Conflicted

I sort of love comic book stories. I'm sure I've mentioned before my love-of-all-things-Batman, but I might have failed to mention that a close runner up in my mind is the X-Men franchise. I think that I love the story because it is so character-driven. Yes, yes, that might be a lot to say about comic books and movies geared toward boys who are primarily interested in blowing stuff up and breasts; but at their hearts, the best superhero stories are about people with extraordinary powers who would probably prefer just to fit in. Dr. Xavier starts a school so that "gifted" kids will have a place to go. Rogue contemplates giving up her power so that she might know human touch. Cyclopes wanting to see through human eyes. Batman fighting the scepters of his parents' death, Peter Parker haunted by the one murder he can never stop . . . I'm telling you, these are just great, character-driven stories. The villains in these stories become such when they believe their power makes them superior to others--they lose their empathy for "regular" humanity.

The X-Men story is a great example of this. The main bad guy, Magneto, is a survivor from a concentration camp. As much as his fellow mutants try to help him use his amazing power (he can control metal) for good, he can never quite forget or forgive how those who are different are treated by those in power. His inability to let go of the past turns him into the thing he most hated.

But on to why I am conflicted.

The X-Men franchise has a history of casting really, really good-looking men. Case in point:

Look at me and my bad self. I'm even cute with crazy sideburns and spikes for fingers. And don't even get me started on the mad blow-dryer skills that give me this hair-do.

The best-looking guys all know how to swagger, and I know you want this jacket.

This smile is really my best feature. I cannot figure out how I got cast as Wolverine: he doesn't smile once in six hours of movie mayhem. Oh wait, I know how . . . . it is all about my huge pythons. Did you SEE that first picture? XOXOXOXO

For the life of me, I cannot figure out how all of these Hugh Jackman pictures have ended up here. This last one doesn't even have anything to do with X-Men. Still, you've got to love Nicole Kidman's face. She is thinking, "If anything happens to Keith, The Drover is definitely my back-up plan." Hugh Jackman? He is thinking, "Good grief, a guy doesn't shave for a day and look what happens."

Here is another smoking hot actor who must have been cast purely for the bone structure of half a face. He also has an adorable grin that he doesn't get to use. Not a lot of smiling in the X-Men movies.

Dang! Hugh has beaten me out of the scruffy contest again! I've been working on this shadow all week.

The new film, coming out tomorrow, is no exception. It is easy to like the good guys when they are Hugh Jackman or James Marsden or James McAvoy. It is easy to distance yourself from the bad guys when they are made to look totally freaky or are 100 years old, cold as ice, and your first thought is Gandalf when you see them.

I am SOOOOO cerebral. And when I grow up I get to be Jean Luc Picard.

Did I say cerebral, ladies? What I meant is ACTION ADVENTURE GOD. Real men are all Brits.

Can you say male-dominated? I think this will be one drawback from the trilogy. Jane Grey, Storm and Rogue are such strong characters. This film seems to highlight January Jones in her lingerie. Could that honestly be comfortable? For saving the world? She makes Wonderwoman look like a Nun. (See earlier comment about the need for this genre to appeal to teenage boys. *sigh*) And Kevin Bacon? Honestly?

Batman's villians have been likewise unappealing--Jack Nicholson, a shredded-faced Heath Ledger, Danny DeVito, Arnold Swcharznegger, etc. It is not so easy to dislike the bad guy when he is MR. ROCHESTER:

I have a name. It is Michael Fassbender. And soon all the world will know it!
(Insert maniacal, bad-guy laughter here)

Team Xavier, or Team Magneto? I have a feeling that even a ticket to the movie isn't going to solve this dilemma.

Age 4. Phase 4.

My baby turned four on Tuesday. . . .

Perhaps you didn't hear correctly. My BABY turned four on Tuesday. On Sunday I held him close and said, "When you turn four, you'll be a big boy, and you won't be my baby anymore." I said this with some sad longing in my voice. Even in his little boy brain he could see my need for feedback of some kind. He put his perfect little arms around my neck and said, "I always your baby, Mommy. Even when I grow up and I'm super big, I be your baby forever."

Awww. . . .

Except I know better.

I know that as the youngest he probably will always hold some kind of special place in my heart, unique from the others (though they each occupy their own place too). But I know that boys grow up. Sports, friends, school, girls, mission--each in their turn will become more important than I am. Some replacements will be temporary. Others, not so much. I feel like I am standing on the edge of the next phase of my adult life.

The first phase were those single days. I find that the longer I live past that time, the more more idyllic they become! Fun and carefree days with roommates. College. Cheesy jobs. Heaps of friends. Student government. Mission. But I'm not naive. I also remember those days as being filled with a lot of loneliness, and longing--a sense of waiting for my life to begin. I think I missed a lot of joy from that time because I was always looking toward that moment in the future when I would be happy. I'm so grateful for those years that taught me about how sanctifying waiting can be, how to live with and love myself, and how to have a testimony.

Phase two is married without kids. This phase only lasted a couple of years for us. This is not a phase that has gotten more idyllic with the passage of time. It is true that we did a lot of fun things in that time, and that money wasn't as stressful as in later years (we had a whole year of two professional incomes without kids or a house payment), but we are so much more happily married now. I'm a great wife, but I was kind of a lousy newlywed. I brought too many hang-ups, and perhaps some unrealistic expectations into that most holy union.

Phase three is young kids, aka, "baby prison." I won't say much about that. After all, the blog is nearly five years old, and if you have even followed a portion of that time you know enough of my adventures in phase three.

But now . . .

There is no baby here. No diapers. Few little kid toys even hanging around. Our conversations (that don't involve shooting stuff) are actually interesting and uplifting around here. Oh, my men and still little and busy, and there are days that are just wearing physically and emotionally, but mostly I have been given my own life back. This morning I spent time sending a rather lengthy letter to a friend. I am now working on this blog post. I will probably spend time later consolidating and copying down recipes. As long as I stop to provide food, the pirates (the game of choice this morning) will probably stay pretty content.

My graduate program begins in just a few weeks. I am scrambling through my to-do list, hoping to accomplish some domestic activities before I get my feet wet. I have mentioned before that the last year or two I felt a sort of limbo--unsure about having more kids, not knowing what to do next, frustrated with a dead-end job we can't afford for me to quit, etc. etc. Now I feel like it is time to take the next step forward.

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.

Six Weeks

The last six weeks has been very busy. I think I finally see and end in sight, however. Next week should slow down a whole lot, culminating with Plantboy taking ALL the kids on the father-son camp out this year. This happy occurrence is the day after my birthday and I will get precisely what I want for number 36: A (partial) day of peace and quiet at home.

I have been hard at work on my goals the last weeks:

* My scripture study has picked up because of an unexpected boost. I have a friend who was baptised last October and has taken a strong interest in studying the Book of Mormon. We are giving each other reading assignments and meeting weekly to talk about them. It has been really great, and the kind of thing I haven't done for years. Having a study buddy keeps us both accountable and keeps us motivated.
* As mentioned here, I have finished a manuscript that several people are reviewing. I began working on a second full pass of it last night. My reading has been curbed back quite a lot, but the stack of books continues to grow. My blogging time has, obviously, been scaled way back.

* I've been exercising more regularly and have lost some weight, but I'm starting to think that even the half marathon isn't going to happen. My YW calling has kept me incredibly busy since Christmas and I just can't commit the time to the running that I need. I won't make a full decision for a couple of more weeks, but I feel some relief in admitting that it just might not be my year to marathon.

* I applied to graduate school (instructional technology) through an on-line program at my alma mater. After lots of pros and cons and years of consideration, this on-line option is the only one that really felt right. It will be cheaper, and I will be able to keep working while I complete it. I will finish the same time my youngest starts first grade, and instructional technology should give me more flexibility than a straight education degree.

Last year I felt like I was on the verge of everything and was filled with indecision and a large degree of depression. This year, I feel like I've taken the next step into the darkness. I'm not at all sure what will happen next, but it feels very good to have acted with a degree of faith and determination.

So here is the run down of what has kept us so busy these last several weeks.

The first order of business has been getting the garden in. And though Plantboy does most of the work, I have spent my share of sunny-ish afternoons weeding, weeding, forever weeding. The reward is that these bare plots are now filled with leafy growing things, well on their way to becoming food. Except the peas--they mildewed in so much rain and had to be re-planted this week.






The weekend of Plantboy's birthday and spring break, we decided to tile the kitchen. This is one of the bigger home improvement projects we have undertaken, and it was fairly difficult. The end result is beautiful (though I don't exactly have a proper "after" picture). and now we are trying to gear up enough desire to do the bathrooms next.










Before the grout had even dried, I thought, "What about that bathroom I've wanted to tackle for the last two years??" And I did, with a vengeance. Though still sporting the nasty old linoleum, the bathroom got a major makeover, paint-wise. Even the cabinets. Still, I had some good help so it wasn't too bad.








Spring came. I guess that wasn't a thing that kept me busy, but it was certainly a thing that has kept me going. The perennials and bulbs are lovely this year.







We finished painting the bathroom just in time to work on the Pinewood Derby. It was a night of tears, frustration and disappointment. At least at our house. Plantboy may get enlisted for some serious hours next year. Here is Jedi Knight winning the award for best "Hot Rod." The award only made him angrier because, "it isn't even a hot rod!!!"




My parents came to visit over Easter Weekend. Mom and I hosted an egg hunt/Bunny Money store for a few of the kids' friends. I had brunchy foods for the grown ups at the same time and it was actually a lot of fun.









Mom and Dad DID come to town to visit the grand kids, but they came that particular weekend because we had Wicked tickets. My sister also came. We had dinner first and then walked to the theater just a block from the restaurant (and only 10 minutes from home!). The show was fantastic. I'll spare you the review--there are many others written that are both better and more expert. It almost matched my anticipation level. I say "almost" because I'm not quite sure anything could have: I spent over a year putting the evening together. I promise I rocked that white outfit. I realize more forcefully all the time that I am NOT photogenic.


Jeff and Padawan went to an Oregon Ducks baseball game courtesy of a newspaper customer who was looking to get rid of some tickets. It was Padawan's first grown up outing on his own with dad. He said it was the best day of his life, even if game treats had to be tepid hot chocolate in a commemorative cup because it was so cold.




Here we are in Egypt. Not really. The following pictures are at the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry: OMSI. It is pretty much awesome. We saw a mummy, dinosaur bones, tried to build earthquake proof buildings and ball guns. We saw an IMAX film about baby orangutans and elephants. Most of the activities were hands on. We got to go to dinner on the way home from Portland . . . it was just a really awesome day.

Finally!

In all fairness to the many fine (and not-so-fine) film-makers who have attempted to do a film adaptation of Jane Eyre, Bronte did not make their task easy. With the backdrop of a dark, gloomy, gothic setting, the responsible adaptation must also create a warm and blazing passion between two characters. Each element--setting, Jane, Rochester--must be finely tuned to the other two. In addition, the leads may not be all that spectacular to look at. Jane should be plain. Rochester, almost ugly. We must also add that Jane is cautious and her paramour grouchy beyond belief. But only toward her, of course, the woman who best understands him. To all other, lovelier women, he must appear as the very soul of charm. To this tricky mix we must add a crazy woman in the attic, a plot that spans twenty-five years and TWENTY YEARS DIFFERENCE in ages.



Thanks, Charlotte.

With all this potential for getting it wrong, it is so refreshing when somebody gets it right. The new Jane Eyre is haunting and dark with moments that feel like they verge on a horror movie. The leads look and act just right. Jane is plain without her make up and her conservative hair, but she has the most luscious lips I've ever seen. Mr. Rochester can hardly keep his eyes off of them from the beginning of their acquaintance. There are moments that absolutely sizzle in this version, once again proving that NOT kissing is sometimes much more sensual than actually kissing.



Remember the above scene from Pride and Prejudice? NOT kissing combined with Darcy Effect is pretty much smoking hot.


Doesn't he look properly tortured?


The above picture is another not-kissing scene. Enough drama to give Shakespeare a run for his money.

Oh, it isn't perfect. I could have used about 20 more minutes. There should have been more with the crazy wife--like the ripping of the veil, which is a really chilling scene. Most of the cuts from the original story are well-considered, but I didn't think that poor Bertha and Grace Poole got enough mileage. This script also implies other things--that the little girl is Rochester's, for example. I would have liked to see more of Jane's refusal of Rochester scripted from the book, as the screenwriter did in other spots. I think they missed the central (and most religious!) aspects here. Also, when she returns to Rochester he has a horrible shaggy beard that she kisses. It is like watching her lick a bird's nest. Not great.

All in all, I was deeply satisfied. Clearly, so were Jane and Rochester:



My next review: WICKED. Showtime tonight at 7:30!

Five Most Influential Books

A couple of weeks ago, a friend was looking for book recommendations for her 10 year old who happens to read as well, if not as maturely, as a junior in high school. It was fun to read the list generated and I felt deeply gratified that the same great books are being rediscovered generation after generation. I also had opportunity this week to re-read A Wrinkle in Time, surely one of the most influential books I read as a child. It caused me to reflect that the books that have had the greatest impact on me are all books that I read before I turned 18.

Do you remember the always delightful You've Got Mail? There is a line in that movie when Meg Ryan's character is giving an impassioned defense of the importance of childhood reading to Tom Hank's character (Joe Fox--F.O.X.). She says, "When you read something as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does . . ." Amen, Kathleen Kelly. Later, when her store closes, all of the old crowd comes to by books and mourn the passing of a special place from childhood. One woman says, "I was standing right there when your mother gave me my first copy of Anne of Green Gables. Read it with a Kleenex, she said." I get teary even now just thinking about Matthew's death.

I also have realized that my most influential books are not necessarily my favorite, and that the first list is easier to pare down than the second. So here are my Five Most Influential Books, in no order but alphabetical, with a list of honorable mentions afterward. Feel free to share all of your delicious memories.

1. A Wrinkle in Time. Madeline L'Engle. This book is so wonderful. I still remember precisely what the cover of my first Yearling paperback edition looked like, and my feeling on Christmas morning when I picked it up. I don't think a week passed before I'd read it at least once. My most recent reading emphasized to me why this book mattered so much to me: it was the first science fiction (NOT fantasy) novel I'd ever read--a young adult genre rather tricky to come by--and L'Engle seamlessly blends science with God and love and loyalty and religion until one begins to see that all of these are really just different aspects of the same thing. I think Jedi Knight is almost ready for this one. I can hardly wait.

2. Anne of Green Gables. L.M. Montgomery. Well, duh. This book probably makes half of all such lists. I'm not sure why this book mattered so much to me. Anne is a lovely, quirky mixture of ambition and intelligence and domestic goddess. She is sassy in a time when sassy was downright edgy instead of the uncomfortable norm. She's a red-head for crying out loud. What is not to love? The entire series is wonderful--Montgomery is a clever and delightful storyteller, but only this first, lovable volume is a young adult novel, at least from Anne's perspective. Volume 8 is a war story told from the viewpoint of her youngest daughter, Rilla. In the war, Anne's tender-hearted, Gilbert look-alike, poet son dies. I cry because I love Walter, of course, but mostly because I worry about Anne. She is so real to me that I almost think there is a place I might be able to one day go and meet her. I suppose my imagination will have to do.

3. The Grapes of Wrath. John Steinbeck. The darkest selection on my list, by far. There is a passage in this book that reads thus:

Burn coffee for fuel in the ships. Burn corn to keep warm, it makes a hot fire. Dump potatoes in the rivers and place guards along the banks to keep the hungry people from fishing them out. Slaughter the pigs and bury them, and let the putrescence drip down into the earth.

There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation. There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize. There is a failure here that topples all our success. The fertile earth, the straight tree rows, the sturdy trunks, and the ripe fruit. And children dying of pellagra must die because a profit cannot be taken from an orange. And coroners must fill in the certificates--died of malnutrition--because the food must rot, must be forced to rot.

The people come with nets to fish for potatoes in the river, and the guards hold them back; they come in rattling cars to get the dumped oranges, but the kerosene is sprayed. And they stand still and watch the potatoes float by, listen to the screaming pigs being killed in a ditch and covered with quicklime, watch the mountains of oranges slop down to a putrefying ooze; and in the eyes of the people there is a failure; and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.

I read a tribute to Steinbeck in which the author used the above quote saying, "If this doesn't get your blood racing, you're never going to love John Steinbeck." I was 16 going on 17 and in a very hokey English class and it got my blood racing. "There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation . . . there is a failure here that topples all our success. . . ." I never looked at capitalism or politics the same after I read this book. I felt like a grown-up; I felt trusted to think and learn. Parents sometimes complain to me that schools work too hard to indoctrinate their children with liberal ideas. But they are wrong: real teachers don't indoctrinate. They open doors. Sometimes a child enters a door through which they don't turn back. Steinbeck's words always ring through my ears when I see a hungry child. How much poorer my life would be if I had missed this novel!

4. The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. C.S. Lewis. I think it is important to note here that the book that trumps the other four is the Book of Mormon. If not for that book, every single aspect of my life would be completely different. For this exercise I wanted to look outside the scriptures. I do bring up that point here, however, because this book of Lewis' was the first time Christianity sunk in to me. And it wasn't on my first reading. But I do remember the day it occurred to me that Lewis was really talking about something much more than Lions and stone tables and cool magic to avoid the death of the main character. It was probably also the first time I realized and understood about symbolism, and that authors use this trick all of the time. I sat with Susan and Lucy when Alsan was humiliated and killed . . . . and I had a brief glimpse of insight to what that horrible day at Calvary must have been like. But Aslan reminds us that dying brings new birth, and that we are bought with a price. All seven volumes contain a multitude of Biblical references--Genesis, Exodus, Isaiah, The Gospels, Revelations--it is clear that Lewis' intentions were much deeper than young adult literature.

5. Pride and Prejudice. Jane Austen. Again, to quote from Kathleen Kelly, "I confess I've read Pride and Prejudice about a hundred times. I get caught up in the language. Words like thither." I think I have waxed poetic on this blog enough times about this book. THE book. I was probably 12 when I read it the first time. And, wait for it, deeply disappointed that Elizabeth didn't end up with Wickham. Or at least that he turned out to be such a weasel. Little did I understand yet about the attraction of a man who will change everything he is just for a chance to hold your hand. *sigh* Time to re-read, I think. It has maybe been six months. . . .

Short-list Honorable mentions--Heidi, A Seperate Peace, Three Cups of Tea (even with the current controversy), Heart of Darkness, Little Women, The Jungle, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Blue Sword . . .

Should Have Taken a Picture

The roasted vegetable sauce last night wasn't good. It was awesome. The above picture? Not so much. It came from some where else. Though, on the upside, while looking for a great picture I found a whole blog that is great.

The recipe below made two generous helpings, so probably more like 4 if you are into something called "moderation." It is a radical idea I haven't quite gotten my head around yet.

Roasted Vegetable Sauce over Polenta

Polenta

3 1/4 cups water
1 tsp salt
1 cup cornmeal
3 Tbsp butter (plus more for frying polenta)

Sauce

2 Medium Tomatoes
1 large red pepper
2 small zucchini squashes
1 head of garlic
1/4 cup fresh basil


Boil water and salt (if your butter is salted, you my want to halve this amount). Add cornmeal and reduce heat to low. Whisk rapidly for two or three minutes until all water is absorbed, and the cornmeal is smooth and thick. Remove from heat and add butter, whisking until melted and creamy. Spread the polenta into a lightly buttered (or sprayed) 8 (or 9) inch square casserole dish, making the top as even as possible and of uniform thickness. Refrigerate until completely cooled so that it can be cut--about two hours.

To roast vegetables: Halve and seed the tomatoes and place them skin side down on a baking pan. Quarter the pepper and put it skin side down also. Cut the ends off the zucchini and slice length-wise and lay peel-side down. Cut the top of the head of garlic off, exposing the heads. Brush everything generously with a mixture of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Add pepper (fresh, if you have it) and salt. Roast at 425 degrees for 20 to 25 minutes. Remove from oven and cool.

To assemble your dish before dinner, remove the polenta from the fridge and cut it in to 8 rectangles. In a non-stick pan (iron skillet is perfect), heat (medium) a combination of butter and olive oil. Be generous. The butter will help flavor the polenta, but the oil will not burn as quickly. While your oil heats, peal the skin from your cooled peppers and tomatoes. It should come off easily. Place all of your tomatoes in a blender (I used a Magic Bullet because the amount was so small.) along with half of the red pepper and zucchini. Scoop the soft, sweet garlic from the heads and add it to the blender with the basil. Puree this mixture.

Add the polenta to the butter pan. You want to cook it fast enough that it gets a crusty shell instead of just being greasy, but slow enough that it doesn't burn. You should only turn it once. About five minutes on each side.

While the polenta cooks, puree your vegetables and add them to a sauce pan. Chop the remaining roasted zucchini and peppers to add some chunkiness to the sauce. When the sauce heats through, taste. Add ins for more flavor might include dried oregano (could also be added in the roasting phase), red pepper flakes, salt, pepper, and balsamic vinegar.

When the polenta is cooked on both sides, serve immediately with the sauce spooned on to the top (it will be thick). Sprinkle with Parmesan cheese and garnish with more basil.

We ate it with a side salad and homemade bread sticks.

AWESOME.

Oh, and I did find this. If you don't want to puree the veggies, just grill them and serve polenta by the slice (use a pie plate) with your favorite marinara from a jar. THIS is up for next week. And on a sciencey vegetarian note, serving squash and corn together makes a complete protein.

Vegetarian Fare

Last week was a great food week. Besides the recipes listed below, I also made Moroccan chicken in my crockpot--heavy on the veggies, light on the chicken. Plantboy made this meal one night:



It looked almost that pretty. He cleverly added carrots too. The leftover dressing was great later in the week on fajitas.

Our vegetarian selections this week include:

Big Salad (lettuce, black beans, quinoa, corn, green onion, cilantro, lime, etc.)
Roasted Vegetable Sauce over Polenta

The second is on the list for tonight. I hope it is fabulous. I'm very excited. If it is good then I will put up a recipe.

Looking For Readers

I am trying to get some feedback on the finished novel from 5-10 people, though I have to say that I doubt any of you are in the true target demographic. I'll give the rundown synopsis, then you can email or leave a message here if you are interested in seeing a copy.

The title is Snow White and Rose Red: A Tale of Two Sisters and is a retelling of a Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale. The protagonists are in their late teens during most of the story events, and at its heart this story is a coming-of-age young adult novel. The elements of magic are not too heavy, but it is certainly a fantasy novel. I only used the original story as a springboard, trying to turn some of its more traditional (and downright strange) elements on their head.

If you volunteer to read then, as before, I will send you an electronic copy of the manuscript (as a PDF file this time, hopefully) and a few general guidelines for what I am looking for--things I have concerns about. Suggestions are awesome and welcome about any aspect of the novel on which you care to comment.

Recipe Help??

I am trying to switch our family over to a more vegetarian-based diet. Lots of reasons.

What I do NOT have a lot of are recipe ideas, or tricks for eating more vegetarian.

This week's vegetarian fare will include the following:

* Rolled Lasagne with meatless sauce, salad and rosemary-lemon bread

* Black Bean and Corn salad with quinoa

What have you got that I can try next week? I'd like to experiment with curries and polenta and squashes and beans. Tofu, not so much.

Spring Break 1994

Though not as fun as last year's spring break trip to the Redwoods, our break this year has been equally memorable. It will best be told through pictures, but not today. Today I am going to flash back seventeen years.

Just typing that seems preposterous, for some of the events from that spring still seem as fresh as if they happened this year. This is the story of my spring break freshman year. Before you get excited for juicy tales of some hedonistic lifestyle choices, I should tell you that this is not that kind of story. That I don't actually have any stories like that. And, well, if you like that sort of thing you should just find another blog to read.

My roommate, Pocohantas (the original Naked Mole Rat, I've mentioned her before), started college with a boyfriend. He wasn't exactly "in tow" as he stayed behind in our home town, a scant hour away. He put off a serious pursuit of college while waiting to go on his mission. I hesitate to say "preparing" to go on a mission, because like many other young men in his position, he worked a little and played a lot. Pocohantas, on the other hand, hit the ground running at college. She wanted to be an optometrist and had to support herself through college and so she had little time to waste.

The summer between high school and college was one of those idyllic times for Pocohantas and Beau. (I had half a summer like that once.) They left their childhoods behind with a bang: drive-in movies, bridge-jumping, a backpacking trip to the Continental Divide, hanging out at the dam, waterskiing . . .

As Beau's birthday wasn't until the spring, he was a frequent weekend visitor at our apartment. When he didn't come, Pocohantas went home. Besides dating Beau, she also worked a part time job selling wedding dresses to bridezillas every Saturday. Her schedule intensified as her classes got harder, science classes designed to select against all but the very fittest. Money grew tighter than expected and she took another job at a local sweatshop making back packs every afternoon.

It is entirely possible that as Pocahontas got busier, Beau got more laid back. He took a few cursory classes at the college, but spent a big chunk of the winter skiing. Pocahontas hated the skiing, though not because it represented just how uninterested Beau was in growing up, but because he was such a daredevil. She finally had to ask him just to stop telling her the stories because they made her freak out.

Yes, this is a spring break story, bear with me through a bit more back story. In November of 1993, a beloved Aunt, in her early 30's was diagnosed with malignant colon cancer after dealing with flu-like symptoms for nearly two months. She was given an open and shut operation the over Thanksgiving holidays. Opened to cut out the offending portion of the colon, and closed when the doctor saw that her abdomen was filled with cancer, and that full surgical removal was impossible. They began an aggressive course of treatment.

Beau received his mission call to Washington D.C., and as young men are prone to do (and, admittedly, young women), he became even more protective of the time that he and my roommate had together. And though he never asked Pocahontas to "wait" for him, it was clear that his fondest hope was that she would still be around when he came back. You see, he had loved her enough to change his whole life for her. Early on in high school, he was headed down a road that wouldn't bring him any happiness, but after meeting Pocahontas, he wanted to do whatever it took to be her guy. Beau was the perfect combination of rebel-factor and Darcy Effect. But even as he turned his life around, he never lost that mischievous charm that made him so much fun.

Back in the day, USU was on quarters, and so Spring Break was preceded by Winter Semester finals. Apartment 41 was a madhouse of caffeine, late nights, oddly-timed power naps and b.o. Early in that busy week, Beau called Pocahontas, with no little frustration over her inability to commit to spending more time with him. He would, after all, be leaving in just over two weeks. Even during the break she was scheduled to work every day at the gown shop. Just before hanging up with a few cursory endearments, he said, "You are spending spring break with me. One way or another."

Then came other phone calls.

The first was my newly-engaged older brother to tell me that he had been scheduled for emergency surgery during spring break because of a birth defect that had caused his lung to partially, spontaneously collapse.

Another call came from my mom. A childhood friend had been involved in a terrible car accident in a late Utah snow storm. She was in intensive care with her jaw wired shut and a leg full of pins.

The third call came from my mom also. My aunt, just over four months after diagnosis, had died. Her funeral would be over spring break. She was survived by a young, grieving husband and four shell-shocked kids ages 2-12.

But it was the fourth call that really turned the world upside down.

It was for Pocahontas.

Beau had been in a bad skiing accident. He had been life-flighted to the hospital and was in intensive care in very unstable condition. He would spend three months in a coma. And he was right--Pocahontas spent every single day of Spring Break with him.

On the first day of the break, my dad had to drive to eastern Utah to look at an area near where his company was bidding a road construction job. It was the middle of nowhere. He invited me to come along and I went for it, knowing that I could spend hours in the car and not really need to talk if I didn't want to. I didn't.

When we arrived at our destination, I got out of the car and walked around a bit, staring out over the sparse, still un-vegetated landscape. And I asked a lot of questions. I'm not sure if I directed them at God, who wasn't my favorite Person at that point, or just threw them out to the universe, but I know that for the first time I really questioned the meaning of existence, and the worth of all I'd been taught. I suddenly felt very strongly that I had to know if religion in general, and mine specifically, was just a series of fairytales people had invented in a lame attempt to feel better when awful things happened, or if the things I'd always been taught were truth. THE Truth.

Later that week, I sat in the car at a rain-soaked cemetery waiting for everyone to arrive at the internment. As I looked out the foggy window, I saw my uncle standing at the graveside in a black trenchcoat and holding a black umbrella. His three oldest children clung to his legs and his baby, with his sprinkling of freckles and his mother's red hair, cuddled against his shoulder as if he would never let go. Even now, 17 years later, it is a picture that still comes unbidden to me sometimes, a constant reminder that each life is fleeting and that things shouldn't be left unsaid.

On that day, I questioned more than ever.

In the months to come, I got serious about my questions. I spent many hours on my knees, pleading for peace and revelation. And then, it came. I still remember the chair in which I was sitting, the book that I was reading, and the words that settled with such clarity on my heart. I've never regressed to the person I was before that time.

Pocahontas continued her biweekly visits to Beau's bedside throughout the spring--even when they moved him to a hospital two hours away. Always the most social and outgoing girl in our class, she became withdrawn, tired and alone. My heart ached to help her, knowing that I had so little to give that she needed. Already a young woman of remarkable faith, her own questions were probably deeper than mine. When she happened to be around, we would spend our time in deep conversations. I remember her saying to me once that so many people kept telling her things happened for a reason, that there were lessons to be learned from each situation, that God was always in charge. She hoped nothing she had to learn in life would be so important that Beau and his family had to suffer so terribly. I cried when she said it and told her I didn't think it worked that way. But I'm still not sure.

What I do know is that the Lord can bless us with peace and knowledge even when your whole world is falling apart. I learned that a broken heart is finally soft enough to accept what the Lord wants to give you.

In the aftermath of that awful week, my brother was fine. His lung was repaired and has had no trouble with it since. My friend also came through her accident with flying colors. She now has four beautiful little girls. My uncle has finally come to a place of great happiness and my family has witnessed miracle after miracle in the lives of his children. I firmly believe that my aunt is watching over those much-loved children from the other side and is helping them in many ways. They are some of the strongest twenty-something adults that I know and each is making their mother proud.

As for Beau . . .

I mentioned before that he was in a coma for more than three months. He finally woke up, but he never really came back. He was paralyzed from the waist down because of trauma to his spinal cord. In addition, a massive brain hemorrhage, likely caused on impact, created stroke-like conditions for him, causing him to lose most of the use of one of his hands. It also gave him problems with slurred speech, destroyed his short-term memory, and left him locked in the mind of a six year-old. Remarkably, his happy personality persisted, though his face traded twinkling mischief for disarming innocence. Everyone who knew Beau in the after years loved him. And Pocahontas still did.

Two years later she met a wonderful guy and said the hardest thing about getting engaged was having to tell Beau, but especially his parents. To Beau, hardly any time had passed. He was still going to serve a mission. Still going to marry Pocahontas. Still going to be a star. But to his parents, my friend's happy news reminded them of how much they loved her too, and that she would never be a true part of their lives.

Beau left this life last weekend, in a tragic turn of events that also claimed the lives of his parents. When I heard the news, I, like everyone who had any contact with the family, was shocked and horrified. I found myself again on my knees, pleading for that peace. I know now that some things are beyond understanding, but the Lord can always send peace.

Saturday morning, one of my paper customers left me a lovely bouquet of yellow daffodils. I cried as I picked them up, their cheery faces reminding me that spring always comes again. That the atonement and forgiveness is real. That God's grace makes resurrection and eternal families possible. I was reminded of those lessons learned through the furnace of affliction so many years ago.

Later that day it occurred to me that now Beau is getting a chance to serve the kind of mission he had one day hoped to. And though it isn't a fairy tale, happily ever after really is possible. Good-bye, friend. Your life and suffering weren't in vain. You touched so many lives for good. Everyone who knew you is better for it.

In the Middle of the Chaos . . .

I finished a 330 page draft.

Oh. Oh. Oh.

I am so excited.

This week has been nuts, and we are entirely over-committed (which includes tiling the kitchen and celebrating the ever-adorable Plantboy's birthday) but I just have to tell someone.

I am going to spend the next month doing my own edit. There are at least 50 pages that are very nearly a free write--unless you count all the writing I do in my head when I don't have time to sit. Anyway, I am going to do a comprehensive edit on my own.

Then a peer review (looking for takers).

Then I have a contact who can hook me up to get some actual feedback from an actual editor at an actual publishing company.

Actually, I'm feeling pretty good today.

My stories nearly always come to me first as dialogued scene between two characters. I flesh out ideas from there, but each project I've finished will come to me in bits and flashes, again usually with dialogue. I will write sections all over the place and then create bridges to join them all up. I finished my last bridge last night. These connections are the hardest for me and where my stories bog down; because they are the rising action bits in between the best stuff, they are also the hardest to get motivated to finish.

I can hardly begin to express how excited I am for this project. The idea came to me in the Fall of 2009, and I've pretty much abandoned all other projects (at least on paper) since. Fifteen months is actually a really good record for me. I have a fantasy novel that is one or two chapters shy of a completion (clocking in at around 400 pages) that I started in the year 2000. I keep wanting to revisit it, but I can't help shaking the feeling that it is actually part of a trilogy. The MIDDLE part of a trilogy. Who do I think I am, George Lucas?

Did I mention how excited I am for this project?

Did I mention how much the love and support you folks give me in this environment has helped to shape me as a writer the last few years? No? Well, if publishing is ever in the cards for me, at least one of my books (though not the first) is going to be dedicated to the Blogger community at Nomad. Your empathy and belief in my ability and almost daily source of encouragement has been invaluable. Thanks for sharing your journey with me.

Looking Forward to the Next Parenting Crisis

Alternately Titled: What I Would Do With the $100 Million Jackpot

Jedi Knight has been taking karate since September. I chose this particular dojo, out of several choices, because its flexibility is awesome. He can go any day of the week because the general beginners' class is offered at the same time each day. He can go four times monthly, and if I up my monthly payment, he could go as often as he wanted. It has been good for him. He has learned some discipline and focus. He is getting better all the time. Some of the instructors I like better than others, though admittedly I don't get to stay and watch him as often as I like, so I'm not always sure how his classes go down.

What I had not counted on was the karate being quite as . . . well. . . self-important as the folks running the dojo make it seem. I appreciate that it is serious to them. That it is not a game or a costume party. But what I'm not crazy about is the secretary who makes me feel like a pariah when I ask questions about the way things work regarding advancement, etc. I sometimes feel like every other parent in the place kind of gets what is going on and I don't. My questions are often met with a combination of incredulity-condescension-and "well, duh!" I'm still trying to get a read on the place because JK likes it. Quite a lot.

A bit more background and then we'll address my current situation at karate. I am a hyper-modest girl. I'm not sure how this happened. My mom didn't necessarily really push this, although there was a pretty strong level of embarrassment regarding anything related to body stuff. For whatever reason, I entered puberty very reluctantly and slowly. I was angry when my friends threw over books, Barbies and school for boys, clothes and hair. By age 10 I was practically barricading myself in the bathroom when it came time for bathing or showering. If I took too long, somebody would always bang on the door threatening to use the butter knife to break in if I didn't hurry. Bra-shopping (at least six months too late) and menarche (at least a year too early) were nightmares of mortification, in which I never wanted to look my mother in the eye again.

Enter seventh grade gym class.

Until we toured the school, it had never occurred to me that we might be required to shower in a group. I was shocked and horrified. My public pool experience was pretty limited and the before pool showering we did was always in the little outside showers. Which word is stronger than mortification? Like you probably did, I learned to change my clothes without ever actually taking my other clothes off. I learned to shower wearing underwear and just wrapping myself in a towel. My feet were always very clean. . . .

I observed a couple of things. First of all, the only girls comfortable wandering the locker room in bra and panties were the cute/popular/boyfriended girls. I was not one of these. Unfortunately, most of my friends were, and it is safe to say that the girls in my locker aisle (which we could choose) were probably the most with-it group of our class start to finish. It is a group I somehow always managed to be on the fringe of and would end up rooming with at college some years later. Some of these women are still my close friends and I love them dearly, though I'm never really quite sure how they were my group to begin with. (Oh, man, this is a whole new set of hang-ups today. I need a new label called "Living in 1987.")

Ah hem. Back to the topic. My second observation from my locker room days is that the only girls comfortable showering uninhibited in front of everyone were the girls who already carried very bad reputations before we turned 13. I still remember this one girl . . . .

Okay, let's not go there.

Our gym teacher complained that somebody stunk. I thought it was a stupid accusation: I didn't smell anyone, and none of us were working hard enough to actually sweat. Still, she stood with the clipboard to watch each of us shower. For a grade. She later uncloseted as a lesbian.

Really.

College was awkward with the same pretty friends and their low inhibitions. Why is it easier to put on makeup in just a bra then it is just to put on a shirt, for crying out loud?? Now I live with four men, but my modesty principles have not loosened up much. Even when my kids were babies I didn't let them in the shower, or even the bathroom with me. I would lock them into the bouncy seat just outside the door and jealously guard my private time. My modesty. When my midwife and I went over the birth plan for my first baby, I mentioned my modesty hang ups and, bless dear Happy Barnes (my midwife's actual name), she was so careful while I labored. At the public pool we regularly attend now I always use the family restroom, even when I only have my three year-old with me. The sight of women changing in front of one another and their daughters and their young sons is really pretty horrible to me. Nursing was perpetually awkward for me and I was never really comfortable doing so in front of other people.

Out in public we cover, cover, cover. Why is it that the moment we step into a changing room it is okay to . . . . and I don't think I'll ever quite get over going to early morning water aerobics with my 70ish grandmother and her friends. I wish I had gone out into the 20 degree morning in my damp hair and clothes rather than be haunted by the elephantine memories of that public dressing room experience.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying this is necessarily right or normal and certainly not any kind of an LDS requirement for virtuous living. It is just me.

And because parents do, I have transmitted some of this to my kids. Jedi Knight showers with the door shut and often locked. He is bothered when people enter his room while he is changing. I have urged bathroom privacy for each child. We have decided to be a non-sleepover family and have spoken with all the kids at length about when and for whom it is appropriate to change your clothing.

Back to karate. When we started karate in the summer, they were meeting in a small and temporary dojo while construction was completed on another. Each child wore their "gi" (the white outfit) to karate. We were careful with it--ONLY to and from karate and kept clean and folded. In mid-October, the new dojo opened and we began going there. I noticed that a lot of kids in the class after JK changed at karate. Maybe even a majority. There is some kind of a group changing area with lockers in one area. Because the next class is comprised of teenagers and adults, I assumed they changed at the dojo because they came from school or work and it was convenient.

Not necessarily so, as I was firmly told on Monday. You see, everyone at the dojo is required to wear street clothes, and change there. Everyone. I was told that there are some lingering kids still making the mistake of changing at home because they allowed it over the summer. Not only is JK my modesty-boy, but he is also very resistant to change. I could see him shutting down as strict-secretary-girl was laying down the law. She explained her reasoning--the Gi is not a costume, they stay cleaner, the kids take greater responsibility, etc. etc. She confirmed that even the four and five year olds at his class are changing their clothes, in the group room, prior to class.

I explained to her that he and I had spoken a lot about modesty and that he had been instructed never to change clothes in front of other people. That it was a thing our family valued. She emphasized that she monitored the room carefully while kids were in there and listened for any talk that wasn't related to changing, and that it was a RULE for crying out loud. Seeing my discomfort, the dojo owner remarked that it would be appropriate for him to change in one of the stalls in the men's bathroom. I conceded that this would work.

Now if I can just convince Jedi "I'm-not-really-comfortable-with-this" Knight that he can go for the compromise.

On my way home from the encounter, all of my horrible junior high PE emotions came back to me. I went to college the year of the huge Skyview High scandal that brought hazing in high school sports into the national spotlight and began a discussion about where does "boys will be boys" cross the line into brutalizing sexual harassment. In a classic case of blame the victim, the young man was told that unless he apologized to the team for having sought police involvement in the case, then he was off the team. The perpetrators didn't even get a slap on the wrist.

Recent studies and practices at some high performing middle schools demonstrate that doing PE in the morning (actual PE, not avoid-the-dodge-ball-and-gossip-for-25-minutes) increases academic performance. I'm a believer in this. The dream school I design in my head all of the time is a 6-12. PE and Health would be a major part of the required curriculum. Every year. Equipment. Classes. Martial Arts. Nutrition. Disease. etc. . . . but if something couldn't be done about completely re-envisioning locker rooms, I could never really get behind it. Individual showers. Stalled changing rooms. Gym teachers with more important tasks to fill their time than watching young kids shower to earn points.

We may have averted the karate crisis. I think by the time our next lesson rolls around I will have him talked into a compromise that works for the dojo and for our family.

But what will I do in middle school? When my quirky, smart, small boys who haven't been weaned onto a diet of team sports are confronted with a locker room dilemma which I find pretty offensive? A place that, almost by design, strives to separate the kids into a social stratification that persists for years and erodes self-esteem. Kids can be so cruel, and I've been around teenage kids more than a little bit. I know the kind on which some of them prey. They are the little men I love more than I love my own life. The system, as it stands, forces kids to be at their most vulnerable around one another just when they are getting smart enough to learn exactly whom they should never "strip" in front of.

Oh! I know we can't take away their hurts, but I don't want to throw them to the lions' den either!

Relief

I did it.

I had THE TALK with Jedi Knight.

Two different events in the last week convinced me that it was time, and finally after months of thought and prayer (really, I'm pretty uptight when it comes to finding JUST THE RIGHT WORDS), the exact words and approach I needed finally came.

Ideally, I would have naturally answered questions as they arose, but there weren't enough questions asked in proportion to what he needed to know.

It was great. Uplifting. Science, spirit and love-based. He came away with a hug and smile, and the knowledge that he can ask his mother about anything. Piece of cake.

*whew*

Onto the next major challenge.

Movies Are To Film As Pulp Fiction Is To Literature

I apologize for the couplet-title. I'm studying for the Miller Analogy Test and I'm thinking in analogous phrases.

In junior high my best friend was a Mafiaphile. While other young women (aka, me) fantasized about being a Bennet girl or at least living in 18th century England, Kate imagined the romance of being a Corleon matriarch. She also dragged me through the shadowy underground of R-rated movies. Growing up in white-bread Utah, I didn't realize that said shadowy underground mostly exists in minds of members of the Church, and that to other people such a rating didn't particularly influence movie-watching choices. Especially R-rated movies circa the 1980's. As Kate and I made our way each weekend through another gangster movie, I felt delightfully rebellious. And though my Italy-fever never reached my friend's near-obsession, I actually really enjoyed all of the contra-band.

Kate and I didn't stay BFF's. (I guess the label is misnomer.) My new peer group was very anti R-rated movies and, at the time, the Church issued the first edition of its youth pamphlet titled, "For the Strength of Youth" which carried a firm warning against viewing any movie rated R. The line in the sand was more than enough for me and some years passed without me watching any others.

Enter The Mistake. Despite his church-ish demeanor (at least around me), he had few qualms about such viewing. When I had been home from my mission just a month we had already seen Air Force One (actually cool and thought provoking), The Full Monty (hilarious) and The Rock (wrong on nearly every level). The irony, of course, is that of all the movies we saw together (what else did we do, after all?) the trashiest two were both rated PG-13. The first Austin Powers, during which I ultimately had to leave the room; and Titanic. Okay, okay, there are some awesome things about Titanic, but I thought it was highly overrated and plenty heavy on the Tit. Though I'm sure The Mistake was thinking about how artistic Kate Winslet was as she disrobed for her paramour.

Yes, yes, "trashy" is a relative word and certainly in the eye of the beholder. The other strange thing, to me, is that in Australia there is no "R" rating. Most movies in the US that get a PG-13 OR and R rating are labeled "M" for mature in Oz. Every member of the Church I knew went to a wide variety of "M" movies, several of which I knew to be rated "R"in the US. Oooo. . . .even "good" members of the Church.

Not long after returning from my mission, the Church issued a second edition of the Strength of Youth booklet, counseling specifically ONLY against pornography. The header scripture for the section is an excerpt from the 13th Article of Faith, "If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things." The new emphasis on the section is on the dangers of immersing yourself in media of any type that causes of a loss of the Spirit. And that is pretty much it.

There are a variety of opinions on this: some say that the standard is therefore stricter than ever. That there are plenty of even PG rated movies that can't make the cut here, and virtually none of the other movies with their seedier ratings are appropriate, just by virtue of all that can be allowed in movies that have those ratings. Others have gone just the opposite and say that now it doesn't matter what we watch, and that we should just exercise a particle of caution. My own view is more in the middle, though I've definitely gone to the side of more caution and with a reversion to the standard from my teenage yars.

In our married life, Plantboy and I have only rented R-rated movies on two ocassions. One was not a bad movie at all (and I'm still a little confused about the rating); the other was a bloodbath predicated by characters with bloodlust and covered with loads of bloody blood after most scenes. With Mel Gibson. I guess that image should be pretty clear.

We have never paid to go to the theatre to see one; though, admittedly, I've seen plenty of PG-13 and even PG movies that could not pass the 13th Article of Faith Litmus Test.

So it is with the background that I stood in line to buy tickets for The King's Speech last Friday night. I felt anxious. Naughty. Like a 14 year old boy trying to sneak into a porn film . . .

Okay, maybe not THAT bad, but I don't think I've ever paid, personally to see an over-17. The young man behind the counter hesitated, ever so briefly, when I told him what I wanted. No doubt, he was waiting for his computer screen to tell him that, yes, there were still seats available, but I thought he was going to ask for my ID, though I blow past the over 17 thing by more than double. He stared at me lazily, his mood clearly out of step with my shaking hands.

We are so conditioned.

The King's Speech is a movie about loyalty, bravery, war, true love, patriotism, friendship, family, overcoming, suffering . . . Along with such grand themes, every other aspect of what makes film making (and literature) interesting is also present--brilliant juxtaposition, careful characterization, mood and pacing. From the opening minute, you feel such an intense connection to the main character (it IS Mr. Darcy, after all), that you already begin rooting for him. The humanity of this story is truly remarkable.

The film is praising of virtue. It is Lovely. Of good report. Praiseworthy. I came away uplifted, and with a greater conviction to treat others with kindness, to understand their story. Do not miss this film, but seek after this thing as soon as you have opportunity.

So, in other news, I've been very busy. (And I don't just mean breaking commandments that don't actually exist.) I've discovered the graduate program I want to be a part of and am working on my application. My friend and I backed away from running the BIG race because we couldn't get enough support, but we are running a half-marathon at the end of July and I'm making a rather weak effort to train for that. Plantboy was in charge of last weekend's ward party; and, of course, that meant we were co-chairs. Church in general has kept us ridiculously busy. The novel-writing is progressing: slowly but surely. I have maybe 30 pages left to finish a 300 page manuscript. At that point, that is where YOU will come in. I will definitely be soliciting readers. I'm making my six year old a blanket out of granny squares.

Oh, and I un-closeted myself as a registered Democrat the other day on Facebook which generated a very interesting discussion with 65 comments. No, not all of them were mine. Sheesh, if I had that much to say I would just start a blog where I spend an unhealthy amount of time writing/thinking/discussing politics and religion. . . . wait a minute . . .