Read this too

I've written over 100 posts now, which sounded like a lot to me until I looked back and realized I've been blogging since March of 2006. Two and a half years, 106 posts . . . that's about one per week. Except that I haven't posted anywhere near that regularly until probably the last six months.

I've been wondering lately about the influence of blogs on the world, and on literature in particular. Since the advent of the internet, it seems like we're swamped with words, but not the kind on paper. I've heard predictions of doom for newspapers, which makes sense to me, but lately I've been curious about what effect technology is having on books. For example, I own a dictionary that is less than ten years old, but generally if I need to look up the definition of a word, I look online. Oprah, who I cannot stand but must allow to have significant influence in the world, particularly among women, recently enthused about Amazon's Kindle, the hand-held reading device that lets you download thousands of books into one little (disputably) handy electronic gadget. Is that what we're heading towards? Will our kids be instructed to scroll to page 35 on their Kindles, and be able to store notes and textbooks in the same little chunk of plastic and wires? That would probably be healthier for their poor strained little backs, but it sure takes the romance out of carrying someone's books for them.

Anyway, what I've really been thinking about is whether there is any money in writing fiction nowadays. There are probably thousands of new books being published every single day, and since they're easier to produce, they are widely available. We're getting better at preserving older books, so classics aren't being lost, even if they get a little harder to find. With soooooo many books to choose from, what are the chances that an author's book will get picked up by someone who will enjoy it and recommend it? I've come across great books that I'd never heard of before and wondered why they aren't all the rage instead of twaddle like the Twilight series. (Sorry to Dulcie and anyone else who likes those books; there are just too many inconsistencies for me to accept.)

So that's my latest puzzlement. I myself am writing a novel (not a three-volume novel, in deference to Cecily's sensibilities) and have been surprised by the amount of research that goes into making it have a plot and making that plot at least mildly believable. I think part of the reason I've been pondering on technology and books is that I'm trying to decide if it's worth the effort to make my story palatable to an audience besides myself, or if I should just keep rollicking along and tossing whatever I feel like writing into the pot. And then I think of some books I've read from the NY Times Bestseller list and think maybe those aren't opposing goals.

Inquiring Minds and all that

What are you going to be for Halloween?

I've got our costumes all picked out. And pictures will be posted. Last year's Halloween was really lame, complete with lame costumes, so I'm trying to make up for it this year.

We carved pumpkins last night after Abby was asleep. They turned out really very charming. Pictures will be posted, ideally before they start rotting. Are jack-o'lanterns a weird tradition or what? Just imagine what would happen if we all stopped carving them. Those poor, poor, pumpkin farmers.

Comment or die, as the Hollywood Flakes say. I really want to know what you'll be wearing. Especially you wild Montanans.

Boycott

I was astonished, while browsing through my local Barnes and Noble bookstore, to find a display table covered in pamphlets and books titled "Porn for Women." I am not sure what exactly they were advertising, since I didn't look too closely, but I can't think of anything called by that name that I would have any desire to study. Part of my disgust stems from the fact that this table was located by the mystery and fiction shelves, where I usually pass in order to reach the children's section of the store.

Now, I recognize that bookstores want to appeal to a wide audience. I also recognize that censorship is a difficult topic, and many books that I consider inappropriate and even disgusting are heralded as classics. However, pornography is such a pernicious, demoralizing, and destructive evil that I cannot bring myself to shop anywhere it is advertised as a desirable thing. I have expressed my feelings to the company in words, and I intend to further express them by my actions. If you should come across a similar display, I strongly encourage you to let the management know that you do not approve. I have concluded my last transaction with Barnes and Noble.

Open Captioning

What does this face say to you?

Excel-lent

I've decided that Excel is pretty much the coolest program ever. As Regis says, "If you can think of something you want to do, Excel can probably do it." Allllll right, I want to ski in the Olympics in 2011. Go go Excel!

Chilly

It is a very windy day today, and just looking out the window, I'm guessing it's cold out there. Which reminds me of my freezer.

This is my freezer just the way I like it. Over there on the right is our 1/16th of a cow. Seriously. Regis' grandma raises the cows, which, if you know her, makes a pretty funny mental image.

And if you're good, you can find two packages each of two of my favorite foods. First to find and identify them correctly in the comments gets glory.

Ewww.

Yes, I know it's gross. Yes, I know you didn't ask to see it. No, I won't be offended if you don't watch. But if you do, keep in mind that it's grosser in person. They snap.

Relative Love

My grandfather's funeral was held last week. It was very sweet. There was a lot said about how he loved the gospel and shared it with everyone he could. A story was also told of how following a prompting from the Holy Ghost saved his life. I remember my grandpa being a cheerful man, and even in the past few months when he was feeling crummy, he always seemed upbeat and hopeful. We will miss him.

I think members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints have a very interesting perspective when it comes to death. The few times someone I've known has died, I've wondered if I'm a terribly callous person, because I don't feel very sad. That is probably in part because I've never lost a young friend or relative, but I think it's largely because I believe that when we die, we go somewhere better. It will be difficult to be separated from people that we love who are still on earth, but I'm sure we don't just sit around and wait for them to finish up so we can be together again. As my dad put it, we move on to the next stage of life, and I'm willing to bet that Grandpa is glad to be free of pain and frailty, and to be put to work.

Progress

Abby took her first real steps today, I'm proud to report. She toddled between Regis and I for a good five minutes.

Even more exciting news: she imagined with me! It was very cute. She pretended to pick up something off the floor and hand it to me. I took it, said "thank you," and pretended to blow it out of my hand like a blowdart. She thought it was hilaaaarious and giggled with glee. So we did that for about 15 minutes. She was done with it before I was.

Indo-Californians

Here's my brother, Glenn, with Abigail and Regis. They're all wearing Indonesian clothes that my brother Court brought back from his mission.

I'm it

I got tagged by Heidi to tell five "unspectacular" quirks I have. So you'll just have to wonder what those spectacular quirks would have been.

1. I hate touching paper of any kind right after I wash my hands. It's like scraping fingernails on a chalkboard to me.

2. My big toes do this weird double-jointed snap thing. I can't really explain it, but I can wiggle them up and down in a way that really grosses people out. Maybe I'll post a video just to make you all sick.

3. I don't like having my food mixed together. Even if it's some kind of sauce on rice, I don't like it to be all mushed. I know it will get mixed in my stomach. That argument does not persuade me.

4. When I get nervous, I bite the skin around my fingernails instead of my fingernails.

5. I kind of like giving talks in church. I think this is a family trait. We like to teach and explain.

I'll tag Miriam and Dulcie, and anyone who doesn't have a middle name.

Costume vs. Therapy

Would it scar my child forever if I dressed her as Peter Pan instead of Tinkerbell for Halloween? Discuss.

Able Abby

Abigail has changed a lot while we've been in California. She can stand on her own now, and does. She's more aware of what's going on, and wants to be a part of it. She gives hugs (which may be my favorite change). She drinks out of a sippy cup without help. I think she recognizes that things have names, and a couple of times it's seemed like she's trying to repeat them when I say them. Her hair is out of control. She's definitely bigger.

Where did the baby go?

You probably think this post is about you, don't you? Don't you?

Well, it's not. It's about me, as usual. We are home from California, and after we'd parked the car and stepped out, I realized two things: first, that I had missed my little apartment more than I'd expected, and second, that I'd like to transplant it somewhere else. It was freakin' cold, and coming from 82 degree weather to 48 degree weather was not pleasant.

Anyway, I had a really good time at my parents' house. It was really fun to have all the family there for a while, despite the cramped conditions and the intermittent periods of screaming children. I enjoyed weeding the garden and mowing the lawn, things I haven't been able to do for a long time. But it's nice to be back. I'd forgotten how white our apartment is, and how easy to clean. My parents have a very large house on the outskirts of town, which means lots of room to move, which both people and bugs enjoy. I won't miss the spiders.

We also had a great time visiting with Miriam and Ryan, our old neighbors. They live in a charming house in southern California, where you consider putting on a sweater and decide to turn off the air conditioner instead. I'm wildly jealous. They live less than an hour from the beach.

Riiiiing

One thing I do NOT like about living in my parents' house is the phone. You would think that because they are not even here, fewer people would be calling for them. You would be wrong. Maybe it's because it's such a switch from my home, where I guard the phone number like a dragon with indigestion, but it seems like the phone rings at least 15 times a day. Good grief, people! This is why we have email!*

*Edited to add: This last sentence seemed funny last night when I wrote it. It isn't. I'm sorry.

I used to love her, but it's all over now

Disenchantment is a terrible thing.

About a year ago, I came across a new book series that enthralled me. (Heck no, it was not Twilight.) I'd never heard of it before, but the books had everything I love: mystery, romance, culture, and wit. I read what I could off of Amazon, borrowed the books from the library, and sniveled to Regis until he agreed to let me buy them. I devoured them happily multiple times, went back and reread all my favorite parts, and tried to anticipate what the third book will bring. I marked its release date on my calendar and kept my eyes glued to the author's blog, hoping for some hints of what was to come. Deliciously tortuous anticipation.

A few months later, I've fallen out of infatuation. I've read and thought about the books so many times that small problems that I merely noted earlier have grown and begun to spread their roots throughout the stories. The author's blog is no longer quaint and charming, but obnoxious and contrived. I'm disgusted by the inappropriate covers chosen for the third book and the reprinting of the second.

So, what's going on here? I have bought many books, and while the first glow always fades, I've never experienced such a marked turnaround before. I'm wondering if it's just overexposure. I'm going to try putting the books away somewhere, taking the author's blog off my reader, and ignoring it all for a while. The new book comes out in March--we'll see how I feel then.

Erm . . . yes.

Uh, well, this is kind of throwing myself out there, but I would like to ask for some help. I'd like to know what you want to read about. This blog is all about me, for the most part, with occasional generous appearances of Abby and Regis, and at times it's kind of stream-of-consciousness format. I'm trying to decide if I'd like to change that a little. So from now until Halloween, if there is something you'd like me to write about, leave me a comment or send me an email and I'll do my best. It can be personal, like anything from my latest knitting project to how I decided when to have kids, or weird, like why I regret never having seen a banana slug or where I keep my bellydancing outfit. Serious or whimsical, your topic is my topic. And if no one has any suggestions, I'll keep bumbling along merrily. Just remember you have the option.

Skills

Abby has learned how to drink from a sippy cup all by herself. She likes to make me hold it, but if I insist she can get a drink without my help. What a big girl.

She's also figured out that when she's tired and grumpy, getting into bed is a good thing that will make her feel better. Mmmmm. How nice.

Feeling Sore

I'm reminded today that it has been a loooong time since I mowed a lawn. As I mentioned earlier, my parents have a large yard. Luckily for me, they also have a riding lawnmower. Unluckily, their yard has some weird-shaped patches that are inaccessible with the John Deere mower. Enter the push mower.

Before my parents left, they emailed Amber and I long emails explaining all the things they wanted us to do, where keys were, what to do with the dog, etc. My dad included an explanation of how to start the riding lawnmower. I chuckled a little at that, since I've used such machinery before and it's not that hard. I chuckled even more when I got on the mower and saw that the instructions are printed on it. His anxiety is excusable, I guess, since it's a new mower and he's had bad experiences with his kids and the lawnmower before (cough cough COURT). So I mowed the parts of the lawn I could get to while Abby napped, and that was my hard work for the day.

The next day, I traipsed confidently out to get the push mower and finish the job. There was a sinister creak as I opened the door to the shed where it's kept, and a grim spider eyed me with black humor. I sidled up to the mower, and was confronted by levers, a pull cord, several screw-on caps, a yellow button, and a set of handlebar controls. Good heavens, I thought. Who would have believed that the push mower would be more complicated than the riding mower? And where the other mower had directions printed, the push mower mocked me with a panel advertising all the special features that I couldn't figure out how to use. Determined to finish what I'd started, I dragged it out into the sunlight, depressed a few levers, and pulled the starter cord. To my surprise, it started up, and I finished mowing the first section with little trouble, although the engine seemed tired, as did my arms. When I went to start it again at the next section, though, I tugged the starter cord in vain. Little did I know that my parents had bought the prima donna of lawn mowers, which requires a significant rest period in a shady spot before it consents to perform again. Silly me. I think I bruised the bones in my hand pulling on the cord. I was so determined to start it that I even summoned my pregnant sister from the house to give it a whirl. The mower admired her guts (ha ha), but refused to go on without its beauty sleep.

While the mower was a bit of a snot, it does have its good points. After a bit more tentative tinkering, I discovered that it is not, after all, a push mower. It's a barrel organ! Just kidding. It's a power mower. The lever that I thought was the blade height adjuster actually sets the forward speed, if one pushes buttons and depresses levers in the correct secret combination. So my brain got a workout yesterday, but it's passed the soreness to my legs, shoulders, back, and hand. What a prima donna.

Safe!

All right, we made it! The plane ride was not bad, but it may have been the first flight where I've nearly lost my lunch. Normally I LOVE plane rides, but this time I had to deal with a squirrelly baby all by myself, and the guy in back of us was woofing his cookies the whole time. Ick.

But we're here and it's nice to be back. I know at least one of my siblings and many other people I grew up with have less than fond feelings about this town, but I'm always glad to come and visit. It's even been fairly cool, relatively speaking: eighties and low nineties instead of 110 degrees or so. Abby and I went out earlier and weeded and watered the garden a bit, which reminded me that I would love love love to have a garden. Or at least a yard. Even though my parents' land is a bit overwhelming, it makes me jealous. (Abby had mixed feelings about the gardening, and a love/hate relationship with the water hose.)

My parents have somehow gotten this funny idea that I know all about plants because I have a lot of them inside my apartment and keep most of them alive. Maybe I gave them the wrong impression by blabbing too much. However it happened, they want me to fix a bunch of plant-related problems around the house. I'm interested to see what, if anything, I can get done before they get back. Maybe I should start by mowing the lawn. :)

Help!

Quick, what am I forgetting to pack???

I go through this every time I take a trip anywhere. You'd think I was taking off for the jungles of Azerbaijan, or somewhere where they have jungles if they don't have them in Azerbaijan. Is Azerbaijan a real place? Anyway, I'm NOT going to Azerbaijan, I'm going to California, where they are reasonable civilized. But I'm still worried that I will forget something very very important and the entire trip will be a flop. When I was younger, I solved this problem by trying to fit everything I owned into my suitcase, which caused my parents a lot of grief. Well, actually it caused my parents to cause ME a lot of grief. I don't think I was as bad as Coral, my little sister, though. She's the one who opted to bring an ice cream scoop instead of her toothbrush on a trip to my older brother's house. Because you know, regular spoons just won't cut it when you're on vacation and need a brain freeze.

Anyway, I'm trying to pack for me and Abby, which is even more difficult because Regis isn't coming, so I need to fit everything in a suitcase that I can lug around while I'm lugging Abby. And I'm sick, so I have to periodically pause and press my hands against my temples, partly because my hands are always cold so they feel nice on my fevered brow, and partly to keep my head from splitting open and depositing my brain in the suitcase. Although since Abby is also sick and will doubtless be a squirmy twit on the airplane ride, checking my brain might not be such a bad idea.

Now what have I forgotten?

Camping Pictures

Abby liked the fire all right, as long as Daddy didn't put too much fuel on at once. Her very favorite part about camping, though, was the getting dirty. She had a great time picking up rocks, sitting in the dirt, and kicking her feet in the water.

You may not want to read Part 2

Things I'll Miss About Breastfeeding:

• Eating whatever I want without gaining weight
• Having an excuse to leave Relief Society for long periods of time
• The coolness of producing all the nutrients my child needs from my own body
• Mandatory snuggle time
• Having something only I can do for my child
• Always having at least something I can feed the baby
  

WARNING: This post may contain stuff you don't want to read about.

My daughter has weaned herself.

I was not expecting it to be hard for me. Like most things to do with babies, I've read a lot of different opinions and mused on the experiences of other moms. Like many baby-related things, my experience has not been what I expected.

I'm frequently struck by what an easy baby Abigail is. We didn't have to deal with colic; she started sleeping through the night reliably before she hit three months; she's never yet had stranger anxiety; she caught on to eating solids quickly and rarely rejects food; teething was barely noticeably; etc. One thing I love especially is how affectionate she is. Particularly now that she's not nursing anymore, she needs lots of cuddles before I put her down to sleep. I guess that knowing how easily she has jumped the hurdles of babyhood so far should have prepared me for weaning.

Because she's such a good baby, we had few qualms about taking her camping early this week. We went up to Strawberry Reservoir and had a great time fishing, roasting hot dogs, looking at the aspens, and pointing out a fox, a doe and fawn, and other wildlife. We got the tent set up and prepared for bed. Up to this point, Abby had nursed once first thing in the morning and once right before bed every day. For some reason, she refused her nightcap that night. I was surprised, but figured it was a temporary thing caused by the weirdness of camping.

We slept well until about 3am, when Abby woke up because she was cold. We tucked her in with us, and she and Regis slept pretty well, while I mostly tossed and turned. It's a good thing I have such a sweet and understanding husband, because I was already tired, and being rejected again by Abby in the morning hit me hard. I didn't cry, but I sulked. Regis, wise man, sent me fishing, which perked me up considerably.

And that's pretty much the end of the story. Abby nursed one more time, before a much-needed nap the next day, but since then she hasn't been interested, and I've stopped offering. I think it was hard because it was so unexpected. I'd toyed with cutting down to one feeding a day, but Abby seemed distraught, so I put it off. But she is over 13 months now, and does fine drinking cow milk, so even if there was something I could do about it, there's really nothing I ought to do. It's just a natural result of her growing independence, I suppose, and in some ways it makes things easier. She seems to have felt the change a lot less than I have. It's nice that she has considerately made it clear that she isn't rejecting ME: as I said, she still likes her cuddles, and in fact bawls if Regis tries to put her to bed. Nice to know there are still some things that only Mommy can do.

Puppy Love

Abby has become enamored of the blue velvet rocking chair we keep in her room. Old Blue is the reason she learned how to climb up, which was fortunately followed closely by climbing down. It took a while for us to realize that she actually knew how to get down, since once she is in the rocker she never wants to get out. Not only that, but now she's jealous, too: I am no longer allowed to accompany her in the chair. If she's feeling particularly magnanimous, I'm allowed to perch on the edge and assist her in rocking. Apparently my swaying skills are lacking, because she prefers to rock herself by smacking against the back of the chair. Although she loves the chair, she must not trust it completely, because even when she wants some alone time with it, I'm not allowed to leave the room. I'm supposed to stand a few feet away and watch her rock herself. Wait: I'm having an epiphany! It's not the chair she doesn't trust, it's me. She's trying to teach me to rock.

She must think I haven't grasped it yet, because whenever I try to remove her from the chair to put her to bed, she screams like a banshee and clings like a limpet. I'm tempted to throw her off by replacing the rocker with a glider. THEN we'll see who is in charge!

Thoughts on the Mall

I get such a buzz out of buying clothes for Abby. I hate shopping for myself, but Regis has to drag me away from Gymboree and The Children's Place and the baby sections of other stores. I can't decide if it's because I feel guilty about spending money on me, or because I can never find anything cute and modest in my size.

Does it seem to anyone else like there is a sudden preponderance of punk clothing stores? I guess that explains why all our neighbor kids look like druggie hookers. Or maybe it's the neighborhood. Hmmm.

We ran into a very sweet lady from our ward at Macy's: Sister Smith (yes, that really IS her last name). She is one of those people who is so nice that it makes me want to be extra nice right back. I hope everyone meets up with a Sister Smith this week.

Hot Fun in the Summertime

Boy, it's really feast or famine around here, isn't it? I guess that's my tendency with a lot of things, not just blog posts.

I'm really excited, because in less than two weeks now I'm heading out to California! Abby and I will join my sister Amber and her daughter Olivia to babysit my little sister Coral at my parents' house. I love California and I love the old homestead. I'm looking forward to hanging out with my sisters and watching the little ones chew on the bones-oh. It's been getting cooler and cooler here, so it will be nice to extend the summer by a few weeks. More time in the pool! :)

I was bemoaning the coming of winter to Regis the other day, pointing out that in California, at least where I grew up, the weather stays summery until the end of summer, and then some! Essentially, it stays summer until fall, which begins in late October, and fall lasts until the spring, which starts in March and lasts about a month. Some people, particularly Utahns, are aghast at this mutating of the seasons. I think it's maaaaaarvelous.

I concede that the turning of the leaves in the canyons is gorgeous.

So are postcards.

I love to watch snow falling, and one of the most melancholically beautiful things I've ever seen is a naked tree layered with snow.

A week later, it's a grimy pile of nuisance, like a soggy mountain of ratty old newspaper.

So when we drive back home in a few weeks, I'll be keeping Regis awake by choking out the words to "I Left My Heart in San Francisco." I won't have, but the name of my hometown doesn't fit.

Salsa and Other Recipes

I made my own salsa yesterday with tomatoes and jalapenos from the garden of my sister-in-law, Tisha. The salsa is terrific. To comprehend the import of that statement, you need to understand that I don't like tomatoes. Regis eats them like apples, and it grosses me out. I'll eat them on sandwiches, but they have to be sliced reeeeeally thin. But man, do I like this salsa.

I think I learned to like fresh salsa when I lived in the GlenHood with my sisters, so it's fitting that Amber should have asked for my salsa recipe when I told her how nummy this batch was. It's likewise fitting that this recipe is actually a blend of two other recipes, since I learned in part from my sisters that cooking is not an exact science.

I used to find cooking slightly terrifying. My mom would ask me to help out with dinner, and I'd kind of freeze up and have to ask her for directions every step of the way. I'm sure it was annoying, but I was afraid of messing things up because I usually had to help when the meal was something I'd asked for eagerly.

I can't pinpoint when I made the change from timid taster to bold baker, but it I think it began with a visit from the Cookie Nazi. The Cookie Nazi and I met my freshman year of college, and quickly realized we were meant for each other in a totally platonic BYU-appropriate way. :) Kristi earned her appellation when we decided to make dessert with our dates at my sister's apartment before a dance: Never on Sundays, hot-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies with scoops of ice cream on top. Mmmm. The rest of us were content to slap the ingredients together and get to the eatin', but Kristi insisted on carefully measuring--and leveling--the flour, the sugar, and so on. We all knew you were supposed to do that, but I don't think any of us had ever seen it done. Nevertheless, we bowed to the Cookie Nazi's superior experience and simply looked forward to the results.

The cookies, as you've probably anticipated, didn't turn out perfect. They were the kind that spread too much, so the chocolate chips didn't have a chance to melt before the dough was cooked all the way through. They tasted just fine, of course, especially with ice cream on top, but you can imagine how funny it was to a bunch of college twits.

I look back at that experience with fondness, in part because of the fun memories, and in part because it illustrates an important principle for cooking, among other things: getting caught up in the details won't always make the end result perfect.

All that for a simple recipe!

Salsa:

5 medium tomatoes, seeded and chopped
1 onion, chopped
4 garlic cloves, finely chopped
2 jalapenos, seeded and minced
1/2 C cilantro, chopped
2 T lemon or lime juice
1/2 t sugar
1/4 t salt

Combine ingredients and serve with salty tortilla chips.

Note: My salsa is made from perhaps 10 small tomatoes. I had about 4/5 of an onion left over, so I used that. I passionately love garlic, so I'm not telling how many cloves I put in. Regis can't handle too much heat, so I only used one jalapeno. I never measure cilantro. My sugar was clumpy, so I threw in one clump and called it good. Salt was liberally sprinkled. In other words, the odds of your salsa tasting exactly like mine are not good. :)

Thwack!

I got my hair whacked off yesterday. I'm really enjoying having it short. I'm trying to decide what to do with Abby's hair, whether to give her bangs or just let it all grow out. We might dress as twins for Halloween--what do you think?

She gets it from me.

Abby's new trick is to pick out her own clothes. If I leave her in just a diaper, she'll crawl over to her drawers and pull out an ensemble and bring it to me. Her onesies and shorts are in the top drawers, and her sweaters and skirts/dresses are in the bottom drawers. We get some charming combinations.

Wait a minute, Mr. Postman

I LOVE getting things in the mail. Not junk or advertisements, I mean, but packages.

I LOVE yarn. I really got into knitting about a year ago, and then just recently I discovered the difference between cheapie-deapie acrylic yarn and the actual woolly good stuff.

So when you combine these two loves and get fancy yarn that arrives in the mail . . . well, the mind boggles. :)

Wheel of Life

I find the little connections in life to be extremely interesting. Like the days when I'd be thinking about clam chowder at school, and come home and--guess what's for dinner? So I thought it was interesting when this popped up on my blog reader today. Wasn't I just writing about that? :)

Figures.

You Are Aurora! (A.K.A. Sleeping Beauty.)

Thoughtful and loving. Authority figures probably have been sheltering you all of your life. Thankfully you're a very tranquil person who is content with what life has given you, but secretly you want to know how the outside world works.

Which Disney Princess Are You?

Run, he's got a knife!

I like credit cards. I have (just a sec, I'll check)--four credit cards. I know that some people think they are of the devil. Lots of debt-management gurus recommend that you chop them up into little tiny pieces and then burn them. If that works for you, then hey, go for it. But I get my jollies another way: rewards!

Let me tell you why I love them. Last weekend, we went to Bed Bath and Beyond with a handful of rewards-traded gift cards. I love that store, because the juxtaposition of high-quality housewares and overpriced junk amuses me. I could spend hours browsing there, but on Saturday we went with a goal in mind: a new knife set. We bought knives there when we were newlyweds, but being the starving students that we were, we bought the cheapie-deapie set. They have lived up to their reputation. I hate them. So we sauntered back to the knife section and eventually met up with the Samurai Master.

The Samurai Master knows all about the knives at BB&B. He explained, very clearly, the differences between the Henckels and Wusthof brands, and why the higher-priced sets are so expensive. We explained that we already had one Wusthof knife, and thought it would be nice to get the matching set. He very kindly pulled out the Wusthof chef's knife to show us how to sharpen it at the 20 degrees necessary for proper cutting. He began by dropping it inches from my toes. Next, the Samurai Master, living up to his name, skillfully set the blade against the sharpening steel and drew the knife down it a few times. "See? 20 degrees. And--" We never got that next bit of wisdom, because he skillfully stabbed himself in the fleshy part of his palm.

Those who know my family, my dad in particular, may be aware that we don't do well with blood. We tend to faint at blood drives, and one of us (Hi Brook! Still reading?) turns green even at verbal descriptions of gore. So when I saw the deep red rivulets coursing down his arm and dripping onto the rug . . . needless to say, I felt a burning desire to inspect the skillets on the other side of that section of the store.

The Samurai Master deserves some credit. He toughed it out. That rug will never be the same again, since it took a while for backup to arrive with a roll of paper towels, but the Samurai Master never let himself be distracted from his task. He even used his accident to his advantage, pointing out, "That's a sign of a good knife: I didn't even feel it going in!" We ended up buying the Wusthof set, which I love. It cuts chicken like . . . well, like it was the Samurai Master's hand, if you must know. The chef's knife is amazing. I guess it's the touch of the Master's hand. :P

But back to my point: our knives were free. We bought them with rewards money. So I guess technically those people who pay only the minimum balance each month paid for our knives. Thanks, guys!

when I was your age, television was called 'books'

I don't have a tv.

I haven't been watching the Olympics.
I'm not familiar with American Idol.
I've never seen So You Think You Can Dance.

But I do have a favorite tv show.

If I had a tv, I would watch these guys:
It's partly because they're funny, and partly because I love the space between Jemaine's front teeth. And partly because they remind me of every Kiwi I've ever met.

If you want to feel like you're in New Zealand, take the following steps:

• Remove all insulation from your house.
• Eat muesli for breakfast.
• Eat lamb for lunch and dinner, with a side of Marmite (not Vegemite; that's Australian).
• Buy yourself some Milo and Tim Tams and do some Tim Tam slams!
• Kiss everyone you meet on the cheek as a greeting.
  
• Watch some Flight of the Conchords on YouTube. I recommend "Mermaids" and "Jenny."
  

Sic transit gloria mundi

Why are you here?

This blog is essentially my journal.

I hope you feel like a voyeur now.

When I started writing here, I thought the only people who ever read it were Regis and I, and one of us much more often than the other. I was surprised and a little chagrined one day when my brother-in-law mentioned that he'd seen one of my posts. Recently, a friend asked if I had a blog, and pointed out that it isn't searchable on Blogger. Her comment has made me think about why I have a blog, and why I post, or don't post, what I write.

I came across my pen-and-paper journal a couple days ago, and leafing through it, it was impressed very forcibly on me that I reveal a lot more of myself than I intend to in my writing. In view of the fact that people I know only slightly can easily find my blog, and others that I know not at all can find it through search engines, I'm beginning to censor myself. That sounds a little silly, since I don't write about sex or crime, or even swear on here. I mean in the sense that I don't feel like just letting it all hang out, writing whatever I want to say about me, because I'm worried that people will think I'm depressed or self-centered or whatever. But then I end up not writing those things at all, and I'm trying to figure out why. I think it's because things that are written are written to be read, and just pushing them into a dark corner of my laptop seems wrong somehow.

So I'm going to try and taper off the censoring. Don't expect a huge change, because you'll be disappointed. This is mostly for me, a declaration that I can write whatever I want, because frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

Oh yeah, him too. :)

In deference to those who come across this blog as a link from a Loganite's site, I've decided to post something about Regis, since he's the reason you're here. Don't be fooled by the fact that he's a "member" of this blog: I think the last time he posted was when dinosaurs ruled the earth. You can't really blame him, though, because he's a very busy guy and doesn't like writing anyway.

Regis graduated in April from BYU with a degree in statistics. He's started his career at Enterprise Rent-a-Car. Right now he's up at the airport branch, which we hate because it means his hours are weird and he has a two hour commute every day. Hopefully they'll let him back into a normal branch within a month or two, this time as an assistant manager. Working takes up most of his time, but when he does have a day off, he likes to spend it relaxing and playing with Abby.

We've had some fun adventures this summer, including visiting the Hogle Zoo and climbing up to Timpanogos Caves. We're hoping to go camping soon, but we're not sure how Abby will take it. Our biggest trip will be coming in October, when my brother returns to California after his mission in Indonesia. Abby and I are going down to take care of my little sister for a couple weeks, then Regis will join us when my parents get back with Court. We are still trying to decide what fun things to do while we're in my nice, big, pretty, WARM home state. :)

A Little Side Trip

In what world does it make sense that they ship a book from Arizona to Ohio in order to send it to me in Utah? It is about 3,600 miles from Phoenix to Ohio to my house. It is about 600 miles from Phoenix to my house. Is this my book's last big hurrah before it settles into a sedentary existence with me? I feel like calling them and yelling, "I'm an exciting person! I've been to Europe, New Zealand, AND Jamaica! There is NOTHING in Wilmington, Ohio that is as exciting as that!"

Cross Dressing

Have you ever heard the song "Leather and Lace" by Stevie Nicks and Don Henley? I used to get it stuck in my head every so often. I bought it on iTunes a couple of days ago, and now it's stuck in my head with disturbing permanence. It's a very sweet song in its way, but I'm a little annoyed with it. Not just because it's stuck in my head, but because I only know a few lines from it, so I have to repeat those instead of going through the whole song. Since I've listened to it about 40 times I should know more of it, but Stevie has one of those voices which, in addition to being an acquired taste, is not the clearest.

I like it because I think it illustrates an important facet of marriage. I particularly like the lines that talk about differences: "My city, your mountain," and "give to me your leather, take from me my lace." The longer I'm married to Regis, the more I realize that we are very different. Marriage brings a lot of changes, and sometimes it's hard to remember that part of why you fell in love with that baffling person across the table is that he is not you.

This is our favorite Abby expression. Any guesses as to what we're doing to make her pull that face?

Crawling!

Okay, this movie is from a month ago, and she's MUCH faster now. But this is a cute video of my cute baby crawling.

Peas Please!

Abby prefers peas to animal crackers. I'm no longer convinced that we're related.

I have yet to sound her out on bacon, though. That may change my mind.

Bee Yourself

So, I just wrote a post that said this: "I'm a closet drama queen. I re-realized this today, when I was considering writing very bad words on my livingroom walls in black Sharpie." But then I thought that I probably shouldn't post that, since people might wonder why I'd consider doing it and get worried about me.

Don't worry about me too much. My visiting teachers came by this morning, and pointed out that now that I know them by sight, I can get their help if I ever need anything.

I'm so relieved.

Prism! Where is that ending?

"The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means." --Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

I love to read. When I go to the library and check out books, the librarians give me a speculative look and say, "You know these are all due in three weeks, right?" If all I had to worry about was reading through all those pages within three weeks, there would be no problem. The problem is that it's hard to find books that interest me. It's even harder to find books that interest me and make me like them.

I'm not one for intellectual snobbery. I don't read books to broaden my mind or educate myself. I like mystery novels, with suspense and intrigue and a romance thrown in somewhere. I love reading P.G. Wodehouse's books, with their jolly British wit and silly situations. I like reading Robert Asprin's fantasy "Myth" series. I throw the occasional chick flick book into my library bag.

I've tried including "smart" books in my hoard. My latest attempt was F. Scott Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night. I couldn't bring myself to even read the first page, since I could tell from reading the blurb on the back that it wasn't going to end well. Some of my favorite short stories are by Fitzgerald, but I have to flip through my copy of Jazz Age Stories to find them, passing over the profound but sad ones. I don't handle unhappy endings well. If boy meets girl and they fall in love, boy and girl better darn end up together once the dust settles.

In a high school English class, I always bummed a book off my teacher for our 15 minutes of silent reading. He was really into a series by some famous fantasy author, so I started reading the first installment. I think the author actually died a few years ago before finishing the final book, but his thousands of fans were overjoyed that he left instructions with his son to finish it. I really don't care whether there is a last book or not, because the first book was the last of his that I'll read. It was the most depressing story I've ever read. There's a bad guy and bunch of good guys, and the bad guy just keeps killing them off or enslaving them and stealing their powers, which makes him more powerful so he enslaves more good guys. I kept going to the end, thinking, "Man, whatever the good guys come up with to finally beat him has got to be awesome, because I don't see how they'll do it!" And you know what? They don't. The bad guy wins. Now, I realize that there are about 346 more books in the series, but just that first book was probably 500 pages long. Why on earth would I want to waste my time reading more of that kind of thing?

Obviously, not everything in life turns out ok. Sometimes, the guy and the girl don't end up together, or they do but don't stay together. Sometimes disaster is not averted, and the bad guys don't get punished. Sometimes the narrator dies in the middle of his or her story. But that's why Miss Prism and I are hanging out in the fiction section--we're holding out for the happy ever after.

What is that sound?

I love my landlords. This is mostly due to the fact that they are my parents, but let's not let that diminish the fact that they're great as landlord and -lady. Last Thursday, my landlord took me down to the appliance store and bought us a brand-new dishwasher. I don't know that I can adequately communicate the joy we feel at not having to wash our dishes before we put them in the dishwasher (which we had to do with our lousy old one). As if that were not enough, this dishwasher has enough settings to turn an astronaut's head. It tough scrubs, sanitizes, auto-cleans, heated dries, deep cleans the oven, changes Abby's diaper, gives head massages and I don't know what all. And if THAT is not enough to impress you, get this: I have to go look at the thing to make sure it's on. This is the quietest dishwasher since the invention of water. When we first installed it and turned it on to make sure it was connected, Regis, my landlord and I all looked at each other and gave a collective "Ooooo! That's quiet!" Then, the instructions instructed us to install a further piece at the bottom that made it even quieter. "Ahhhhhhh! So quiet!" Then, we were directed to install one further piece. And we were stunned. We were as silent as the dishwasher.

Seriously. It's beautiful.

Dad and Regis also installed a new in-sink garbage disposal. It's clean and shiny, despite the fact that we throw junk down it for it to grind up. Dad also fixed our closet door, which has been broken, I think, ever since my brother and his wife lived here over 3 years ago. So, apart from the fact that I've been commanded to, I have plenty of reasons to love my parents.

Pondering

I had a visit from the Relief Society presidency of our new ward a couple of days ago. We had a nice little chat, and afterwards the president asked if I was prepared to be a visiting teacher. I have to wonder . . . what would happen if I'd told her no?

Sneak sneak, giggle giggle

Soft and Squishy

Hooray! I finished a pillow. And I think it's quite lovely. We actually threw away the old pillows that went with our couch, because they were pretty nasty. The couch used to be Regis's grandma's, and it saw a good amount of service, which is why it's got a slipcover. We decided the pillows were too gross to just cover up, though, so I chopped up an old pillow and here's the finished product!

Foiled.

My sister is the muse of domesticity. Having spent many years in her company, I have developed certain of the domestic arts: I cook, I knit, I sew, I quilt*. I made an egregious mistake a couple years ago. My mother asked if I thought I would need a sewing machine, because she'd found a great deal and was buying one for herself and for Amber. I said no, I didn't think I had a place to put it. This was a stupid move of epic proportions. Those machines are awesome. Instead, now that I have need of a sewing machine, I have inherited Mom's old machine, which, as I recall, stutters and shivers when it is used. I have to reach back in my memory, because although I possess the machine, I do not possess its power cord, and therefore cannot ascertain whether it still shivers, or even if it still works. This is depressing, because a few weeks ago I paid an enormous sum for some gorgeous fabric, thread, and fluff in order to create drapes and a quilt for Abby's room, and pillow covers for our couch. All that good stuff is now sitting on various pieces of furniture, being clutter instead of couture. So now I must wait for the cord to arrive in the mail, and then I must plead for the muse's indulgence so that I can finish my crafts.

*This reminds me of Spanish classes. Cocino, cocinas, cocinamos . . . :)

The Frumious Bandersnatch

Well, this is a little embarrassing. Not long after I wrote the previous post, I opened up the Word file with my story in it, just to look it over. To say goodbye, maybe. I should have been on my guard, but thinking of it as I did, as a terminally weakened and feeble creature, I blithely clicked on the file. It pounced. With all the indignation of a jilted prom date, it gnashed its teeth on my feeble excuses. Declaring its place as a legitimate child of my brain, it insisted that if I couldn't place it in its proper seat in the pantheon, I at least had the obligation to shape it with enough strength and suppleness to allow it to claw its way up as best it could.

I babbled agreement and retreated, shaken, leaving it to prowl filepaths and snarl at the occasional typo. Every time I opened my laptop, it would slink in the background and make sly, suggestive gestures. Whenever I gave in to temptation and tentatively typed a snatch of dialogue or a dribble of description, I felt better knowing that I hadn't yet consigned my story to the limbo of unfinished tales. It's coming together better than before. Maybe all I needed was a break.

A Deferential Dream

I love playing with words. I used to think I should major in English, but then I had to read and evaluate The Scarlet Letter for a high school English class. I'll bet that book has turned off more English majors than anything else. It's not that I hated the book. It wasn't my favorite, but the thing I hate hate HATED was having to analyze the so-called symbolism. I don't hate symbolism. I DO hate being forced to extract it from a place where I don't think it exists. What does the door symbolize? Well, heck, I'd guess it symbolizes a door. And the rose? Well, I think by that the author intended to make us think of a rose. Maybe I'm just a shallow reader.

My revulsion for English classes only intensified when I took AP English my junior year. I hated reading "The Garden Party" by Katherine Mansfield, and I've refused to read anything she's written ever since, even though I like short stories and New Zealand.

I took a creative writing class at BYU near the end of my college education. My teacher seemed to really like my writing. She left comments like "You're a great writer--don't stop!" on my papers, and I did very well on all the assignments. That's why I was so surprised when my grade showed up as a C-. Turns out I'd misunderstood her instructions on ONE assignment at the end of the semester. She was going to bump it up to an A-, but decided all she could do for me was a B+.

So when I think of "A Dream Deferred," I think about being an author. I think I've wanted to be a famous author all my life. I love to read, and I read fast. I can't even begin to estimate how many books I've read in my lifetime. I remember what I read fairly well, but I love to go back and read books again, even when I remember the ending (which Regis can't understand at all). I constantly make up stories in my head, too, and like to imagine "What would happen if I said X right now, or did Y?" I would like to think that I would make a good writer.

I started writing a book at the beginning of this year. I loved it. It felt great. I had a wonderful time envisioning the denouement, creating characters, inserting jokes and playful conversations. I think I told every member of my family that I was writing a book.

I'm not writing it any more. I had fun writing the fun parts, and slowed down when I realized I'd have to trudge through filling in all the details. Regis got tired of having ideas bounced off him and analyzing potential scenes. I let my sister read what I'd written so far, and felt disheartened by her criticisms and intimidated by her questions. I don't think I'm cut out to be a writer--I need to have somebody care about what I'm doing before it's done, and that, I think, is even harder with a story than with any other project. Stories are to a large extent superfluous. I believe mine will die a fairly natural death. You could say I'm neglecting it, but since it hasn't even the dignity of humanity, I don't think I can be held responsible for its passing if it doesn't have enough ambition to be self-sufficient.

A Dream Deferred

By Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over--

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

We're Back!

Boo-hoo, we're back from Jamaica. (This was originally "Hooray! We're back from Jamaica" but I rethought that one reeeeeeal quick.) What? You didn't know we went?

We had a funtastical time, meeting up with my sister Brook and her husband Jake and staying at a snazzy all-inclusive resort. There was a nice beach, swimming pools, water slide, restaurants, free drinks (we stuck to the virgin daiquiris, although Regis was suspicious when I got pretty giddy one afternoon), and other good stuff. It was lovely to stay in such a lush, warm, sunny place. It was not so lovely to come back to snow.

Abby was very well-behaved throughout, even during the flights. She was a scandalous flirt at the resort, and bestowed come-hither glances liberally. I'm frequently amazed at how bold strangers are about touching other peoples' children, but she sure asked for it that week. I'm sorry that she won't remember how much fun we had, but we did take a lot of pictures. And Regis and I enjoyed the heck out of it, which is why we went anyway. Our favorite parts were probably climbing a waterfall and eating yummy food. It was always funny after the meal when we'd all sit there and wait for the check until someone remembered that we wouldn't get one--all-inclusive, guys!

My least favorite part (besides coming home) was probably when Brook dragged me into the gym and proceeded to beat my muscles to a jiggly pulp. :) Okay, that wasn't so bad. The smokers were worse.

Thanks a whole lot, Brook and Jake, for a fun vacation!

(Pictures to be added later)

*&#^%$ it!

Things that make me want to swear:

Bad drivers
Trying to get Abby's car seat out of the car
Realizing that I have to "unstitch" nearly a whole row of my knitting
Having to get out of bed on freezing cold Utah mornings

But I only swear inside my head. That makes it better, right?

Where does the time go?

Abby will be seven months old tomorrow. Has it really been that long?

I keep looking at her and thinking how big she's gotten. Her head is bigger, her hair is much fuller, her legs are so much longer . . . and her feet are still tiny. Ha! It's awfully cute, but kind of disappointing, since I bought a bunch of really cheap, cutesy wutesy baby shoes that I was excited to put on her. She has yet to fit into the smallest pair. Heck, I can probably send these shoes to college with her.

In a lot of ways, I love that she is so much like her dad. She sleeps beautifully. She's very "chill" generally; really willing to try new things. She has yet to exhibit any stranger anxiety. On the other hand, it makes me a little sad that I can't see much of me in her yet. She even looks like Regis. She's got his skin tone, his eyelashes. Regis has tried to convince me that she must have my body type by claiming that he was a real fatty when he was a baby, but I've seen the pictures and I don't believe him.

At least she's got my style.

Now what?

Regis is graduating in April. We're very excited.

We're also scared. What the heck do we do now? He likes his job well enough, and it has a lot of great potential, but he doesn't know if he wants to stay there. He's applied to a lot of places, but nothing has panned out. I'm not sure what that means.

Part of the reason for being scared is that there are too many options. The company Regis works for is all over the place, so technically we could move anywhere. So where do we go? I've said for so long that I don't want to live in Utah that I'm not sure I really mean it any more. As Mom says, anywhere is livable unless it's Mojave or Barstow. :) But I'm not sure I can handle year after year of Utah winters. Every time it starts to turn truly cold, I slink back into myself and howl.

But if we don't stay here, where do we go? My sisters have each recommended that we come live near them, one in L.A. and one near Houston. I love living near family, and it would certainly mean more visits from Abby's doting grandparents, plus babysitting exchanges. But I have no idea whether we'd like it in those places or not. I think that's part of what scares me: I've only made one significant move in my life, from hometown to college town. Obviously SOME people enjoy living in other places, or they wouldn't be populated, but then some people apparently enjoy living in Utah.

Toothy

Abby has got to be the best baby ever. She has two little teeth now, and despite all the dire warnings about teething troubles, it was really not bad. She did wake up a few times during the night, but I thought it was because it's so dry here. MY nose and throat are painfully dry when I wake up, so I figured maybe hers were too. Sneaky baby, or clueless mommy? Well, it pretty much amounts to the same thing. I'm in pretty sad shape if I can be outfoxed by a six-month-old.

I found out a few days ago that my grandpa is probably dying. It feels strange. He is the only great-grandpa Abby has still living, and hearing that he is not doing well made me wonder what Abby will feel when she eventually learns that her grandpa is not well. I wonder a lot about whether she will feel the same things I have felt growing up. I hope she will escape some of them.

Progress

Yay! I have 7381 words written in my story. I'll probably delete about 300 of them, but that's a good start, don't you think? It's been fun. I really, really like bouncing ideas off of Regis. He doesn't enjoy it quite as much, but he's still supportive. What a nice husband I have.

Nothin' to Report

I like to box. How I like to box! So, every day, I box a Gox. In yellow socks I box my Gox. I box in yellow Gox box socks.

Thank you, Dr. Seuss.

Roly Poly

My baby rolled over yesterday all by herself. Twice. I'm so proud. sniffle

The Latest

I am writing the Great American Novel.

Don't laugh. I really am.

Okay, so maybe it's more like the Lesser American Novel. Who cares. I've always wanted to write a book, and now I am. Except I don't feel like I'm writing a book, because I'm not writing it on paper in between covers; I'm just typing it on my laptop. And quite frankly, it doesn't have much of a plot yet, which I don't think will surprise Amber. She used to have me tell her bedtime stories, because my voice is so soooooooothing. She carefully didn't mention that it's also because my stories were sooooo boring, and it only took me a few years to figure it out. But I'm getting better. This one has a plot. I just haven't written it yet. I'm having fun "developing" my characters and thinking about what I could put in there, but probably won't.

I like it because I'm always making up a story in my head anyway; now I'm just writing it down. I feel like I'm doing something worthwhile, because suuuuuure, it could get published someday and make lots of money, and Regis has approved my project, which makes me think he thinks I'm not wasting my time. And Regis likes it because it means we don't have to go to the library quite as often as he was anticipating.

I wonder what kids think of their parents' books. I wonder what Abby would think of my book.

Booked Face

Hrm. I just opened an account on Facebook, and I think I made a mistake by doing so. It's depressing to see how many people are in contact with people that I know, because I've wanted to get in touch with some of them for a long time. It makes me think that they must not have wanted to get in touch with me, since they could have . . . . But oh well. Mom always meets my complaints about not having any friends by saying that I need to make more of an effort. But how much effort am I supposed to put out? Is there a point where I say, okay, Sally's not investing anything in this relationship, so it's over?

A Holly Jolly Christmas

What a fun Christmas we had! I'm really really glad that we decided to drive down through the night, so that Abby's sleep schedule wouldn't be messed up. She slept pretty much the entire way. Of course, it wreaked havoc with our sleep schedules, but since there were plenty of people to pawn Abby off on, we got to take a nice nap once we got there. And then she slept through the night every night. And took good naps during the day. We have the most amazing baby ever.

I was really bummed when Regis told me that we'd have to take off the day after Christmas, since his mean ol' boss wouldn't give him any more time off. I LOVE going back to my parents' house, especially when all my siblings (sans missionaries, although we did get to have a chat with Court) will be there. It was great to laugh with everyone, to play Mah Jong together, and to eat clam chowder in a bread bowl. Oddly enough, we didn't watch any of our traditional Christmas movies. No Scrooge, no It's a Wonderful Life. We did snicker while the little girls watched the Barbie version of the princess and the pauper. Gag me with a fork.

On the way back we drove during the day, and Abby slept nearly the whole way again. I was worried that this meant she'd be awake all night, but she slept most of the night as well. I'm glad she did, because (surprise surprise) a lot of germs got passed around at our Christmas gathering, and she and I are both a little sick. She is just so amazingly good, though. Still cheerful even though her little schnozz is all stuffed up.

Yesterday I was struck by how intelligent she is. Yeah, I know, she's only 4 and a half months old, but it's amazing to me how much she seems to understand. I put her on her stomach to give her some tummy time on her new playmat that Grandm--er, Santa gave her, and rolled her onto her back when it seemed like she was done. (She loves her new playmat. It's got tons of jungle-y toys on it, and even I think they're cool.) I guess she wasn't actually finished, because she kept trying to roll back over. She's SOOOO close to getting it, and after a few tries she starting fussing because she couldn't quite make it. That might not sound extremely smart, but going from being a lump to understanding that she can roll herself over is pretty impressive to me.

And Abby must have been at the top of Santa's "Nice" list this year, because she cleaned up on Christmas morning. Even though she wasn't awake to see it. :)

Morning Giggles

This morning, I handed Abby a toy to play with and turned away for a minute to sort through some stuff. I heard a little "uh!" and turned back to find:

I burst out laughing. She wasn't upset at all, just confused. Probably wondering why Mommy was laughing so hard.

She's been so fun lately, giggling when we blow on her belly and when I do my famed walrus impression.

Bucket of Blood

So, what do you do when your infant starts spitting up blood?

Always a delightful experience, I'm sure. Bucket decided I needed that particular experience the other night (of course, it would be on Sunday, at 9 pm). At first, I figured she had just scraped the roof of her mouth a little with her thumbnail, since she's started sucking her thumb. However, when she spit up quite a bit a few minutes later, I decided it was time to call the doctor. We headed over to the hospital, where the after-hours pediatrician's office is. I was worried, but very nice and calm up until we actually got into the office, where I promptly started bawling. I wonder if they could tell I was a first time mom?

Happily, Napoleon's sanguinity was justified, as it usually is. Since Bucket appeared fat and happy (11 lbs 9 oz--wabba dooba!), and was in fact having a great time sitting on Daddy's lap, the doctor suggested it was probably a problem with me, not her. I do remember a weird pain when she was eating earlier in the day, so we think she probably just got a little something extra with her milk. I guess we should have dressed her differently for Halloween: she's a vampire!

Algo Nuevo

As you may have noticed, I've changed the names on my blog. I'm not sure exactly why, but in deference to the Society for the Prevention of Abuse of Me (SPAM), I thought I should probably not put our real names out there for everyone to see. I read a few blog posts recently that warned of the dangers of using real names and allowing people to see pictures of your kids, since there are so many sickos out there. I've changed the names, but I'm not taking the pictures off. I don't want anyone using the pictures of my baby for anything disgusting, but I'm not that worried about it for the same reason I'm too ashamed to put up a visit counter: I really don't think there are too many people who come to this blog. I'm pretty sure that everyone who does is someone I know or someone whose blog I visit, and I'm not too concerned about you guys.

So enjoy reading about the adventures of Napoleon and Josephine, and our daughter Bucket. We really do call her Bucket, usually prefaced by things like Fuss and Snuggle. If you don't like the pseudonyms, take comfort in the fact that they may be temporary. I might not like them either.

Slingin' Baby

In honor of Court's birthday yesterday, Bucket and I put on the spiffy authentic Indonesian sling he gave us for Christmas and took a walk. I had tried it a couple of times before and she was definitely not happy being slung, but she took to it pretty well yesterday, I'm sure in consideration of her dear uncle. We did it again today and she fell asleep, so it's apparently pretty comfortable. It's nice because I can carry her around and still have my hands free, although I'm still not entirely convinced that she's not going to fall out, so I am frequently readjusting the fabric and reassuring myself.

We walked over to JoAnn's to grab some cutesy wutesy stickers as promised, so Amber and Glade, here are your choices:

Let me know which one you want. (The one in the middle is glittery too, just not as much as the two side ones.)

My Sweet Baby

No really, she's delicious. I keep seeing advertisements that say "Keep your baby delicious all day long!" Sounds good to me.



I'm wondering how she went from this . . .

. . . to this!

Heartbreak Hotel

I'm down at the edge of Lonely Street . . .

Okay, so after I decided on that title for this post, I realized it doesn't work: my baby didn't leave me, my hubby did. But don't worry, he's coming back. Tonight, in fact. Me and Bucket have been . . . well, frankly, we've been doing what we do most days. I just haven't been able to look forward to Napoleon coming home in the evenings. He's been off in North Carolina at a job interview, being wined and dined (or at least the latter) by a big financial company. I've been reading up on the area, since we might actually be moving there soon.

It didn't occur to me for an embarrassingly long time that North Carolina is in the South, very much so. And by South (with a capital s) I mean the seceding, grit-eatin' part, which to my mind does not include Florida. When it finally came to me, I thought "Holy cow, can I live in the South?" But within a few days I'd convinced myself that the South can't be all THAT different.

Enter the internet.

Yikes. Apparently there's this big North v. South feeling in North Carolina. Have you heard of the War of Northern Aggression? Yeah, apparently they're still not over that. Except now, instead of "You jerks, you're trying to take away our slaves and our states rights," it's "You jerks, you're bringing your rude Northern ways (which apparently include cell phones and yelling at your kids--who knew?) into our sweet Southern hospitable realm and jacking up the price of housing." Um, wow. So now I'm wondering if there's some big East v. West feeling as well. I'm from California originally, and I love the western part of the U.S. I've always described the east as a "nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there." Are they going to hate me?

The thing is, I probably wouldn't know it if they did. I didn't even know there was a big rivalry between southern California and northern California until I came to BYU. Ha! And I think it's ridiculous.

Ouchie

There's nothing like getting your baby immunized to make you feel like a rotten scumbag.

If I knew of something she wanted, I would totally go buy it right now. I'm wallowing in guilt. It's probably a good thing that she's not a material girl--for now, I've got everything she wants.

Honestly, why don't medical places treat people better? I think a sucker would have made me feel better about making my poor innocent baby cry. Or how about a sticker? It could say something like "I'm a Good Mom: my baby's immunized!" or "I Helped Prevent Polio!" Or how about one for the baby that says "Be Nice to Me, I Got Shot"? Please add your most clever sticker phrase in the comments. If it's REALLY clever, I'll send you some stickers. Seriously. Cute ones.

Blessings and Cursings

Don't worry, there are no swearwords in this post. At least not yet, but since this is only the second sentence . . . . Bucket's blessing went well, even though Napoleon's family was grossly underrepresented, due to a yucky attack of the flu in the Logan side of the family. I very much appreciate the fact that they didn't want to pass it along, especially since there were old people and lots of little kiddos, but it was still a bummer that they couldn't be here. Bucket slept through most of the actual blessing, but she did hand out some smiles during the evening. We had yummy pizza, and a good time.

The family reunion was also fun, even though we only made it to the evening activities. It's always nice to see family. We took a couple of cute pictures of Bucket and her cousins. We also got to hang out with my parents the rest of the week, including on a wacky Halloween cruise down the Provo River--VERRRRRY cheesy. I don't recommend it.

Something not so fun happened on Saturday: getting out of my parents' car, I opened the door too wide and dinged the car next to it, which just happened to be so new it didn't even have the plates on yet. Yuck. It was a pretty bad ding, and I felt really rotten about it, so I ended up leaving a note with an apology and my phone number on it. They called today and said they are going to get an estimate. I was hoping, since the car already had a few little scratches on it, that they would just let it go, but I guess if someone else was going to pay for the ding they did on my new car (jerks) I'd get it fixed too. Unfortunately for me, nobody owned up. So I get to pay the price for honesty and just hope these people pay it forward.

Random Snapthoughts

Well, you can all stop worrying about me: the repair guys came, spent about four hours plodding in and out of my house carrying various sizes of drywall, stinking up the place with paint, and blocking my bathroom. It's a darn good thing they didn't come when I was pregnant. Bucket was pretty good through it all, in part because she spent most of it outside. She loves being outdoors, which is tragic because we live in Utah, and even if she could stand the cold, her mama is a California girl and can't. To me, 75 degrees is cold. And oh look, the average high temp for where we live is BELOW 75 for eight months of the year. Yes, that is the average HIGH temperature, as in the highest point it hits sometime during the day, meaning the rest of the day is usually a lot colder.

Napoleon wonders why I don't want to live in Utah.

What was I talking about again? Oh yes, repairs. It looks like it's all done, and ok.

My folks are coming into town this weekend, for a family reunion and Bucket's blessing. It will be neat to have so many of us here for her blessing. Fun, but stressful. Does anyone else get stressed out when family comes to town? I can't really find a good reason for it. We have a little apartment, so we don't have to host everyone, although we've had people stay with us several times. Dad usually takes us out to eat somewhere nice, which is a fun treat. Nobody in my family is a compulsive liar, overtly manipulative, unbelievable obnoxious, or otherwise really difficult (unless it's me, I guess!). I think we're all pretty fun to be around, so I'm not sure why I always get stressed out when we're all together. I'm wondering if it's because I feel like I have to prove myself, that I'm all grown up now and not the silly little girl I used to be. That's hard, because I get stressed and therefore overly sensitive and more apt to cry when I hear something that I perceive as criticism, which makes me feel immature . . .

I still find it hard to believe that they let somebody like me just walk out of the hospital with a brand new baby. Okay, technically they don't, because they made me sit in a wheelchair, but that's not the point.

We're taking Bucket to get some photos taken today, by a friend of mine who wants some baby pictures as examples for her photography business. I sure hope Bucket has been saving up all her good behavior for Heidi, because she sure hasn't been wasting it on me.

I remember asking my mom, when I was in high school or thereabouts, "What if you love your kids, but you just don't like one of them?" Her answer, which I still have to chew on every so often, was "Then you need to repent."

Invasion

Our condo has problems. Last year, when we still liked our upstairs neighbors, :) I noticed there was water dripping down into our water heater closet. Not good. I ran upstairs and told Miriam, who got the property management company to send over a plumber. This guy was obviously not very smart--he insisted that the leak was not coming from the second floor, since there was no damage in their closet, but from the third, and then tried to distract us by cooing at Miriam's baby. Since I am not a plumber, and my landlords (my parents) live far away, nothing happened on it after that. However, the leak continued to get worse, and finally my dad decided something needed to be done. He called the property management company again, who sent the dippy plumber again, who gave the same report. Dad was not fooled--he grew up as a plumber, helping his dad--a plumber. He called in another company to take a look, who reported that not only was it coming from the second floor, but there was also mold growing in our closet. Joy. He estimated that it would take a week and lots and lots of money to fix it all.

The managers of the condo above us balked at his estimate, and wanted a second opinion. They invited a carpet cleaning company to come look. He estimated several hours and much less money; however, it sounded to me like he was a bozo and was planning on doing a lick-it-and-hope-it-sticks job. I am SOOOO not excited about this. I have a new baby, whose schedule is still not fixed, and they want to come over and spend lots of time doing construction in my small apartment, making noise, creating dust, and probably screwing stuff up. If they do a lousy job, Dad will just make them pay for someone else to do it right, which will mean more people tramping through my apartment, more dust and noise and irritation. I wish I would have gotten this taken care of earlier, but it was really out of my hands. I'm also irritated because of my lack of knowledge. I had the same problem when our car was broken--I have this vague idea that I'm being ridiculously overcharged and cheated, but since I know nothing about cars (and not very much about plumbing), I can't really do anything about it. I guess this is one of those cases where you're just supposed to trust the experts.

However, although I don't know much about plumbing, my dad does and my uncle does, and they both think this carpet guy is up in the night. My husband did construction for a year, and he agrees that there's no way he can replace the things he says he will for the price he quoted. So none of this bodes well. Can I go home now?

Nobody is Perfict

My poor baby has broken out in lots of zits. This does not bode well for her teenage years.

She definitely looks like Napoleon's side of the family, although I can't really explain why. I think it's something around her eyes and nose. I love her profile, even with her little pimples.

I really haven't been doing very well with Thank You cards, so Miriam, I hope you don't mind an online one. You're the only one who gets a picture with yours. :) Doesn't she look cute? We really do love the little outfit. And I would LOVE to come visit you, especially since it's starting to get cold up here. (Napoleon doesn't feel it, but he never does. I wear about six more layers than he does in the winter.) I'll have to find some free airline tickets somewhere, or suck it up and drive.

Bucket's belly button glop finally came off, so we can finally bathe her. She really likes being squirted with warm water, but she's not too fond of just being wet. I'm sure it's because it's getting cold (See, Napoleon? Bucket knows it too.). I'm so glad she hasn't lost her hair yet.

Sniff sniff

I smell like baby.

Naturally, I've been reading lots of stuff on kids recently. What do you think of piercing babies' ears?

I think it's sick. I understand that it's "cultural" in some places. So is infant genital mutilation. In fact, that kind of amounts to the same thing: you are inflicting pain and a permanent physical mark on a child because you think they should look a certain way. Makes sense? No.

I'm not opposed to pierced ears. Mine are pierced. I chose to have them pierced, when I was about 10. I'm opposed to hurting kids for stupid reasons.

Wow, a Whole Month

Today is Bucket's official one month birthday. I'm tempted to make cupcakes. Cute little pink ones. I decided last night that it was getting too cold to let her sleep nekkid, so I put her in little footie pajamas. They were huge on her, but man did she look sweet. (I didn't really let her sleep naked--we wrapped her up in blankets. But it is getting too cold for that, I think.) She still doesn't fit into any of her newborn onesies, but she is filling out a bit. It's funny to see her in the 0-3 month clothes. I bet she'll be wearing them until she's about 6 months old. I really like a lot of the clothes she's gotten as presents. She's going to be such a stylin' little girl.

Napoleon has started school again. I think this semester is going to be really stressful for him. Partly because he's working half the time, and partly because his classes are really stinkin' hard, and partly because I can't handle caring for Bucket all by myself. As it is, I don't eat until around noon. I was never a morning person in the first place, and it's even worse when I have to wake up every three hours or so. This is why I HATE 8:30 church. I don't think anything should start before 9 in the morning. It's indecent.

Not Good

Today was a bad day.
It didn't start out bad. Bucket woke up at around 6, which is when Napoleon gets up, so I got to see him off to work. I fed Bucket and had a hard time getting her back to sleep. She slept until 11, which is when I finally woke her up to eat. She was pretty cheerful after she ate, and smiled a lot. I may have even got her smile on camera. We went for a nice walk outside, looking at the sky and the trees and the grass and the funny men trying (and failing) to fit a huge couch through a doorway. Usually, Bucket's good for about an hour of happy awake time before she gets tired and falls asleep again. NOT today. This is where it gets bad. I brought her inside, thinking she'd want to sleep soon. She absolutely refused to sleep. Didn't want to be held, didn't want to be laid down. All she wanted to do was cry and cry. She likes to be bounced. I bounced her until my arms were about to fall off, but she was still unhappy. I tried feeding her off and on, but she really didn't seem hungry. She stayed awake until Napoleon got home for lunch, at about 2:30, at which point I burst into tears and handed him the baby.
She is such a daddy's girl. He said, "Calm down, Bucket." She stopped crying. "Go to sleep." She immediately looked sleepy. "Close your eyes . . . close 'em more . . . more . . . " And she was out.
Sometimes life really isn't fair.