Today I got my last paycheck from my newspaper job.
I have been enormously relieved not to be working this week and after just a few days off I can't help but wonder how I have managed all these years.
My relief today, has been somewhat overshadowed by this idea of the "last paycheck." It has been a long time since I've been without a paycheck, and under our current plan this will last for another year. I hope not longer.
While I have gained sleep, there is definitely lost income. And lost income, for me, is often associated with loss of autonomy. Perhaps it will be a year to discover a new kind of freedom.
Showing posts with label paper route. Show all posts
Showing posts with label paper route. Show all posts
Friday, July 06, 2012
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Sacrifice
In Sunday School this week our lesson was about the rich young man. You know the one--he was truly trying to keep the commandments for the right reasons, and recognized in the Savior and Individual who was perhaps more than a great rabbi. Upon asking what more he could do to follow God, the Savior, carefully considering the young man's sincerity and lifestyle, admonished him to sell all that he had, give it to the poor, and then follow the Savior.
The teacher had some fantastic quotes--one from a Protestant reformer (Wycliff, maybe?) who expressed his deep concern about the inability of Christians to stay humble when they became wealthy, practically describing the central themes found so bluntly stated in the Book of Mormon. A second quote came from Brigham Young as follows, "The worst fear I have about this people is that they will get rich in this country, forget God and His people, wax fat, and kick themselves out of the Church and go to hell. This people will stand mobbing, robbing, poverty, and all manner of persecution and be true. But my greatest fear is that they cannot stand wealth.” Then he referenced Joseph Smith from Lectures on Faith, "A religion that does not require the sacrifice of all things never has power sufficient to produce the faith necessary to life and salvation."
There followed a very interesting discussion about the sacrifice of "all things", and what exactly the Lord expects from us. The conversation then moved into the idea of covetousness and how it isn't the wanting of others' stuff that is the problem as much as the bad feeling it gives us toward others when they have more or are more. Competition, coveting and pride are all sins on the same spectrum. Ultimately we don't just envy and hate those who have more . . . we scorn those who have less. Coveting nearly always leads to enmity. And, as is so often the antidote for sin, charity seems to be the cure.
So what the Lord expects is our time, talents and our energies for the good of others. This combination will be unique to everyone, but it seems fairly certain that anything less than our all isn't enough.
I think I'm starting to understand about sacrifice, at least a little bit. What I'm still working on is the faith part that says, "Any sacrifice pales in comparison to the blessings . . . ." I think that one of the great strengths of LDS people is their willingness to sacrifice. And today I need your strength. Take a moment here to share a time when you sacrificed, and what it taught you. I know that sacrifice isn't about making sure that others know what you've done, but maybe this is a forum when we can draw strength to have the faith to continue giving our all.
You see, right now I'm going through a period of discouragement regarding my rather stupid job. As has been typical throughout our whole marriage, my extra income is just a little bit more than the 10% we pay in tithing--the rest of my money mostly covers my own tithing and my expenses for the paper route. For me, tithes and offerings aren't just about writing a couple of checks every month . . . it is about setting an alarm at 3 o'clock every. single. day. Probably at least for a couple of more years, unless I expect my family to share the sacrifice. No lessons. No dates. No vacations. No mission fund. No fun. Either I suffer or we all suffer.
Then I look around my community, my country, and the world, and I see actual suffering and I feel very small and selfish. Please, share your stories. It will ease the passage in the dark tomorrow morning.
The teacher had some fantastic quotes--one from a Protestant reformer (Wycliff, maybe?) who expressed his deep concern about the inability of Christians to stay humble when they became wealthy, practically describing the central themes found so bluntly stated in the Book of Mormon. A second quote came from Brigham Young as follows, "The worst fear I have about this people is that they will get rich in this country, forget God and His people, wax fat, and kick themselves out of the Church and go to hell. This people will stand mobbing, robbing, poverty, and all manner of persecution and be true. But my greatest fear is that they cannot stand wealth.” Then he referenced Joseph Smith from Lectures on Faith, "A religion that does not require the sacrifice of all things never has power sufficient to produce the faith necessary to life and salvation."
There followed a very interesting discussion about the sacrifice of "all things", and what exactly the Lord expects from us. The conversation then moved into the idea of covetousness and how it isn't the wanting of others' stuff that is the problem as much as the bad feeling it gives us toward others when they have more or are more. Competition, coveting and pride are all sins on the same spectrum. Ultimately we don't just envy and hate those who have more . . . we scorn those who have less. Coveting nearly always leads to enmity. And, as is so often the antidote for sin, charity seems to be the cure.
So what the Lord expects is our time, talents and our energies for the good of others. This combination will be unique to everyone, but it seems fairly certain that anything less than our all isn't enough.
I think I'm starting to understand about sacrifice, at least a little bit. What I'm still working on is the faith part that says, "Any sacrifice pales in comparison to the blessings . . . ." I think that one of the great strengths of LDS people is their willingness to sacrifice. And today I need your strength. Take a moment here to share a time when you sacrificed, and what it taught you. I know that sacrifice isn't about making sure that others know what you've done, but maybe this is a forum when we can draw strength to have the faith to continue giving our all.
You see, right now I'm going through a period of discouragement regarding my rather stupid job. As has been typical throughout our whole marriage, my extra income is just a little bit more than the 10% we pay in tithing--the rest of my money mostly covers my own tithing and my expenses for the paper route. For me, tithes and offerings aren't just about writing a couple of checks every month . . . it is about setting an alarm at 3 o'clock every. single. day. Probably at least for a couple of more years, unless I expect my family to share the sacrifice. No lessons. No dates. No vacations. No mission fund. No fun. Either I suffer or we all suffer.
Then I look around my community, my country, and the world, and I see actual suffering and I feel very small and selfish. Please, share your stories. It will ease the passage in the dark tomorrow morning.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Your Daily PSA. Or two.
I scaled back on my feelings about Tiger Mom in the comment section of the piece I wrote on the subject a couple of weeks ago. I think I might have gone too far in the scaling back department. Elizabeth Kohlbert reviewed the actual book for The New Yorker this week. Things were made clearer for me. The book is meant to be a memoir, and not a parenting manual, but Kohlbert maintains that any introspection and changing done by Tiger Mom is brief and half-hearted. Despite the reviewer's subtly disguised distaste for Ms. Chua's parenting approach, she also cites the most recent, dismal findings of how American children in the current generation are stacking up against their global counterparts. There is no justification for how poorly American children are doing academically. There is no justification for calling your children garbage when they come in second on a multiplication test either.
What is clear is that some sort of middle ground must be found soon.
Your second public service announcement is not really for the public, but it will make me feel better.
Note to the newspaper customer with the hundred year-old dog that manages, somehow, to almost daily escape the airtight security you insist exists in your backyard: I don't care how harmless you insist Houdini-dog is. I still don't want her sniffing me. Especially there. And especially at four-thirty in the morning. Oh, I hear you chuckling on the phone, insisting that your gray-muzzled beauty is harmless, and telling me it is ridiculous to be afraid of her. I'm not afraid of her! But why should delivering your paper for the dizzying sum of a dime a day cause me to bring home fleas and need to see the vet for my own, special case of mange?
Now back to your regularly scheduled life.
What is clear is that some sort of middle ground must be found soon.
Your second public service announcement is not really for the public, but it will make me feel better.
Note to the newspaper customer with the hundred year-old dog that manages, somehow, to almost daily escape the airtight security you insist exists in your backyard: I don't care how harmless you insist Houdini-dog is. I still don't want her sniffing me. Especially there. And especially at four-thirty in the morning. Oh, I hear you chuckling on the phone, insisting that your gray-muzzled beauty is harmless, and telling me it is ridiculous to be afraid of her. I'm not afraid of her! But why should delivering your paper for the dizzying sum of a dime a day cause me to bring home fleas and need to see the vet for my own, special case of mange?
Now back to your regularly scheduled life.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Caught
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.
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.
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.
Monday, December 08, 2008
What Is Wrong With This Picture
I could give all the gory details of the RS Enrichment Christmas Party last Thursday and the Ward Christmas Party Program last Saturday, both of which I was in charge of. I could give glowing reports of each and lie convincingly that both "went off without a hitch." The truth is that they each had their ups and downs, I've put in more hours of work for church over the last few weeks than I have since my mission, and there were many hitches. In addition, my lack of sleep shot my resistance against the disgusting germs my boys have been passing around and I think I'm getting a cold.
Still, the feedback from the sisters in the ward tells me that the party was enjoyable and I heard several stellar comments about the program I wrote. (Truthfully, I think the latter is more of a tribute to just how BAD programs in Christmas past have been.)
But I don't want to post about any of that today. Or that I'm decorating for Christmas. Or that my parents are surprising my kids with a visit later this week.
I want to post about this picture and the accompanying story found on the cover of our newspaper this morning:
Look closely. What do you see? Keep in mind that in the paper, the image was cropped and most of the food at the bottom cut out, but the green box near her head and her face were larger.
Here is the letter to the editor I fired off about ten minutes ago:
Dear Editor,
Kudos to Billie Richardson for the impressive and inspiring FOOD For Lane County drive she is doing in her community. However, either the photographer or the story editor gets a big thumbs down for running that particular picture of her. It takes close scrutiny to see that the case of Miller Light next to her face is merely being used as a storage box for other goods. My initial impression was that somebody had donated a case of beer to her goods drive. It wouldn't have taken a degree in fine arts to move the case from the shot, which was obviously posed. FFLC is unlikely to appreciate the run on their facilities over the appearance that they are handing out beer in addition to other "essentials."
Sincerely,
STM
Still, the feedback from the sisters in the ward tells me that the party was enjoyable and I heard several stellar comments about the program I wrote. (Truthfully, I think the latter is more of a tribute to just how BAD programs in Christmas past have been.)
But I don't want to post about any of that today. Or that I'm decorating for Christmas. Or that my parents are surprising my kids with a visit later this week.
I want to post about this picture and the accompanying story found on the cover of our newspaper this morning:
Look closely. What do you see? Keep in mind that in the paper, the image was cropped and most of the food at the bottom cut out, but the green box near her head and her face were larger.
Here is the letter to the editor I fired off about ten minutes ago:
Dear Editor,
Kudos to Billie Richardson for the impressive and inspiring FOOD For Lane County drive she is doing in her community. However, either the photographer or the story editor gets a big thumbs down for running that particular picture of her. It takes close scrutiny to see that the case of Miller Light next to her face is merely being used as a storage box for other goods. My initial impression was that somebody had donated a case of beer to her goods drive. It wouldn't have taken a degree in fine arts to move the case from the shot, which was obviously posed. FFLC is unlikely to appreciate the run on their facilities over the appearance that they are handing out beer in addition to other "essentials."
Sincerely,
STM
Friday, November 21, 2008
Because I Think I'm A Teenager Like That
Last night at book group, one of my friends said, "We've got an extra ticket. So how about it, huh?" So at midnight last night . . . .
The last movie opening I went to was one of the Pirates movies a couple of years ago. I vowed that I would never do it again as it was me and plantboy and 100 slutty pirate girls. (Their dates were just weird, not slutty.) Still, last night I found myself in a theatre crammed with screaming teenage goths. Some of whom were very slutty. Good times.
What about the papers you say? Oh, I just picked them up and delivered them on the way home from the movie. I'm going for nocturnal this week. It is really not working for me.
The last movie opening I went to was one of the Pirates movies a couple of years ago. I vowed that I would never do it again as it was me and plantboy and 100 slutty pirate girls. (Their dates were just weird, not slutty.) Still, last night I found myself in a theatre crammed with screaming teenage goths. Some of whom were very slutty. Good times.
What about the papers you say? Oh, I just picked them up and delivered them on the way home from the movie. I'm going for nocturnal this week. It is really not working for me.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Officially Fed Up
Hm . . . . for a couple of weeks now I've been wanting to post the fabulous pictures from Plantboy's beautiful new vegetable and fruit garden. I have all these ideas rolling around in my head about how planting a garden is such a great example of faith, how gardens represent beauty and permanence, how much my kids love being outside, etc.
But, today, I scraped an inch of snow and ice off my car to deliver papers, was snowed on delivering papers, and didn't warm up until four hours after I'd been home. I'm waiting to get the stomach flu my men have passed around this week from being cooped up in the house, and I've done 10 loads of laundry in the last five days.
So, instead of glorying in the beauties of Mother Nature's awakening, I AM OFFICIALLY COMPLAINING ABOUT WINTER TO WHOMEVER WILL LISTEN.
That's all.
But, today, I scraped an inch of snow and ice off my car to deliver papers, was snowed on delivering papers, and didn't warm up until four hours after I'd been home. I'm waiting to get the stomach flu my men have passed around this week from being cooped up in the house, and I've done 10 loads of laundry in the last five days.
So, instead of glorying in the beauties of Mother Nature's awakening, I AM OFFICIALLY COMPLAINING ABOUT WINTER TO WHOMEVER WILL LISTEN.
That's all.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
A Belated Valentine's Day Shoutout to my Beloved Newspaper Customers
I love it when you still have your Christmas lights up in February.
I love it when you call in the middle of a freak snowstorm to tell me that, no, you aren't going out of town any more because of the terrible weather, but could I please drop everything I'm doing to come and bring you a paper?
I love your motion detector lights that blind me daily: especially the kind the shut off after about four seconds, so they get me entering AND leaving your driveway.
I love it when you wait by the door for a Sunday paper that arrives at four minutes after six. I love it even more when you slam the door so sweetly as soon as I step off the porch.
I know that occassionally I miss delivering your paper, and when I do, I really love it when you call up and tell me all of your morning routine habits--it helps drive home just how much I have messed up your day.
Ooo . . . and when I tell you I'll get that paper right out to you, as soon as I finish feeding my baby and putting my son on the bus, I love it when you act really put out about that. The deep sighing and stern voice is almost enough to make me leave my little kiddies at home to fend for themselves so that you can read the obituaries.
I love it when you leave me a dollar tip every six months. But even more wonderful is when you don't tip at all. That's my favorite.
I love this bumper sticker on your car.
I love walking fifty yards down your driveway and then tenderly placing your paper under the rock, or behind the screen, or in the homemade box you have. Please, never put a paper tube under your mailbox on the road, I love you just the way you are.
I love it when you call me up and tell me your conspiracy theory about the lone jogger (or is there a second jogger?) who has been routinely stealing your paper off and on for years. I especially appreciate the advice to slide it WAY back into the tube so that it isn't so obvious and tempting for a casual passer-by. And I will most certainly let you know if I see any suspicious characters.
I love when you call me to deliver a late paper, but then call the newspaper to complain anyway. That. Is. Awesome.
I love it when you go out of town two or three times in a month, stopping and starting your paper each time. It makes it so easy to keep track of you. I also love the security light you leave on when you are out of town: I'm sure that is a great deterrent.
But even more than cancelling your paper for a few days, I love it when you ask me to save them in a bag. Especially if you are out of town for more than a week. Nothing makes me happier than keeping 17 of your out-of-date newspapers in my trunk, longing for your return.
Mostly, thankyou, thankyou, thankyou for being a tiny part of my life every morning between 3:20 and 5:35.
I love it when you call in the middle of a freak snowstorm to tell me that, no, you aren't going out of town any more because of the terrible weather, but could I please drop everything I'm doing to come and bring you a paper?
I love your motion detector lights that blind me daily: especially the kind the shut off after about four seconds, so they get me entering AND leaving your driveway.
I love it when you wait by the door for a Sunday paper that arrives at four minutes after six. I love it even more when you slam the door so sweetly as soon as I step off the porch.
I know that occassionally I miss delivering your paper, and when I do, I really love it when you call up and tell me all of your morning routine habits--it helps drive home just how much I have messed up your day.
Ooo . . . and when I tell you I'll get that paper right out to you, as soon as I finish feeding my baby and putting my son on the bus, I love it when you act really put out about that. The deep sighing and stern voice is almost enough to make me leave my little kiddies at home to fend for themselves so that you can read the obituaries.
I love it when you leave me a dollar tip every six months. But even more wonderful is when you don't tip at all. That's my favorite.
I love this bumper sticker on your car.
I love walking fifty yards down your driveway and then tenderly placing your paper under the rock, or behind the screen, or in the homemade box you have. Please, never put a paper tube under your mailbox on the road, I love you just the way you are.
I love it when you call me up and tell me your conspiracy theory about the lone jogger (or is there a second jogger?) who has been routinely stealing your paper off and on for years. I especially appreciate the advice to slide it WAY back into the tube so that it isn't so obvious and tempting for a casual passer-by. And I will most certainly let you know if I see any suspicious characters.
I love when you call me to deliver a late paper, but then call the newspaper to complain anyway. That. Is. Awesome.
I love it when you go out of town two or three times in a month, stopping and starting your paper each time. It makes it so easy to keep track of you. I also love the security light you leave on when you are out of town: I'm sure that is a great deterrent.
But even more than cancelling your paper for a few days, I love it when you ask me to save them in a bag. Especially if you are out of town for more than a week. Nothing makes me happier than keeping 17 of your out-of-date newspapers in my trunk, longing for your return.
Mostly, thankyou, thankyou, thankyou for being a tiny part of my life every morning between 3:20 and 5:35.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Snow Day = No Church?
We got a ten year storm in our portion of the NW today. It was beautiful, oh, except for the part where I delivered the hated Sunday papers in the snow. And tomorrow will likely be a big icy mess--there isn't a snowplow within 50 miles of our fair city. After Sacrament Meeting, the Bishop called off the rest of church as snowflakes the size of silver dollars were still coming down hard. Pictures to come.
I wasn't going to blog today; I'm trying to have a no Sunday policy, but I read something over on Foxy J's blog--an old post I missed--and I decided to post instead of comment. Before my remarks make a lot of sense, you probably should read the post, and the comments.
Basically, in response to her post, somebody commented that she had recently been heckled for attending a funeral in Utah. Why? The young man who passed away had committed suicide and was homosexual. The person who wrote in did not say whether or not the two were related, but my impression is that the persecution this young man had endured probably did not make for great mental health.
Now I'm going to tell a long story, but it really has a point, I promise. I once had a roommate who was dating a guy I couldn't stand. He was in training to be a seminary teacher, but he was probably one of the most judgmental people I'd ever met. I was a sophomore in college and going through my detox from my ultra-Republican upbringing. I had a microbiology class. One section was about viruses and we talked at length about AIDS, as it was just really hitting the news then and it was before a lot of the successful anti-retro-viral drugs were available.
Anyway, the teacher's brother had died of AIDS a few years before and he just taught with such pathos, that I was really moved and interested. I was speaking about the situation to my roommate and ick-boyfriend happened to be there. He interupted the conversation to say, "AIDS is just God's judgment for the wicked." He shrugged off the deaths of women and children in Africa as collateral damage, and then I described the horror of dying from AIDS. He just shrugged and said, "Fags and drug users deserve it."
I was in complete shock. Complete.
Never before had I visted a bishop when I hadn't been called in, but I really liked the man who was serving as my bishop at the time and I'd had him for Institute. He was especially sensitive and attuned to the Spirit. I set an appointment and spoke to him. I didn't go to tattle on the wanna-be seminary teacher, I was more concerned that I too, as a member of the Church with a rather fledgling testimony, was supposed to feel likewise.
This wise bishop listened very carefully to me and said with great deliberation, "You know, I don't understand homosexuality all that well. I can understand why women sometimes turn to one another--women are sensitive and kind and men can be very cruel. But I don't know how men can be attracted to other men.
"But still, those emotions are real and powerful. It would be very hard to go through a lifetime of not acting on those impulses. They are very strong. But what I want to tell you is this:
"That young man your roommate is dating does not speak for the Church, and he especially doesn't speak for God. See, the thing is, we will all die in our sins. It doesn't matter if they are "little" or "big." Any act of disobedience keeps us seperate, spiritually, from our Father in Heaven. We will all have to learn to lay those sins, our OWN sins, not somebody else's at the feet of the Savior."
He then sighed and shook his head, "I hope your roommate's young man never makes it as a seminary teacher. How will he react when a sensitive young man comes to him for counsel? His attitude and judgments have no place in the Church Education System. I hope she doesn't marry him."
She didn't. But she almost did. In the end he couldn't believe that she was really wanting to go to medical school when she could have a life of raising his babies and living on $30,000 a year. He was actually dating another girl at the same time and when roomie got cold, he was engaged within two weeks.
I hope he isn't your kid's seminary teacher.
I wasn't going to blog today; I'm trying to have a no Sunday policy, but I read something over on Foxy J's blog--an old post I missed--and I decided to post instead of comment. Before my remarks make a lot of sense, you probably should read the post, and the comments.
Basically, in response to her post, somebody commented that she had recently been heckled for attending a funeral in Utah. Why? The young man who passed away had committed suicide and was homosexual. The person who wrote in did not say whether or not the two were related, but my impression is that the persecution this young man had endured probably did not make for great mental health.
Now I'm going to tell a long story, but it really has a point, I promise. I once had a roommate who was dating a guy I couldn't stand. He was in training to be a seminary teacher, but he was probably one of the most judgmental people I'd ever met. I was a sophomore in college and going through my detox from my ultra-Republican upbringing. I had a microbiology class. One section was about viruses and we talked at length about AIDS, as it was just really hitting the news then and it was before a lot of the successful anti-retro-viral drugs were available.
Anyway, the teacher's brother had died of AIDS a few years before and he just taught with such pathos, that I was really moved and interested. I was speaking about the situation to my roommate and ick-boyfriend happened to be there. He interupted the conversation to say, "AIDS is just God's judgment for the wicked." He shrugged off the deaths of women and children in Africa as collateral damage, and then I described the horror of dying from AIDS. He just shrugged and said, "Fags and drug users deserve it."
I was in complete shock. Complete.
Never before had I visted a bishop when I hadn't been called in, but I really liked the man who was serving as my bishop at the time and I'd had him for Institute. He was especially sensitive and attuned to the Spirit. I set an appointment and spoke to him. I didn't go to tattle on the wanna-be seminary teacher, I was more concerned that I too, as a member of the Church with a rather fledgling testimony, was supposed to feel likewise.
This wise bishop listened very carefully to me and said with great deliberation, "You know, I don't understand homosexuality all that well. I can understand why women sometimes turn to one another--women are sensitive and kind and men can be very cruel. But I don't know how men can be attracted to other men.
"But still, those emotions are real and powerful. It would be very hard to go through a lifetime of not acting on those impulses. They are very strong. But what I want to tell you is this:
"That young man your roommate is dating does not speak for the Church, and he especially doesn't speak for God. See, the thing is, we will all die in our sins. It doesn't matter if they are "little" or "big." Any act of disobedience keeps us seperate, spiritually, from our Father in Heaven. We will all have to learn to lay those sins, our OWN sins, not somebody else's at the feet of the Savior."
He then sighed and shook his head, "I hope your roommate's young man never makes it as a seminary teacher. How will he react when a sensitive young man comes to him for counsel? His attitude and judgments have no place in the Church Education System. I hope she doesn't marry him."
She didn't. But she almost did. In the end he couldn't believe that she was really wanting to go to medical school when she could have a life of raising his babies and living on $30,000 a year. He was actually dating another girl at the same time and when roomie got cold, he was engaged within two weeks.
I hope he isn't your kid's seminary teacher.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Mother of the Year (Alternatively Titled: And Then She Needed Her Head Examined)
I mostly love to read stories about all of your adorable kid things. Sometimes I wonder at my own motivation when I post these stories/events. While most of it is to say, "Look what we are up to?" or "Aren't the kids adorable?" But sometimes I have to say that these cutsie posts smack of "Look what a great mother I am!" And I hope that I am self-aware enough to tell you right up front that the tone of this post will lean a little bit that direction. So if you hate that sort of shameless self-promotion. STOP READING RIGHT NOW.
Okay, if you've stuck with me this far then you get to listen to me pat myself on the back. :) So the Poopy Pirate agreed enthusiastically to my birthday party idea, even though I must be nuts to allow any kind of tradition that occurs less than two weeks before Christmas. Then, brilliant STM that I am, hit on the idea to have a "Go Diego Go" party: the current love of our three-year old life. The alternative was a Thomas Party, but I've just done WAY too many of these. (Not as many as on.the.run. but enough.) Should be a piece of cake, right?
Wrong.
If there is Go Diego party paraphenelia out there then it is not for sale in our corner of The Land of Commercialism. Instead mommy basically created the party from scratch, though after four phone calls I found a bakery that could do my cake "kit." Here is a sampling--notice my fabulously coordinated blue and orange as well as my blue and orange children:
It was hard for Scallywag to understand that it wasn't actually his birthday. He was right in the thick of making the invites, decorating, welcoming the kids and (naturally) opening the booty.
Okay, if you've stuck with me this far then you get to listen to me pat myself on the back. :) So the Poopy Pirate agreed enthusiastically to my birthday party idea, even though I must be nuts to allow any kind of tradition that occurs less than two weeks before Christmas. Then, brilliant STM that I am, hit on the idea to have a "Go Diego Go" party: the current love of our three-year old life. The alternative was a Thomas Party, but I've just done WAY too many of these. (Not as many as on.the.run. but enough.) Should be a piece of cake, right?
Wrong.
If there is Go Diego party paraphenelia out there then it is not for sale in our corner of The Land of Commercialism. Instead mommy basically created the party from scratch, though after four phone calls I found a bakery that could do my cake "kit." Here is a sampling--notice my fabulously coordinated blue and orange as well as my blue and orange children:
It was hard for Scallywag to understand that it wasn't actually his birthday. He was right in the thick of making the invites, decorating, welcoming the kids and (naturally) opening the booty.Below is a picture of us playing a board game called "Go Diego." No, I did not actually purchase said game for the party, though it came in handy. How long do you think musical chairs can be played with a group of three year olds? Nope, not even that long. The game was a space filler before the pinata extravaganza. Which was Scallywag's idea. (Aside: I really wanted to get a princess or Dora pinata and take a turn of my own walking the you-know-what out of it, but I am a model of decorum.) Oh, and in the picture below, that is me on the left. This is the only shot you'll see of me. Plantboy took some video from the party which apparently primarily involved getting three minutes of my hiney. Not posted.
This is a bean bag toss game, only you don't throw bean bags through holes. Or even bean bags for that matter. What you do is take some of Captain Tootypants' soft blocks and throw them as hard as you can at pictures of diego and the animals he is rescuing. For stickers.
Now for the part where mommy needs her head examined.
After the party (and waiting for the parent who thinks the party ends 30 minutes later than it actually did), I had to drive all over the neighborhood because I have started an early morning paper route. How early you must be asking? There has hardly been a day in the last month that I've gotten out of bed later than THREE AM. I am NOT making this up. Anyway, I was having a couple of route troubles so I drove all over making sure that I had my house numbers correct when I could actually see them. The paper route will, no doubt, one day be a very charming post all on its own, so I will refrain from further comment here.
Then I went to Staples where I picked up the copy of my book that I made to give to my mother. I did a very ruthless edit and am extremely happy with this (temporarily anyway) final version. I still think that unless you read more than the first three chapters you aren't sure if you're sold on it, so I may try another publisher that looks more at an entire manuscript (or at least says they do). My plan is to send it off again in January.
I came home just in time to realize that I had signed up weeks before to feed our missionaries, which I do every month, but I'm never consistent about the day or the week so it is always a complete shock when they call. I noted with some smugness that sister missionaries are more considerate about calling at least a couple of days in advance. Elders . . . . .
So last Saturday was a very long day. Perhaps not as long as this coming Saturday wherein we will load three kids in the car at three am and hope to make Ogden in 13 hours.
Last two items (I know, I know, I've got to get the pics off my camera more often):
We've had our Christmas on for about a month now, but I had to post a picture of my Christmas tree. I bought it at a garage sale in Champions Forest because the family had three others (my TX friends will appreciate that tidbit). We were traveling that year and a tree was not in the budget. Neither were presents. Neither was the traveling. Anyway, it was late afternoon when I stopped on a whim at the garage sale. How much did she want for this seven foot beauty covered with seven strands of white lights? FIVE DOLLARS.
Um . . . sold?
Anyway, nearly all of the ornaments are homemade and we add a few each year. This year it is clothespin angels that my neighbor taught me how to make. It is a little bright, bold, silly and just so darn homey. We love our tree. I think Plantboy would love to do the lumberjack thing and get the boys out in the woods to pick their own, but I remind him how environmental this is: we reduce because we don't get a new one every year, we reuse this one and we recycled it from somebody else. So we are having a green Christmas in at least one respect. 
Almost ready to wrap up, promise. Here is the baby who slept like an angel all through the Diego Melee, but has been a little devil over the last 48 hours with an icky fever and more snot and drool than I've ever seen even come from a BIG person.
My last item is just such a funny kid thing that you will definitely be rewarded if you have made it this far. Yesterday afternoon, Pirate dragged out the dinosaurs that haven't been played with for months. He began making up names for them and acting very silly. He began calling this dinosaur the yee-horse. I have no idea why.
Anyway, Scallywag got after Pirate for making up "dumb" stuff. Right, because Scallywag isn't full of it. Anyway, it turns out that the yee-horse can fly. Well, this was even more dumb in Scallywag's book, but when he saw what fun Pirate was having, he promptly picked up the other yee-horse, who is pink and apparently the female.
I'm not sure what these two yee-horses are doing:
But this is their baby, who is still learning to fly.
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