actual hair color, I'm just sayin' that Christina must have her roots done EVERY DAY.
I know that in real life these two are engaged, but it is just so weird to see Jim without Pam, and it is really hard for me to see laid-back midwestern guy with posh British girl. Still they look happy. I bet it lasts . . . . um . . . . four years. Practically an eternity in Hollywood terms.
Sting. Oh, Sting. How I love the Police. Which haven't been around since the 80's. And oh, Sting. How you keep coming back. If You Love Someone Set Them Free was good. Oh! And Fields of Gold takes me back to many spring time afternoons during my senior year of high school. Then there was that song they put on a car commercial a few years ago. Then there was the fiasco that was Friday night. We tried and tried to listen. You are STING after all, and it was a Police song. After about two very confusing and discordant minutes Plantboy said, "You know, his lyrics are really repetitive." Moments pass and then, "REALLY repetitive." We waited and waited while you did your version of wailing on your guitar and then one of us said (it is hard to remember; it may have been simultaneous), "This just really sucks."
When I put in a google image search for "Hope for Haiti Telethon" half of the first ten million hits (roughly) came back with the tortured and brooding vampire boy. Before your heart stops beating, no, Pattycakes refrained from singing. Thank whatever deity pleases you most here. He did, however talk. No, mumble. As if he wasn't hard enough to understand before (even in his native British), he has now grown a beard the size of a small hedgehog, the hair from his back finally winning the war for his face. The jury is still out if the beard is just giving up on shaving every day (this is probably 2-3 days' stubble for Sir Robert), or if his cameo role in New Moon made him realize that most girls prefer werewolves.
And is it ironic that in the books Edward is always referred to as marble smooth and Jacob is the big, hairy werewolf, when in person, these two characters are exactly the opposite? Taylor Lautner couldn't grow hair on his face if Bella's life depended on it.
Though she didn't during her speech on Friday night, apparently Nicole Kidman really CAN smile. But honestly, look who she is sitting with, what's not to smile about? Did I mention that Keith Urban performed? In a black, leather, snappy shirt? I wonder if he and Taylor Lautner see the same pluckist. (That is like a stylist for hair removal.)
And another. How did this one sneak in? I think this is from when he stole the show at last year's Idol finale.
"Want a beer, Keith?""No thanks Kid, I'm a recovering alcoholic."
"Cool. I'm just the regular kind of alcoholic."
Madonna only comes out at night. She is terrified of what the sun will do to her face. As Plantboy says, "She DOES take good care of herself."
And as Science Teacher Mommy says, "How much botox can one woman have before permanently paralyzing her face?" Or, "How much plastic surgery do you get before they just automatically enroll you in the witness protection program?"
Is that a stogie? Nice job Leo. What are you like, 60? He looks less like a Hollywood actor and more like someone on Saturday Night Live playing a Hollywood actor.
There is that tatoo. Okay, maybe it isn't so bad.
Another one? It is like somebody took over my computer and just started clipping and posting pictures of Keith Urban. Darn it.
Bono, dude, I love you man, but could you please offer some sort of explanation for why you suddenly cropped up ten years ago with sunglasses glued to your face? Everywhere?
I like me some bangs. So much, in fact, that I cut some into my own hair about a year ago. It was a great move and I have no regrets. I'm really liking Beyonce's bangs. But I wonder if she is? She kept her eyes closed during her entire song and I think it was because her bangs were in her eyes. She also sang one of those songs that clearly had the word Haiti inserted into older lyrics in order to create a last minute, "unique" song, that she wouldn't have to learn. It sounded like it was written in the limo on the way to the studio. Still, she sounded great and I'm really glad she didn't opt for the red lingerie in public look. Which she has been known to do.
Help! They are attacking me!
What is the deal with Anderson Cooper? Is he cute or just creepy looking? Is he old or young? Is he buff or geeky? Is he human or a robot? Liberal or factual?
This signature performance of the night was pretty good. I thought they didn't have Bono's mic turned up nearly high enough, though the sound of this song, with The Edge on guitar, was clearly very U2. Rihanna sang very well, considering how embarrassed she must have been to have forgotten her pants. I don't think she understood that just because you wear black doesn't mean you have actually toned down your look. When Bono held her hand at the end of their song, he started getting really into it and raised her arm slightly. I was convinced there was going to be a major wardrobe malfunction.Now onto how I spent the rest of the weekend.
Saturday night I put together a meal that will knock your socks off and into the dryer. The preparation is relatively easy, but the result surpasses anything you could buy in a restaurant, if you could even find a meal like this anywhere. Bookmark this page and when you grocery shop before Valentine's Day, just keep in mind this sweet spread. No honey for Valentine's Day? No problem. Just gather your girlfriends close and indulge in this goodness together. You'll be too happy to care. But if the last scenario is the case, I highly recommend the chocolate dessert.
I may have posted one or two of these recipes before. My apologies.
Your preparation for the Meal of the Month needs to start the night before. Yes, I know it sound ludicrous, but it will be worth it, trust me. The preparations here are for four people.
Lemon-Rosemary Artisan Bread
Before going to bed the night before you will do the actual cooking for this dinner, combine three cups of all purpose flour, 1/2 tsp. of active, dry yeast, tsp of sugar, 1 3/4 tsp salt, 2 tsp chopped fresh rosemary and 2 tsp chopped lemon zest in a bowl. Stir in 1 3/4 cup warm water until the dough is shaggy and sticky. Let it raise in a lightly greased bowl, covered with plastic wrap for 18 hours. That is NOT a typo. We'll get back to the bread later.
Rosemary Chicken
Also before going to bed, place 4 raw chicken breasts in a pan that can be covered. Drizzle with olive oil, balsamic vinegar, juice from two lemons, garlic powder, chopped fresh rosemary and black pepper. Do you want specific amounts? Sorry. I also can't tell you to do it "to taste" because I am certainly not going to advocate eating raw chicken. Trust me, this is hard to mess up. If you balsamic vinegar is young, don't use as much because it tastes vinegar-y. If it is older, it will be sweeter and had more tangy richness and you can be a little bit more generous. (Note: Marinades with acid in them, like lime, lemon or vinegar can do a great job of tenderizing your meat if they are given ample time to sit on them.)
With about two hours to go before you are going to eat, turn your bread dough out on to a surface that is lightly floured and dusted with cornmeal. Do NOT knead, just shape it. I like to cook mine on a baking stone, though many similar recipes tell you to use a Dutch oven of some kind. I also like to divide my loaf in half and shape them long and skinny--somewhere between a baguette and a loaf. This makes them cook faster and easier to limit ourselves to just eating half the recipe in a single sitting. Place loaves (or loaf) on the the cooking surface, Cover with the plastic for another 90 minutes
Now you are going to make your first side dish--Cindy's Perfect Pasta Salad. This a shout out to my friend who gave me the recipe. She said this serves eight, but who is she kidding?
Boil 2 cups small pasta until tender. Drain and run with cold water. Combine 2 chopped large ripe tomatoes (or a pint of grape tomatoes), 1 diced red pepper, 1 small, slivered purple onion (or 4 green onions), 3/4 cup fresh cilantro (the ingredient that makes this dish unusual and wonderful), 1 large cucumber chunked up, and 1 can of black olives in a large bowl. In a small bowl combine 4 ounces of feta with 2 cloves crushed garlic, 1 1/2 Tbsp dried oregano and 2 Tbs fresh lemon juice. Whisk in a tbsp of olive oil until just blended. You still want much of the feta to be chunky. Pour over the salad and stir in the cooked pasta. Refrigerate.
This picture isn't exactly right, but it is close. We ate ours too fast for me to remember to photograph it. Imagine pasta where the tofu is.
Still with me? Heat up your oven to 400 degrees and turn on the grill. Bake two loaves for about 27 minutes--I like mine a little less dark and crusty than the picture below. A large loaf will take closer to 40 minutes.
While your bread is cooking, throw the chicken on the grill and steam some asparagus. (Stir-fried green beans and carrots would work too if your man resists asparagus the way mine does.) Pull the chicken off the grill and tent some foil over it if you don't quite have your table set yet.
Just before serving the asparagus, saute a couple of tablespoons of butter with a handful of pinenuts until golden brown. Pour them over your artfully arranged asparagus spears and squeeze the juice of a lemon over the top. Serve immediately.
For dessert, you should serve chocolate lava cake--which I gave the recipe for last year around Valentine's Day,
or you could make trifle. Kanaboke emailed me for my thoughts on trifle earlier this week and it got me thinking what a lovely contribution such a dessert would be to this meal. So here is Trifle: Science Teacher Mommy Style. (Yes, I know I lived in Australia for a year and a half, but don't kid yourself, this is the all-American version as they used Jell-O in Oz. I avoid Jell-O every chance I get.)
You need four ingredients for my trifle:
Pound Cake
Family Sized Vanilla Pudding Mix
Quart of heavy whipping cream
Mixed berries (Fresh if you have them. Frozen in you must.)
Cut your pound cake into cubes and set aside. Make your vanilla pudding with a mixer, using half milk and half cream. Put the milk in first until the pudding is all blended in and then add the cream slowly while you continue whipping. It will be super rich and fluffy. It doesn't soak into the cake as much this way and has more of a mousse-like texture. Actually, you should probably make two boxes worth, you want some left over for the trifle when you are done licking the spoons. Whip up a cup and a half of cream with just enough powdered sugar to barely sweeten. The pudding makes this plenty sweet, you want the cream to make it rich.
In a pretty glass bowl--a trifle bowl if you are awesome like that--layer cubed cake pieces on the bottom with pudding on top. Add a layer of berries then whipped cream. Repeat at least once (depending on the size of your dish and the number of people you are serving) and finish with the whipped cream layer. I like to smooth my creamy layers so that the end result is flat instead of lumpy and holds together a little bit better when you dish it out. Garnish with berries.
Die happy.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Kreepy Kent And That One Time I Was Stalked
On Sunday I am speaking in church. My preparation has had me thinking about my time as a missionary in Australia. And while most of my memories from those months are amazing, there are others that, at the time, were downright scary. In retrospect, however, these memories are just plain funny. As my last several posts have been all issue-y, I decided it was time for one that was not.
A bit of background on LDS missionaries for those who may not know--women generally serve missions in their early 20's (no younger than 21); missionaries live a fairly strict set of rules, both for safety and to help them focus on the task at hand; female missionaries are called "sister" in front of your last name, but we aren't nuns and celibacy (thank goodness) is a condition with a time limit.
I'm not sure how Kent's obsession with the sister missionaries started, nor can I remember exactly why he started studying the Church anyway. This disclaimer might help explain why some details are a bit fuzzy.
In my memory, Kent looks like Will Farrell. From the Saturday Night Live Cowbell Skit. I could never really decide what his personality was like. Perhaps the word "multiple" would be most appropriate here.
Kent was studying with the elders (the boy missionaries) which was totally appropriate, but I think it was the sisters he had met first. Anyway, after some time working with the elders, he complained that they weren't sincere enough, nor patient enough. He would only continue studying the Church if he met with the sisters, so we taught him after our church meetings one day. I was immediately creeped out and had serious doubts about how interested he was in what we were teaching. He seemed mostly content to sidetrack our discussions, share his own agenda and use a lot of tired arguments to convince us of the futility of how we had chosen to spend our lives. And he stared. A lot.
My misgivings were strong enough that after just one meeting, we told him that we weren't really comfortable teaching him and if he was still interested in learning about the Church, the elders would do just fine, thank you very much.
This is about the time that the creepiness appeared. He agreed to go back to the elders, perhaps a little too readily, and then a few days later, through them, he passed on a referral to us. Sweet guy, he'd even gone to the pains to schedule an appointment with them. Because this person, "Goldie," he referred us to lived on the opposite side of the train tracks from us, she was actually in an area where some different sisters worked. Not wanting to sic someone of Kent's acquaintance onto the other sisters (one of whom was probably the prettiest woman I've ever met), we decided to go see Goldie first and if it was all on the up-and-up we would let the other sisters know.
We followed the address, knocked on the door, and guess what?
Yep. Kent answered the door. It was his mother's house. No, she was not at home; no, she wasn't interested in learning more. Kent was quite proud of himself for having found a way to circumvent those "silly boys" so that we could still teach him. Nobody had to know. And yes, by the way, he told us with a sly gleam in his freaky eyes, his nickname was "Goldie."
I know, I was thinking exactly the same thing, what kind of man has the nickname Goldie unless he is a James Bond villian or a mob boss?
We left.
Kent continued coming to church, trying to catch us unawares; which he frequently did. For a big, chubby guy he sure had some mad ninja skills. His favorite thing to do was present us with frangipani flowers, as some children often did. These lovely flowers (often called "plumeria" where they actually grow in the states) fit perfectly in the clip of our name tags and stayed fresh all day. Their smell is divine and it was kind of an Aussie-sister-missionary-thing. Refusal was awkward because then we just looked rude. Accepting them was, obviously, even worse.
Some weeks after the first "referral" he sent another to us. This time, it was actually in our area, information we probably let slip to Kent as he asked for details about where we worked, no doubt to get details about where we lived. Again, Kent had set the appointment time. We conveniently asked the neighboring elders to come and work with us that day, and decided to knock on doors on the street where Kent's appointment was scheduled. We explained the situation to the elders, who thought our spy-work was all great fun and they took the side of the street that would lead them to the appointment-house, though a day early.
No, this was not another address for Kent this time. It was, however, the address of Kent's Baptist minister who had more anti-Mormon literature on his shelf than he had books about all other subjects combined. He gave the elders an earful and then loaded them up with about 85 pamphlets apiece. "You kept them???" I said to the Elders when we met them for lunch.
Our district leader just smiled as he dumped them in the trash, "At least he can't give them to anyone else."
Needless to say, we did not keep our appointment with Kent and his minister. We did, however, have to see Kent at church again and listen to him rant about how we had violated his trust by sending the elders ahead. (Right . . . . because he hadn't ever violated our trust . . . ) We also got a package a few days later. From Kent. Or, I should say, I got a package. That's right, he stopped pretending to be wanting to study with the sisters for the sake of the church and moved straight ahead to his full intentions.
Before opening the package, I was already pretty freaked out. You see, in Australia, you have really tiny post boxes (especially in an apartment), and if a package comes that is too big to fit in the box, then you get a card telling you to come to the post office at your earliest convenience to pick it up. Yet, here was this enormous package on our doorstep. And inside the package was . . . wait for it . . .
A dress.
A teal green, off the shoulder, full skirted, tight-bodiced, formal dress, circa 1987.
That is when the screaming started.
As the package showed up on the doorstep, we assumed that Kent knew where we lived and had lovingly dropped it off himself. We called the Elders, who, bless their boy-hearts, came over immediately and checked out the apartment, only to find two windows in the house that had not been secured and could easily be opened from outside. They helped us tack up sheets on the windows and then sat with us that evening. It was decided that they would frequently check in with us over the next couple of days, and that on Sunday, we would talk to the bishop to get some advice.
On Sunday, we met with Kent, the elders, and the bishopbric. Bishop Purcell was a huge Maori man with soft brown eyes and a heart of gold; one of his counselors was a Tongan who looked like he could have bench-pressed Bishop Purcell. I've never been so grateful in my life to have two Polynesians at my back.
Trying to impress upon Kent the inappropriateness of the gift, he explained our rules to Kent who became very belligerent about him not having to follow our rules, and that he had tried to anyway. He insisted that he had sent the package to our general mission address in Sydney and that he had no idea where we lived. All eyes turned to me. Could this be true--that the package hadn't been addressed in Kent's hand to our apartment at all? I suddenly felt very stupid and over-reactionary. Here we were in this room holding a meeting that would basically bar Kent from ever attending church there again, and it might have been a big misunderstanding. I admitted that it might be entirely possible that the package had been sent through our mission office, but I was also quick to point out that it wasn't appropriate for him to be corresponding with me at all nor for him to send me something that was such an affront to my sense of of fashion.
Then emerged the tender-Kent personality. He became very apologetic and sincere, but something about his manner was raising red flags all over in me. I could see that all of the men in the room were starting to think that while Kent might be a little bit over the top, he was nothing compared to the near-hysterical sister missionary in their midst. And then dear Kent made his fatal mistake.
He took a step nearer to me and called me Princess.
I suddenly felt vicious and took a step closer in return summoning all of the anger in my massive 5'2" frame, all 115 pounds of me (there is more now) poised to attack, no doubt looking like a cat whose hair suddenly stands on end and begins spitting, "Don't you DARE call me that!" I shouted, right in the bishop's office. His completely inappropriate and freaky endearment finally swayed the argument in my direction. My companion held me back in my desire to scratch Kent's eyes out of his hairy face and the bishop said very calmly, "You are welcome to leave the premises of your own volition, or we can escort you."
Ken was at least six feet tall, but he was soft and slow. He cowered in the face of my two Lamanitish protectors and agreed to leave, though he spouted out curses on each of us in turn and the Church in general as he walked down the street toward the bus stop. The bishop and his cohort followed him to the edge of the property, just to be safe.
When my claws retracted, I felt sufficiently embarrassed (hysterics not being my typical modus operandi), but also deeply relieved.
I did not see my charming suitor again, but it didn't stop him from writing to me once in each of the areas I lived after that place. The letters were each sent through the mission office, as was probably the package that broke the camel's back. I never wrote back, even to acknowledge receipt of these letters that read more like manifestos. His first one or two expressed some disgusting, tender expressions that my companions and I would have a great laugh over. The last few of these were rants, more of the variety he expressed when leaving the church that day.
In fact, a letter from Kent was one of the last I received as a missionary. Scheduled to leave the country in just a few days, mail had gotten irregular at best (but then, was it ever anything else?) and I was surprised to receive any missive at all until I noticed the sender's tiny, cramped handwriting in the upper left corner. It had been a long month, my companion and I were both nearly finished with our service, we weren't working with anybody very seriously, it was hot, we were working in a ward (and city) where the main requirement for membership was that you have kangaroos loose in the paddock. (Aussie term meaning, "crazy as a loon.") Our main missionary work in four weeks had consisted of knocking on hundreds of doors for ten hours each day. I was tired; I thought Kent's letter would be worth a laugh.
My companion knew the story and we settled in to the ratty, old couch to have cold cereal for dinner and entertainment. I opened the letter and read the first line aloud in which (the exact words fail me) Kent told me that I was going to hell for my lack of charity, my general misunderstanding of God and my cruel nature. Tears pricked my eyes and I ripped the letter in shreds, feeling that anger inside me again. "I don't have to read this!" I told my surprised companion. "I've been a damn good missionary!" If the "damn" tells you otherwise, well, just note that I didn't say I'd been a perfect missionary. And it was Australia--they have a very loose standard of what constitutes a swear word there.
If my re-telling of this convinces you that Kent was right, and that I lack charity, well, maybe you have a point. Still, I have to write my own story in the way that pleases me best and honestly reflects my feelings. As long as I'm feeling deeply unmerciful to one who caused me to watch my back for two months in Adamstown, Australia in 1997, why don't you share your own stalker stories? Here if they are brief-ish, and on your own blog if it is in the details you find your laughter or catharsis.
A bit of background on LDS missionaries for those who may not know--women generally serve missions in their early 20's (no younger than 21); missionaries live a fairly strict set of rules, both for safety and to help them focus on the task at hand; female missionaries are called "sister" in front of your last name, but we aren't nuns and celibacy (thank goodness) is a condition with a time limit.
I'm not sure how Kent's obsession with the sister missionaries started, nor can I remember exactly why he started studying the Church anyway. This disclaimer might help explain why some details are a bit fuzzy.
In my memory, Kent looks like Will Farrell. From the Saturday Night Live Cowbell Skit. I could never really decide what his personality was like. Perhaps the word "multiple" would be most appropriate here.
Kent was studying with the elders (the boy missionaries) which was totally appropriate, but I think it was the sisters he had met first. Anyway, after some time working with the elders, he complained that they weren't sincere enough, nor patient enough. He would only continue studying the Church if he met with the sisters, so we taught him after our church meetings one day. I was immediately creeped out and had serious doubts about how interested he was in what we were teaching. He seemed mostly content to sidetrack our discussions, share his own agenda and use a lot of tired arguments to convince us of the futility of how we had chosen to spend our lives. And he stared. A lot.
My misgivings were strong enough that after just one meeting, we told him that we weren't really comfortable teaching him and if he was still interested in learning about the Church, the elders would do just fine, thank you very much.
This is about the time that the creepiness appeared. He agreed to go back to the elders, perhaps a little too readily, and then a few days later, through them, he passed on a referral to us. Sweet guy, he'd even gone to the pains to schedule an appointment with them. Because this person, "Goldie," he referred us to lived on the opposite side of the train tracks from us, she was actually in an area where some different sisters worked. Not wanting to sic someone of Kent's acquaintance onto the other sisters (one of whom was probably the prettiest woman I've ever met), we decided to go see Goldie first and if it was all on the up-and-up we would let the other sisters know.
We followed the address, knocked on the door, and guess what?
Yep. Kent answered the door. It was his mother's house. No, she was not at home; no, she wasn't interested in learning more. Kent was quite proud of himself for having found a way to circumvent those "silly boys" so that we could still teach him. Nobody had to know. And yes, by the way, he told us with a sly gleam in his freaky eyes, his nickname was "Goldie."
I know, I was thinking exactly the same thing, what kind of man has the nickname Goldie unless he is a James Bond villian or a mob boss?
We left.
Kent continued coming to church, trying to catch us unawares; which he frequently did. For a big, chubby guy he sure had some mad ninja skills. His favorite thing to do was present us with frangipani flowers, as some children often did. These lovely flowers (often called "plumeria" where they actually grow in the states) fit perfectly in the clip of our name tags and stayed fresh all day. Their smell is divine and it was kind of an Aussie-sister-missionary-thing. Refusal was awkward because then we just looked rude. Accepting them was, obviously, even worse.
Some weeks after the first "referral" he sent another to us. This time, it was actually in our area, information we probably let slip to Kent as he asked for details about where we worked, no doubt to get details about where we lived. Again, Kent had set the appointment time. We conveniently asked the neighboring elders to come and work with us that day, and decided to knock on doors on the street where Kent's appointment was scheduled. We explained the situation to the elders, who thought our spy-work was all great fun and they took the side of the street that would lead them to the appointment-house, though a day early.
No, this was not another address for Kent this time. It was, however, the address of Kent's Baptist minister who had more anti-Mormon literature on his shelf than he had books about all other subjects combined. He gave the elders an earful and then loaded them up with about 85 pamphlets apiece. "You kept them???" I said to the Elders when we met them for lunch.
Our district leader just smiled as he dumped them in the trash, "At least he can't give them to anyone else."
Needless to say, we did not keep our appointment with Kent and his minister. We did, however, have to see Kent at church again and listen to him rant about how we had violated his trust by sending the elders ahead. (Right . . . . because he hadn't ever violated our trust . . . ) We also got a package a few days later. From Kent. Or, I should say, I got a package. That's right, he stopped pretending to be wanting to study with the sisters for the sake of the church and moved straight ahead to his full intentions.
Before opening the package, I was already pretty freaked out. You see, in Australia, you have really tiny post boxes (especially in an apartment), and if a package comes that is too big to fit in the box, then you get a card telling you to come to the post office at your earliest convenience to pick it up. Yet, here was this enormous package on our doorstep. And inside the package was . . . wait for it . . .
A dress.
A teal green, off the shoulder, full skirted, tight-bodiced, formal dress, circa 1987.
That is when the screaming started.
As the package showed up on the doorstep, we assumed that Kent knew where we lived and had lovingly dropped it off himself. We called the Elders, who, bless their boy-hearts, came over immediately and checked out the apartment, only to find two windows in the house that had not been secured and could easily be opened from outside. They helped us tack up sheets on the windows and then sat with us that evening. It was decided that they would frequently check in with us over the next couple of days, and that on Sunday, we would talk to the bishop to get some advice.
On Sunday, we met with Kent, the elders, and the bishopbric. Bishop Purcell was a huge Maori man with soft brown eyes and a heart of gold; one of his counselors was a Tongan who looked like he could have bench-pressed Bishop Purcell. I've never been so grateful in my life to have two Polynesians at my back.
Trying to impress upon Kent the inappropriateness of the gift, he explained our rules to Kent who became very belligerent about him not having to follow our rules, and that he had tried to anyway. He insisted that he had sent the package to our general mission address in Sydney and that he had no idea where we lived. All eyes turned to me. Could this be true--that the package hadn't been addressed in Kent's hand to our apartment at all? I suddenly felt very stupid and over-reactionary. Here we were in this room holding a meeting that would basically bar Kent from ever attending church there again, and it might have been a big misunderstanding. I admitted that it might be entirely possible that the package had been sent through our mission office, but I was also quick to point out that it wasn't appropriate for him to be corresponding with me at all nor for him to send me something that was such an affront to my sense of of fashion.
Then emerged the tender-Kent personality. He became very apologetic and sincere, but something about his manner was raising red flags all over in me. I could see that all of the men in the room were starting to think that while Kent might be a little bit over the top, he was nothing compared to the near-hysterical sister missionary in their midst. And then dear Kent made his fatal mistake.
He took a step nearer to me and called me Princess.
I suddenly felt vicious and took a step closer in return summoning all of the anger in my massive 5'2" frame, all 115 pounds of me (there is more now) poised to attack, no doubt looking like a cat whose hair suddenly stands on end and begins spitting, "Don't you DARE call me that!" I shouted, right in the bishop's office. His completely inappropriate and freaky endearment finally swayed the argument in my direction. My companion held me back in my desire to scratch Kent's eyes out of his hairy face and the bishop said very calmly, "You are welcome to leave the premises of your own volition, or we can escort you."
Ken was at least six feet tall, but he was soft and slow. He cowered in the face of my two Lamanitish protectors and agreed to leave, though he spouted out curses on each of us in turn and the Church in general as he walked down the street toward the bus stop. The bishop and his cohort followed him to the edge of the property, just to be safe.
When my claws retracted, I felt sufficiently embarrassed (hysterics not being my typical modus operandi), but also deeply relieved.
I did not see my charming suitor again, but it didn't stop him from writing to me once in each of the areas I lived after that place. The letters were each sent through the mission office, as was probably the package that broke the camel's back. I never wrote back, even to acknowledge receipt of these letters that read more like manifestos. His first one or two expressed some disgusting, tender expressions that my companions and I would have a great laugh over. The last few of these were rants, more of the variety he expressed when leaving the church that day.
In fact, a letter from Kent was one of the last I received as a missionary. Scheduled to leave the country in just a few days, mail had gotten irregular at best (but then, was it ever anything else?) and I was surprised to receive any missive at all until I noticed the sender's tiny, cramped handwriting in the upper left corner. It had been a long month, my companion and I were both nearly finished with our service, we weren't working with anybody very seriously, it was hot, we were working in a ward (and city) where the main requirement for membership was that you have kangaroos loose in the paddock. (Aussie term meaning, "crazy as a loon.") Our main missionary work in four weeks had consisted of knocking on hundreds of doors for ten hours each day. I was tired; I thought Kent's letter would be worth a laugh.
My companion knew the story and we settled in to the ratty, old couch to have cold cereal for dinner and entertainment. I opened the letter and read the first line aloud in which (the exact words fail me) Kent told me that I was going to hell for my lack of charity, my general misunderstanding of God and my cruel nature. Tears pricked my eyes and I ripped the letter in shreds, feeling that anger inside me again. "I don't have to read this!" I told my surprised companion. "I've been a damn good missionary!" If the "damn" tells you otherwise, well, just note that I didn't say I'd been a perfect missionary. And it was Australia--they have a very loose standard of what constitutes a swear word there.
If my re-telling of this convinces you that Kent was right, and that I lack charity, well, maybe you have a point. Still, I have to write my own story in the way that pleases me best and honestly reflects my feelings. As long as I'm feeling deeply unmerciful to one who caused me to watch my back for two months in Adamstown, Australia in 1997, why don't you share your own stalker stories? Here if they are brief-ish, and on your own blog if it is in the details you find your laughter or catharsis.
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.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Peter Pan
Lest you were thinking otherwise, we have now determined that the baby has no magical powers of flight, nor has he mastered any Jedi tricks involving levitation.
For about three minutes after dinner last night, all three of my boys sat on the floor with a blanket over their feet watching President Obama's speech. I've promised Slim that I'll be less effusive with my Obama-praise, which is a good thing, but I will say today that I really like how in control and in charge he seems. Whether you agree with his ideas or not, I think it is really hard to question his sincerity or his intensity. I was moved to tears when he announced the volunteerism bill jointly sponsored by Senators Hatch and Kennedy. These men, with their intense and genuine friendship have truly exemplified that to disagree does not mean to be disagreeable. Little Jedi looked up at me and said, "Mom, I'm wondering, what can I do for my country?" Wow. Can America fail if there are children like him? Like yours? Like that determined little gal who stood next to Michelle Obama and took the praise of a nation for her plea not to be given up on? I think not.
But I digress: we were discussing the Youngling's weakness for gravity.
When the three minutes of sitting quietly were up (which might actually be some kind of record), the big boys ran off down the hall on some rendezvous with a sword fight. Youngling followed, squealing, because he wants to be just like them. There was a fair amount of noise coming from their 11 x 11 bedroom which contains a crib, a set of twin bunk beds, a fairly large dresser, a basket for balls, a beanbag that has evolved into the naughty chair and a small trash can. It gets crowded and crazy when they are all in there together, but that pretty much describes my whole life.
I figured that Youngling was climbing up and down the bunk bed ladder, which he taught himself to do last week. (Last Wednesday I walked in the bedroom, scenting out the baby to change his diaper, only to see him sitting on the top bunk with a smug smile that threatened to split his mischievous little face. I asked Padawan how long Youngling had been able to do this and could he get back down? The answers were "For a couple of days" and "Sure!") I've seen him go up and down the ladder several times and saw that he really was proficient: just because my heart nearly stops every time I see him do it doesn't mean he isn't capable, right?
Further, when he sits on the top bunk, he just sits. Or he pretends to sleep after begging for someone to throw his blanket up there. Or he bounces on his padded little tushy. He acts like he is very aware of how high he is. Until last night, it seemed apparent that his new skill was much more about the journey than the destination.
Five minutes before the end of Mr. Obama's speech, there was a lot of extremely loud screaming that erupted all at once from the bedroom, followed by much running down the hall as I jumped off the couch. Youngling had not slipped coming or going on the ladder, nor had he accidentally fallen off the top: by all reports (by which I mean TWO, one from a 4 year old, the other from a 7 year old, so who really knows?) the Youngling deliberately stepped off the railing onto the floor and belly flopped on the carpet.
Before I knew the details, however, I only heard the screaming and so I completely disregarded all of my mediocre first-aidy skills. I did not ascertain if he had fallen on his head. I did not check for broken bones before I moved him. I did not clear the space. I did not order any one to call 9-1-1.
I picked up my dear baby who was crying harder than I have ever heard him cry. His wails were cat-like and high, just like a newborn's. Very scary. It took nearly fifteen minutes of walking and rocking to finally calm him down, and then when we did he was unnaturally still. He lay on my shoulder, hardly blinking, and then sat on my bed sucking his thumb and acting properly dazed. Plantboy said the two most horrible words for a mother, "Emergency room," but I just shook my head and insisted that it didn't do me any good to have two nurses (mom and sister) and a doctor (brother) in the family if I couldn't get some feedback about concussions and internal bleeding before rushing into the emergency room.
It turned out to be my dad who was able to give me the best concussion information. It seems that he was once clocked with a baseball bat. I get waves of nausea just thinking about it. And sis was the fount of knowledge about internal bleeding--incredible pain and puking up blood. Lovely.
The baby perked up by bedtime and seemed mostly back to his normal self, if a little bit resentful. His way of telling me about an injury (real or otherwise) is to point at the thing or person that hurt him and scream, then touch the injured part and make a hilariously pained face. Last night he kept pointing at the bunk beds, keeping them at a safe distance from himself in the other room, and jabbering a whole string of what I can only guess were profanities.
Anyway, I pushed, stretched, poked, wiggled, and prodded him all over and he seems to be doing fine, other than a little bit of resentment over how much of his personal space I chose to invade. Mothers can be so annoying like that. I wonder how he is going to take it when he finds the bunk bed ladder in the garage. . . .
For about three minutes after dinner last night, all three of my boys sat on the floor with a blanket over their feet watching President Obama's speech. I've promised Slim that I'll be less effusive with my Obama-praise, which is a good thing, but I will say today that I really like how in control and in charge he seems. Whether you agree with his ideas or not, I think it is really hard to question his sincerity or his intensity. I was moved to tears when he announced the volunteerism bill jointly sponsored by Senators Hatch and Kennedy. These men, with their intense and genuine friendship have truly exemplified that to disagree does not mean to be disagreeable. Little Jedi looked up at me and said, "Mom, I'm wondering, what can I do for my country?" Wow. Can America fail if there are children like him? Like yours? Like that determined little gal who stood next to Michelle Obama and took the praise of a nation for her plea not to be given up on? I think not.
But I digress: we were discussing the Youngling's weakness for gravity.
When the three minutes of sitting quietly were up (which might actually be some kind of record), the big boys ran off down the hall on some rendezvous with a sword fight. Youngling followed, squealing, because he wants to be just like them. There was a fair amount of noise coming from their 11 x 11 bedroom which contains a crib, a set of twin bunk beds, a fairly large dresser, a basket for balls, a beanbag that has evolved into the naughty chair and a small trash can. It gets crowded and crazy when they are all in there together, but that pretty much describes my whole life.
I figured that Youngling was climbing up and down the bunk bed ladder, which he taught himself to do last week. (Last Wednesday I walked in the bedroom, scenting out the baby to change his diaper, only to see him sitting on the top bunk with a smug smile that threatened to split his mischievous little face. I asked Padawan how long Youngling had been able to do this and could he get back down? The answers were "For a couple of days" and "Sure!") I've seen him go up and down the ladder several times and saw that he really was proficient: just because my heart nearly stops every time I see him do it doesn't mean he isn't capable, right?
Further, when he sits on the top bunk, he just sits. Or he pretends to sleep after begging for someone to throw his blanket up there. Or he bounces on his padded little tushy. He acts like he is very aware of how high he is. Until last night, it seemed apparent that his new skill was much more about the journey than the destination.
Five minutes before the end of Mr. Obama's speech, there was a lot of extremely loud screaming that erupted all at once from the bedroom, followed by much running down the hall as I jumped off the couch. Youngling had not slipped coming or going on the ladder, nor had he accidentally fallen off the top: by all reports (by which I mean TWO, one from a 4 year old, the other from a 7 year old, so who really knows?) the Youngling deliberately stepped off the railing onto the floor and belly flopped on the carpet.
Before I knew the details, however, I only heard the screaming and so I completely disregarded all of my mediocre first-aidy skills. I did not ascertain if he had fallen on his head. I did not check for broken bones before I moved him. I did not clear the space. I did not order any one to call 9-1-1.
I picked up my dear baby who was crying harder than I have ever heard him cry. His wails were cat-like and high, just like a newborn's. Very scary. It took nearly fifteen minutes of walking and rocking to finally calm him down, and then when we did he was unnaturally still. He lay on my shoulder, hardly blinking, and then sat on my bed sucking his thumb and acting properly dazed. Plantboy said the two most horrible words for a mother, "Emergency room," but I just shook my head and insisted that it didn't do me any good to have two nurses (mom and sister) and a doctor (brother) in the family if I couldn't get some feedback about concussions and internal bleeding before rushing into the emergency room.
It turned out to be my dad who was able to give me the best concussion information. It seems that he was once clocked with a baseball bat. I get waves of nausea just thinking about it. And sis was the fount of knowledge about internal bleeding--incredible pain and puking up blood. Lovely.
The baby perked up by bedtime and seemed mostly back to his normal self, if a little bit resentful. His way of telling me about an injury (real or otherwise) is to point at the thing or person that hurt him and scream, then touch the injured part and make a hilariously pained face. Last night he kept pointing at the bunk beds, keeping them at a safe distance from himself in the other room, and jabbering a whole string of what I can only guess were profanities.
Anyway, I pushed, stretched, poked, wiggled, and prodded him all over and he seems to be doing fine, other than a little bit of resentment over how much of his personal space I chose to invade. Mothers can be so annoying like that. I wonder how he is going to take it when he finds the bunk bed ladder in the garage. . . .
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Because Apparently the Choices Are Tweedle-dum or Tweedle-dee
BEWARE: I HAD TO ADD A LABEL CALLED "RANT" JUST FOR THIS POST.
Yesterday I was reading Nem's blog and came across a link to a blog titled "Why Mormon Girls Stay Single." There were no details, it was just a link thrown out with a request for Nem to look at it a little bit closer and some day in the future share her thoughts. Not knowing anything about the blog, I skimmed a couple of posts, thinking that it was authored by a couple of funny female roommates with a healthy dose of self-deprecation about single, Mormon women. But closer scrutiny told me that it must be a couple of guys writing. Sure enough, post-ers PP and EQP were acronyms for "Peter Priesthood" and "Elder's Quorum President." This should have been my first red flag: all manner of false doctrine might be shared under cover of righteousness and leadership.
After a few fairly informative and funny-ish posts, I looked at their archive and was drawn to the post titled "Hatin' on the Hot Chick." It was not informative, nor even funny-ish. Unless, of course, pure mean-ness is the new funny.
Their gripe is, of course, that women get jealous of the girl who seems to get all the dates. This girl is, of course, the "Hot Chick." (In my apartment we called this girl the "Naked Mole Rat." Which is a very funny story with a definite science geek angle that might need to be told some time.) There is a legitimate point here--women do tend to, often with unexpected results that backfire, undermine one another when it comes to dating. Married women sometime act this way too; it may not be men that are at stake, but women still will attempt to outshine one another in our own imitation at corporate climbing. However, after the initial sentence or two, the Hot Chick post quickly deteriorates into something that caused my gag reflex to work overtime and make me fear for a future when LDS men have bought hook line and sinker into pop culture.
What PP and EQP (and probably many single men and too many husbands) seem to be missing is the realization that Hot Chick is just a woman too. And, I'm sorry to say, she might even have more security issues than Regular Chick. In the morning, Hot Chick also has b.o., haltosis and bed head. Hot Chick's gorgeous hair color, luscious skin and lovely feet look a lot less attractive when she is no longer paying the hairdresser, the MaryKay saleslady and the monthly pedicurist herself. She'll turn into a chocolate-loving Harpie every 28 days who dares say the word Tampax in your presence. She will come with student loans, family issues and relationship baggage, as will Regular Chick. Also, if she is really the pure and naive vision of loveliness these brilliant BYU alum no doubt insist on, she will have no more clue about sex than Regular Chick, so you can put THAT fantasy to rest right now. She will put on a minimum of 30 pounds when she is pregnant, but it might be 60 or 70 or . . . you get the picture. That same pregnancy will leave stretch marks on her lovely once-fakey-tanned tummy. Night after sleepless night of nursing babies will cause Hot Chick to put her hair in a ponytail every day, or heaven forbid, cut off that big sexy hair all together. Hot Chick will probably be a lot more likely to insist on the tummy tuck and the boob job after the babies--after all, you have taught her what the cost of your love is.
And no chick, hot or otherwise, will be immune to life's inevitable challenges. Maybe what single Mormon men (and women) need to say when they look at the opposite sex is, "How will this person handle it when we are out of work for six months?" "Will this person be happy with three kids in a two bedroom apartment?" "Will this person crack under the pressure when our children come home with inevitable problems?" "Will this person validate my emotions, even when they are unreasonable, and love me over the rough times?" And married people need to remember their own humanity when trying to scrutinize Partner's faults too closely.
There is another incomprehensibly asinine paragraph in the Hot Chick post, comparing women (and I guess men too, the analogy is a little bit vague) to cars. Basically, don't go looking for a Mercedes Benz when you are a Ford Focus. To this glittering nugget of wisdom I'd like to say that I can probably count on one hand the number of men I would say were anything more than an Edsel before age 25 or 30. You see, PP and EQP, what makes a man attractive to a woman has less to do with money, power or looks (all variations on the "size matters" theme) is COMMITMENT. When a man shows, over time, that he will be there day in and day out even when it is hard, even when life is real and difficult, then it matters a whole lot less how "hot" he was to begin with and is about who is becoming. When a woman knows that a man loves her, really loves her, she will reciprocate in ways even she doesn't know she's capable of: in her eyes you will become the prince of her dreams that comes in the door every night; the Mercedes in the driveway, the lover she snuggles next to as she falls into her dreams each night.
And a man who would give up all of that for "hot?" Well, he really deserves to sleep alone every night. PP and EQP think they have figured out why Mormon women are single? In reality they have exactly pinpointed why Mormon men are: because too many of them would trade their birthright for a mess of pottage.
Their blog has been very instructive, however; it is has given me a great example of what kind of boys NOT to raise.
Yesterday I was reading Nem's blog and came across a link to a blog titled "Why Mormon Girls Stay Single." There were no details, it was just a link thrown out with a request for Nem to look at it a little bit closer and some day in the future share her thoughts. Not knowing anything about the blog, I skimmed a couple of posts, thinking that it was authored by a couple of funny female roommates with a healthy dose of self-deprecation about single, Mormon women. But closer scrutiny told me that it must be a couple of guys writing. Sure enough, post-ers PP and EQP were acronyms for "Peter Priesthood" and "Elder's Quorum President." This should have been my first red flag: all manner of false doctrine might be shared under cover of righteousness and leadership.
After a few fairly informative and funny-ish posts, I looked at their archive and was drawn to the post titled "Hatin' on the Hot Chick." It was not informative, nor even funny-ish. Unless, of course, pure mean-ness is the new funny.
Their gripe is, of course, that women get jealous of the girl who seems to get all the dates. This girl is, of course, the "Hot Chick." (In my apartment we called this girl the "Naked Mole Rat." Which is a very funny story with a definite science geek angle that might need to be told some time.) There is a legitimate point here--women do tend to, often with unexpected results that backfire, undermine one another when it comes to dating. Married women sometime act this way too; it may not be men that are at stake, but women still will attempt to outshine one another in our own imitation at corporate climbing. However, after the initial sentence or two, the Hot Chick post quickly deteriorates into something that caused my gag reflex to work overtime and make me fear for a future when LDS men have bought hook line and sinker into pop culture.
In another post, PP and EQP insist that "all" (since they seem to speak for all) men are looking for women who are independent, assertive and confident. Yet in the above referenced post they make the following thesis statement, "Here's the deal . . . we want to date the hot girl too!" Which seems to negate all else these boys claim to be looking for. But not to worry, the good brethren throw single women everywhere a bone with the best advice I've ever heard. "Make yourself hot." And what is the prize for this Paris Hilton-like descent into babe-dom? "We'll reward your efforts with a nice meal, an occasional movie," (there is even another post that gives advice about what kind of movies and nice, classic girly books to say you are interested in) "and a possible make out." At this point, every single women is probably panting with eagerness and thinking, "Goody!" Forget about emulating any positive role model you've ever met or read about. Heck! Forget about following the Savior's example! It is all about taking "drastic measures to get hot."
But lest we think that there is no hope for girls who are not "hot," let's look at this gemstone paragraph, "Guys never hang around girls because they're 'good friends'. They are just biding their time waiting for an open invitation for some nookie. Give it to them, they will love you more than any 'McDreamy' who's not even wasting his time on you."
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It is hard to say on how many levels these three sentences are wrong. When I was a single, at least a pre-mi single, several of my closest friends were guys. There is no way they could have wanted to hang out with me because we had wonderful conversations and hilarious times. I'm fairly convinced that it will come as a shock to every single one of them that what they were really waiting for a was a make-out from my 20 year old self. Remember all those racquetball games, boys? Now I know what you were REALLY up to. It is a wonder that your fabulous wives will even speak to me for the jealousy they must each feel.
What PP and EQP (and probably many single men and too many husbands) seem to be missing is the realization that Hot Chick is just a woman too. And, I'm sorry to say, she might even have more security issues than Regular Chick. In the morning, Hot Chick also has b.o., haltosis and bed head. Hot Chick's gorgeous hair color, luscious skin and lovely feet look a lot less attractive when she is no longer paying the hairdresser, the MaryKay saleslady and the monthly pedicurist herself. She'll turn into a chocolate-loving Harpie every 28 days who dares say the word Tampax in your presence. She will come with student loans, family issues and relationship baggage, as will Regular Chick. Also, if she is really the pure and naive vision of loveliness these brilliant BYU alum no doubt insist on, she will have no more clue about sex than Regular Chick, so you can put THAT fantasy to rest right now. She will put on a minimum of 30 pounds when she is pregnant, but it might be 60 or 70 or . . . you get the picture. That same pregnancy will leave stretch marks on her lovely once-fakey-tanned tummy. Night after sleepless night of nursing babies will cause Hot Chick to put her hair in a ponytail every day, or heaven forbid, cut off that big sexy hair all together. Hot Chick will probably be a lot more likely to insist on the tummy tuck and the boob job after the babies--after all, you have taught her what the cost of your love is.
And no chick, hot or otherwise, will be immune to life's inevitable challenges. Maybe what single Mormon men (and women) need to say when they look at the opposite sex is, "How will this person handle it when we are out of work for six months?" "Will this person be happy with three kids in a two bedroom apartment?" "Will this person crack under the pressure when our children come home with inevitable problems?" "Will this person validate my emotions, even when they are unreasonable, and love me over the rough times?" And married people need to remember their own humanity when trying to scrutinize Partner's faults too closely.
There is another incomprehensibly asinine paragraph in the Hot Chick post, comparing women (and I guess men too, the analogy is a little bit vague) to cars. Basically, don't go looking for a Mercedes Benz when you are a Ford Focus. To this glittering nugget of wisdom I'd like to say that I can probably count on one hand the number of men I would say were anything more than an Edsel before age 25 or 30. You see, PP and EQP, what makes a man attractive to a woman has less to do with money, power or looks (all variations on the "size matters" theme) is COMMITMENT. When a man shows, over time, that he will be there day in and day out even when it is hard, even when life is real and difficult, then it matters a whole lot less how "hot" he was to begin with and is about who is becoming. When a woman knows that a man loves her, really loves her, she will reciprocate in ways even she doesn't know she's capable of: in her eyes you will become the prince of her dreams that comes in the door every night; the Mercedes in the driveway, the lover she snuggles next to as she falls into her dreams each night.
And a man who would give up all of that for "hot?" Well, he really deserves to sleep alone every night. PP and EQP think they have figured out why Mormon women are single? In reality they have exactly pinpointed why Mormon men are: because too many of them would trade their birthright for a mess of pottage.
Their blog has been very instructive, however; it is has given me a great example of what kind of boys NOT to raise.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
A Christmas Haiku (Or Three: Vote For Your Favorite)
Chocolate and sweet bread
Neighbors bringing more and more
Time for throwing up
Wild joyful children
Gifts, house torn apart by lunch
Absolute meltdown
Peaceful morning hour
Lights twinkle on smooth parcels
Giving is the gift
Neighbors bringing more and more
Time for throwing up
Wild joyful children
Gifts, house torn apart by lunch
Absolute meltdown
Peaceful morning hour
Lights twinkle on smooth parcels
Giving is the gift
Monday, December 15, 2008
I Get So Emotional
I was a very emotional teenager. Which statement, no doubt, is ridiculously redundant if you were ever a teenage girl yourself.
This extreme emotion lasted a long time. Even through my twenties as I served a mission, finished school, taught, married, moved, had children. . . . each change seemed to bring on such strong roller-coaster emotions that I often despaired of ever really feeling like I'd arrived in a place (or with a self) I was comfortable with.
Hitting thirty was a little overwhelming for me, but my mother kept telling me that her 30's were her best decade. I soon learned what she meant: my life didn't really stabilize, but my approach to it did. Maybe it is being enough years away from high school that only a few choice memories remain. Maybe it is nearly ten years in a marriage that finally gives me a sense of security. Maybe I have had enough of a taste of trials and resolution to trust the Lord better. Maybe my need to please others has finally taken a backseat to the need to please myself. I don't know. But the few years I have attained have given me perspective and understanding I never had a decade ago.
And then a day like yesterday comes along.
My emotional range yesterday made multiple personality disorder look tame: foolish, tired, edgy, diligent, responsible, impatient, triumphant, harried, frustrated, headachey, adored, pious, bored, forgetful, uplifted, covetous, judgemental, incredulous, shocked, angry, (the last three all from Relief Society, but that is a story best left untold!), loving, grateful, unctuous, apologetic, verbose, critical, indignant, guilty, passionate, repentant, generous, prideful, annoyed, grouchy, punctual, gregarious, intolerant, irate, punishing, conciliatory, resigned, committed, snarly . . . .
Maybe if I took the time to analyze each day for its emotions, I'd find similar results. Or maybe yesterday was especially extreme. It sure felt that way. I hit my knees with the sincerest prayer I've said in a long time last night.
This morning, I delivered papers in a snow storm. While I'm glad this is not a daily event, I was grateful for it this morning. The lonely, quiet, whiteness gave me a lot of space in which to reflect. During a frustrating moment with my 7 year-old last night, I told him that the best part of a new day is that we got to try again. We get to start over without mistakes. This thought seemed to cheer him, as it has me many times, enormously. I thought of this mistake-free day idea a lot as I looked at the lovely, blank, bright snow.
It occurred to me that I don't want to be UN-emotional, or even mellow. I like feeling things deeply. But where I seem to get into trouble, is that all of my emotions are strong. The snow made me think of the Savior and his purity. It made me think that my strongest emotions need to be much more like the Christ-like attributes we bring up in every Sunday School lesson--charity, loyalty, faith, commitment, integrity, purpose, goodness, and the like. On the other hand, my natural-man emotions need to be tempered. It is these emotions that lead to stupid actions, guilty feelings and self-loathing.
As I ran from house to house, I thought of two ways I want to work on making myself a person who listens more and judges less: The first is that I just need to shut my mouth. Not ALWAYS, but maybe 50% of the time when I think I should speak: instead should just nod my head and listen. I also need to focus on being more grateful. If I focus on what is good, maybe I won't have the time to get thinking about all that is wrong with everything. And everyone.
These thoughts came to me, making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside despite the cold and wet. Then my car wouldn't start. Five a.m. Six inches of snow. Running nearly 30 minutes late on my papers. Parked practically in the middle of the road. Twenty-five degrees. Five miles from home. AND MY CAR WOULDN'T START.
I called Plantboy and gave him directions to my stranded car and he agreed to be out the door and on his way. I sat for a moment in the rapidly cooling car and did the one thing I could do. I gathered the biggest armful of papers that I could and a clip of paper bags and kept delivering papers. I might have been a damsel in distress, but the last thing I was going to do was sit around and WAIT to be rescued.
Instead of thinking about how miserable I was in the steadily picking up snow and the wind, I tried to remember what I had just been thinking about. Having no opportunity to practice shutting my mouth around other people, I decided to be grateful. Here was the mantra:
Grateful that it is Monday and the papers are small.
Grateful that my parents are still in town so Plantboy can leave the house.
Grateful that my feet are dry.
Grateful that I am on the second half of my route so that the houses are closer together.
Grateful for the additional exercise the running in the snow offers.
Grateful that my cold is almost cleared up.
Grateful that I didn't get the nasty cough with my cold.
Grateful for snow that will make people more forgiving (or later to sleep) when their papers are late.
Grateful for the quiet.
Grateful for the beauty.
Grateful for imagination that keeps me company every morning at 3:30.
Grateful that Plantboy happened to see me just as I delivered the last paper I'd been able to carry and I could ride the six blocks back to the car instead of jog . . .
Plantboy started the car with no trouble.
I started to cry.
I'm grateful for a husband who doesn't berate, criticize or belittle when I do something dumb: he just gave me a hug and created a hokey explanation for my scientific mind about why the car would suddenly start for him. Don't get me wrong, I am grateful.
But I still cried and felt very sorry for myself and very stupid. Maybe I will have to start my exercise in building Christlike attributes/more tempered emotions TOMORROW.
This extreme emotion lasted a long time. Even through my twenties as I served a mission, finished school, taught, married, moved, had children. . . . each change seemed to bring on such strong roller-coaster emotions that I often despaired of ever really feeling like I'd arrived in a place (or with a self) I was comfortable with.
Hitting thirty was a little overwhelming for me, but my mother kept telling me that her 30's were her best decade. I soon learned what she meant: my life didn't really stabilize, but my approach to it did. Maybe it is being enough years away from high school that only a few choice memories remain. Maybe it is nearly ten years in a marriage that finally gives me a sense of security. Maybe I have had enough of a taste of trials and resolution to trust the Lord better. Maybe my need to please others has finally taken a backseat to the need to please myself. I don't know. But the few years I have attained have given me perspective and understanding I never had a decade ago.
And then a day like yesterday comes along.
My emotional range yesterday made multiple personality disorder look tame: foolish, tired, edgy, diligent, responsible, impatient, triumphant, harried, frustrated, headachey, adored, pious, bored, forgetful, uplifted, covetous, judgemental, incredulous, shocked, angry, (the last three all from Relief Society, but that is a story best left untold!), loving, grateful, unctuous, apologetic, verbose, critical, indignant, guilty, passionate, repentant, generous, prideful, annoyed, grouchy, punctual, gregarious, intolerant, irate, punishing, conciliatory, resigned, committed, snarly . . . .
Maybe if I took the time to analyze each day for its emotions, I'd find similar results. Or maybe yesterday was especially extreme. It sure felt that way. I hit my knees with the sincerest prayer I've said in a long time last night.
This morning, I delivered papers in a snow storm. While I'm glad this is not a daily event, I was grateful for it this morning. The lonely, quiet, whiteness gave me a lot of space in which to reflect. During a frustrating moment with my 7 year-old last night, I told him that the best part of a new day is that we got to try again. We get to start over without mistakes. This thought seemed to cheer him, as it has me many times, enormously. I thought of this mistake-free day idea a lot as I looked at the lovely, blank, bright snow.
It occurred to me that I don't want to be UN-emotional, or even mellow. I like feeling things deeply. But where I seem to get into trouble, is that all of my emotions are strong. The snow made me think of the Savior and his purity. It made me think that my strongest emotions need to be much more like the Christ-like attributes we bring up in every Sunday School lesson--charity, loyalty, faith, commitment, integrity, purpose, goodness, and the like. On the other hand, my natural-man emotions need to be tempered. It is these emotions that lead to stupid actions, guilty feelings and self-loathing.
As I ran from house to house, I thought of two ways I want to work on making myself a person who listens more and judges less: The first is that I just need to shut my mouth. Not ALWAYS, but maybe 50% of the time when I think I should speak: instead should just nod my head and listen. I also need to focus on being more grateful. If I focus on what is good, maybe I won't have the time to get thinking about all that is wrong with everything. And everyone.
These thoughts came to me, making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside despite the cold and wet. Then my car wouldn't start. Five a.m. Six inches of snow. Running nearly 30 minutes late on my papers. Parked practically in the middle of the road. Twenty-five degrees. Five miles from home. AND MY CAR WOULDN'T START.
I called Plantboy and gave him directions to my stranded car and he agreed to be out the door and on his way. I sat for a moment in the rapidly cooling car and did the one thing I could do. I gathered the biggest armful of papers that I could and a clip of paper bags and kept delivering papers. I might have been a damsel in distress, but the last thing I was going to do was sit around and WAIT to be rescued.
Instead of thinking about how miserable I was in the steadily picking up snow and the wind, I tried to remember what I had just been thinking about. Having no opportunity to practice shutting my mouth around other people, I decided to be grateful. Here was the mantra:
Grateful that it is Monday and the papers are small.
Grateful that my parents are still in town so Plantboy can leave the house.
Grateful that my feet are dry.
Grateful that I am on the second half of my route so that the houses are closer together.
Grateful for the additional exercise the running in the snow offers.
Grateful that my cold is almost cleared up.
Grateful that I didn't get the nasty cough with my cold.
Grateful for snow that will make people more forgiving (or later to sleep) when their papers are late.
Grateful for the quiet.
Grateful for the beauty.
Grateful for imagination that keeps me company every morning at 3:30.
Grateful that Plantboy happened to see me just as I delivered the last paper I'd been able to carry and I could ride the six blocks back to the car instead of jog . . .
Plantboy started the car with no trouble.
I started to cry.
I'm grateful for a husband who doesn't berate, criticize or belittle when I do something dumb: he just gave me a hug and created a hokey explanation for my scientific mind about why the car would suddenly start for him. Don't get me wrong, I am grateful.
But I still cried and felt very sorry for myself and very stupid. Maybe I will have to start my exercise in building Christlike attributes/more tempered emotions TOMORROW.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Flipping. Deseret. Book.
It is pretty much no secret that these folks are not going to be making my favorites list anytime soon, but recent events take the cake.
I live nearly two hours from the nearest Deseret Book. (Yes, Mom, you'd refer to this as "the mission field.") For one of our crafty-day projects, in October, if you recall, we made these photo album Sacrament quiet books. I wrote a little doctrinal thing about the sacrament, simplified for young kids, to match the pictures in Greg Olsen's small picture kit called "Images of the Savior." You put the words and pictures mounted into a photo album. The result is quite sweet. These cost about $8 each to make and several sisters signed up for multiples in order to give them to grandkids for Christmas.
Eighteen kits ended up being ordered. As soon as I had the money, two weeks before the Souper Saturday, I got on-line and ordered what I wanted. I put the money in my account and then I waited. And waited. And waited.
The day before I needed them, I called Deseret Book. Sorry, they are on backorder. Hmm . . . and you didn't let me know this over my email because? I mean, isn't that the POINT of having such technology? Not to worry, they assured me, they will be here in mid-November.
I passed on that information and when I had nothing by the 20th of November, and also realized they had never charged my card to begin with, I called again. Sorry they are on backorder. Again? Do you ever tell people anything? Well, she said sweetly (she is probably somebody's grandmother), I can tell you that our next shipment will be here December 14th and that we will FedEx them to you right away. OoooKaaaaaaaay. Oh, and you have until the 4th to cancel the order if you need to.
I spent a good chunk of the rest of that day calling the women who had signed up for the project to find out if they wanted me to cancel their orders and they could just get them at DB next time they were there? I could refund money? You know the drill. It was a huge headache.
Then, Saturday, I went to the temple with a friend who was getting her endowment. It was a lovely day, if a bit hectic. (Plantboy and I went together and left the kids for a few hours with a friend that moved there from our ward. It turned out to be an 8 hour round trip. And while it seems really sacrificial and righteous for the temple to be such an effort, I mostly just grumble and wish it was closer.) On a whim, we found the Deseret Book and hunted all over for the pictures.
I think the pictures are on backorder because the Portland Store is hoarding at least 250 of these things.
Very cleverly, I put 18 of these babies on my credit card. Plantboy, acting as the voice of reason for a change, said, "are you sure you can cancel the other?" Oh, yes, I assured him, I have until the fourth. But this is perfect. Everyone will now get them well in time for Christmas and I don't have to deal with it any more.
Sunday I took an hour and half to deliver them. Why so long? At every stop I was asked to do something. Each request was prefaced with, "I'm so glad you dropped by! I've been meaning to call you . . . " Monday I crashed big time. Don't even ask me how many hours I read or what kind of cheesy re-read romance novels I had my nose stuck into. (Okay, one of my selections was Twilight; and no, my opinion has NOT changed.)
Yesterday morning, I opened my e-mail to find the following cheery message from Deseret Book, "You're order: qty 18 "Images of the Savior" has been shipped!"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
How is the h*** is November 25th the equivalent of December 15??? By what stretch of the imagination is "you have until December 4th to cancel" the equivalent of them sending the cards Sunday night? When I called, the grandmotherly voice on the other end apologized about 400 times, all the while repeatedly telling me that there is no way that a representative from Deseret Book would have given me an exact shipping date and then gave me a crash course in the logistics of DB's ordering structure. She also emphasized how unreliable ordering over the Internet was and that they would be happy to take a phone order any time. Thanks for that. She did, however, graciously offer to send me a return slip. Here is how this will play: I get the order; I wait for the return labels; I repackage the order so that it doesn't say "FedEx" anymore; I drag my pre-schooler and toddler to the post office to mail the thing; I wait for the order to clear through DB and THEN I get refunded. Oh, yeah, my checking account SO needed the $80 hit four weeks before Christmas.
I must go bake. It will help to ease some of my anger at the universe. On the upside, I caught Tiny Fey as a pirate on Sesame Street this morning. She said that they needed to come up with some words that began with a pirate's favorite letter.
Yes, Yes, I thought it was "RRRRRRRRRRR" too.
But no, Tina argues, pirates love F-words. Well, that seems appropriate too.
Gratitude. Gratitude. Must remember to be grateful . . . .
I live nearly two hours from the nearest Deseret Book. (Yes, Mom, you'd refer to this as "the mission field.") For one of our crafty-day projects, in October, if you recall, we made these photo album Sacrament quiet books. I wrote a little doctrinal thing about the sacrament, simplified for young kids, to match the pictures in Greg Olsen's small picture kit called "Images of the Savior." You put the words and pictures mounted into a photo album. The result is quite sweet. These cost about $8 each to make and several sisters signed up for multiples in order to give them to grandkids for Christmas.
Eighteen kits ended up being ordered. As soon as I had the money, two weeks before the Souper Saturday, I got on-line and ordered what I wanted. I put the money in my account and then I waited. And waited. And waited.
The day before I needed them, I called Deseret Book. Sorry, they are on backorder. Hmm . . . and you didn't let me know this over my email because? I mean, isn't that the POINT of having such technology? Not to worry, they assured me, they will be here in mid-November.
I passed on that information and when I had nothing by the 20th of November, and also realized they had never charged my card to begin with, I called again. Sorry they are on backorder. Again? Do you ever tell people anything? Well, she said sweetly (she is probably somebody's grandmother), I can tell you that our next shipment will be here December 14th and that we will FedEx them to you right away. OoooKaaaaaaaay. Oh, and you have until the 4th to cancel the order if you need to.
I spent a good chunk of the rest of that day calling the women who had signed up for the project to find out if they wanted me to cancel their orders and they could just get them at DB next time they were there? I could refund money? You know the drill. It was a huge headache.
Then, Saturday, I went to the temple with a friend who was getting her endowment. It was a lovely day, if a bit hectic. (Plantboy and I went together and left the kids for a few hours with a friend that moved there from our ward. It turned out to be an 8 hour round trip. And while it seems really sacrificial and righteous for the temple to be such an effort, I mostly just grumble and wish it was closer.) On a whim, we found the Deseret Book and hunted all over for the pictures.
I think the pictures are on backorder because the Portland Store is hoarding at least 250 of these things.
Very cleverly, I put 18 of these babies on my credit card. Plantboy, acting as the voice of reason for a change, said, "are you sure you can cancel the other?" Oh, yes, I assured him, I have until the fourth. But this is perfect. Everyone will now get them well in time for Christmas and I don't have to deal with it any more.
Sunday I took an hour and half to deliver them. Why so long? At every stop I was asked to do something. Each request was prefaced with, "I'm so glad you dropped by! I've been meaning to call you . . . " Monday I crashed big time. Don't even ask me how many hours I read or what kind of cheesy re-read romance novels I had my nose stuck into. (Okay, one of my selections was Twilight; and no, my opinion has NOT changed.)
Yesterday morning, I opened my e-mail to find the following cheery message from Deseret Book, "You're order: qty 18 "Images of the Savior" has been shipped!"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
How is the h*** is November 25th the equivalent of December 15??? By what stretch of the imagination is "you have until December 4th to cancel" the equivalent of them sending the cards Sunday night? When I called, the grandmotherly voice on the other end apologized about 400 times, all the while repeatedly telling me that there is no way that a representative from Deseret Book would have given me an exact shipping date and then gave me a crash course in the logistics of DB's ordering structure. She also emphasized how unreliable ordering over the Internet was and that they would be happy to take a phone order any time. Thanks for that. She did, however, graciously offer to send me a return slip. Here is how this will play: I get the order; I wait for the return labels; I repackage the order so that it doesn't say "FedEx" anymore; I drag my pre-schooler and toddler to the post office to mail the thing; I wait for the order to clear through DB and THEN I get refunded. Oh, yeah, my checking account SO needed the $80 hit four weeks before Christmas.
I must go bake. It will help to ease some of my anger at the universe. On the upside, I caught Tiny Fey as a pirate on Sesame Street this morning. She said that they needed to come up with some words that began with a pirate's favorite letter.
Yes, Yes, I thought it was "RRRRRRRRRRR" too.
But no, Tina argues, pirates love F-words. Well, that seems appropriate too.
Gratitude. Gratitude. Must remember to be grateful . . . .
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Footloose and Fancy Free. And a Little Sick to my Stomach.
Plantboy is out of town again. Why is it that two nights away from hubby and I revert to bachelorette mode?
He has been gone about 24 hours, and I've accomplished quite a lot--mostly because I threatened to abolish story-time if I wasn't given help to clean up the house RIGHT NOW, LITTLE MISTERS. But I also realize that this 24 hours has been full of wastes as well:
I watched TV until nearly midnight, including the CMA's which would never have flown with Plantboy home. I flipped between that and another show I like, only to miss Keith Urban singing his new song, which was the main reason I was watching the CMA's to begin with. And no, Nem, his shirt was not unbuttoned to his navel even once. Does anyone else think Nicole Kidman isn't so much aging as she is turning into an alien? After the CMA's I spent an hour watching "Sahara," which is actually a pretty good movie, as far as that sort of thing goes. Which is more attractive? Matthew McConaughy without a shirt, or Steve Zahn being hilarious and needing a hat? If you said "Plantboy," you got the right answer.
Having missed The Keith, I then surfed the Internet until 1 a.m. hoping someone had posted footage from the show. No luck.
I read nearly 250 pages to finish my novel: Spindle's End. I love Robin McKinley, but this was a little obtuse for my fantasy-light taste. More along the lines of Rose Daughter than The Blue Sword. (If you've read McKinley, you'll know what I mean. If not, you MUST read Hero and the Crown and The Blue Sword.)
Corn dogs. Two. I ate two corn dogs for "dinner" last night. Even my kids won't eat corn dogs.
Not wanting to make my bed again, I slept on top of my covers with a blanket over the top. But only on half the bed. The other half is covered with junk from the emptied furniture I was supposed to spend some time refinishing today. Oh, and I took a nap.
Pizza. Homemadish, but still pizza.
After a morning of errands, I put on my flannel PJ bottoms for comfort during the housework; I also wore these for my nap. The Jedi Master getting home from school woke me up. The first words out of his mouth were, "Are you STILL in your pajamas?" I was a little defensive.
Dr. Pepper. Ooo! That reminds me--the other 20 ounces are still out in the car.
Chocolate. Of course. It's only 9:30, west coast time. Who wants to come hang out?
He has been gone about 24 hours, and I've accomplished quite a lot--mostly because I threatened to abolish story-time if I wasn't given help to clean up the house RIGHT NOW, LITTLE MISTERS. But I also realize that this 24 hours has been full of wastes as well:
I watched TV until nearly midnight, including the CMA's which would never have flown with Plantboy home. I flipped between that and another show I like, only to miss Keith Urban singing his new song, which was the main reason I was watching the CMA's to begin with. And no, Nem, his shirt was not unbuttoned to his navel even once. Does anyone else think Nicole Kidman isn't so much aging as she is turning into an alien? After the CMA's I spent an hour watching "Sahara," which is actually a pretty good movie, as far as that sort of thing goes. Which is more attractive? Matthew McConaughy without a shirt, or Steve Zahn being hilarious and needing a hat? If you said "Plantboy," you got the right answer.
Having missed The Keith, I then surfed the Internet until 1 a.m. hoping someone had posted footage from the show. No luck.
I read nearly 250 pages to finish my novel: Spindle's End. I love Robin McKinley, but this was a little obtuse for my fantasy-light taste. More along the lines of Rose Daughter than The Blue Sword. (If you've read McKinley, you'll know what I mean. If not, you MUST read Hero and the Crown and The Blue Sword.)
Corn dogs. Two. I ate two corn dogs for "dinner" last night. Even my kids won't eat corn dogs.
Not wanting to make my bed again, I slept on top of my covers with a blanket over the top. But only on half the bed. The other half is covered with junk from the emptied furniture I was supposed to spend some time refinishing today. Oh, and I took a nap.
Pizza. Homemadish, but still pizza.
After a morning of errands, I put on my flannel PJ bottoms for comfort during the housework; I also wore these for my nap. The Jedi Master getting home from school woke me up. The first words out of his mouth were, "Are you STILL in your pajamas?" I was a little defensive.
Dr. Pepper. Ooo! That reminds me--the other 20 ounces are still out in the car.
Chocolate. Of course. It's only 9:30, west coast time. Who wants to come hang out?
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