My Memoirs (because everybody's doing it). Chapter One: Giraffes

Because who doesn't want to read the memoir of a 33 year old nobody from Provo, UT who hit the big time in Rexburg, ID???

I remember a light-filled nursery with a yellowish linoleum floor and an old fashioned sink surrounded by white kitchen cabinets--vestiges of the apartment that the upper floor had been in my 1910 four square house.

I remember a gold-framed print of a brown giraffe surrounded by pink, yellow, and green pastel colors, and I remember lying in my crib, mesmerized by a growth chart with another giraffe on it.

I remember the rough plastic texture of a changing pad, the feeling of the hard counter on my head under the softness of the blankets my mom used to set me on, the indignity of diaper changes (Not really. But I can guess that they felt like an indignity).

I remember running around the house after a bath, hiding in my mom's closet, wrapped in a towel, trying to avoid pajamas and their unwelcome companion, bed time.

I remember being really confused, thinking that my oldest sister Erin was my mom. But how could she be my mom if my mom was my mom?

I remember my mom's elegant and steady hands. They were very thin and the veins were prominent. I remember her hands at changing time, at bath time, at feeding time. I remember my first feelings of jealousy when I saw my mother's hands wrapped around the tummy of my baby cousin, just a few months younger than me. What the heck was she doing holding someone else?

I remember the mysterious appeal of a large ant hill in our backyard, all those red insects crawling in and out of it. Why wouldn't the next logical step be to sit right on top of it wearing only a diaper? I remember the painful red welts all over my legs and bottom as I sat in a bath tub.

I remember my mother sighing.

Mostly I remember giraffes in my nursery.

Even Deeper Thoughts (I'm on a roll)

I bet I can eat a Kit Kat (any size) faster than you.



A potato masher makes a great orange juice-stirrer. Sorry, Pampered Chef. You can keep your fancy pitcher-with-stirrer-in-the-lid contraption.



The house is so peaceful and calm when the children are downstairs watching Phineas and Ferb. Why would I disturb that peace?



Sometimes my baking sheets remind me of better days. Days when I baked.



Remember how I said I had this pregnancy style thing down? Well, scratch that from the record. I hate my clothes, my hair, my face.



I had an epiphany about dinner when I heard a really good dad say to his children: "what should we have for dinner? How 'bout baked potatoes?" You can do that? I thought. So now I just make chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream for dinner, cause it doesn't have to be so complicated.



I had another epiphany at church when a woman told us about praying to find something good at a yard sale. You can do that? I thought. This opens a whole new world of divinely inspired shopping for me.



Good neighbors bring you a plate of vegetables from their garden even though they are the ones who just had a baby and you haven't gotten around to doing anything for them yet.



At the risk of sounding cheesy, my days goes a lot better when I can talk to my husband at least twice, even if it costs $1.50 per minute because he's in China.



Shows that are instant mood-lifters: Arrested Development, the Office, and Project Runway.



I hated the book Atonement like Elaine Benes hated the movie "The English Patient."



I think someone should do a blog dedicated just to the outlandish things you can find on craigslist, particularly the craigslist for southeast Idaho.



Utah/Idaho Mormon stereotypes have never been, are not currently, and will never be appropriate, true, or funny. Come up with some new material, people from Oregon and California!



I love Provo in the fall. Rexburg in the fall is awesome, too, but Provo is the absolute best.



I'm tired of pretending to like summer and be bummed that it's ending. Here's the truth: I HATE heat, summer is fun for one month max, and I love it when things start to cool down. The first snow of the year is magical to me, and I love winter right up until March. There. I said it.

Blogging: A Day in the Life

I thought I'd give you a run-down of what my daily blog-checking looks like:



Usually I like to start my day here. It's nice to get a hearty dose of reality, and this week has not disappointed: WHAT!? Slab pizza decided NOT to name a pizza after Cjane!?



Then, sticking with my theme of the Provo gliterati, I head over here. Shooh!! The Sweet Tooth Fairy still has a cupcake named after Nienie.



After getting my fix of Provo royalty, I check out this. Because in my mind, the intersection between motherhood and design is little more than the pattern left on my shirt after my baby throws up on me. So I need all the help I can get. In fact, I am considering a move to Europe as a publicity stunt for my blog and a way to improve my design aesthetic. Would that increase my number of comments????



After a healthy helping of painfully adorable, and woefully pricey design-y items, I like to read Kacy. Currently she has a rip-roaring discussion on Harry Potter going on. She's my go-to source for all things media and motherhood. In fact, you might say she blogs on the intersection of media and motherhood, which is an intersection I feel totally comfortable with. Two movies in row at the movie theater? 126 ounces of soda? I'm in.



At this point I am a little blogged out and am starting to feel bad about myself (I mean, I don't have any food named after me, nor do I live in a French cottage, nor do I get free movie tickets because I am a rad blogger. Booo!). So I take a break and check out the Garnet Hill sale of the day, or the Lands End overstock.



After my break I check out the eye candy at No Big Dill. She makes such pretty things. Sigh.



And you wonder why I have self-esteem issues! Better get some ice cream, lie in bed, and watch old episodes of Family Ties. Until tomorrow....

Some Truths I'm Trying to Come to Grips With

1. Some people are just mean. They don't care if it's wrong to be mean. They don't care if they reduce you to tears in the church parking lot. They don't care if they look like a demon when they squint their eyes and shake their heads at you.

2. Apparently my beloved home town of Provo is now a fantasy land full of felt flowers, freebies, and frosted cupcakes. This Provo doesn't extend farther west than BYU, and is being taken over by a small group of people who paint a picture of life that suggests everyone has their own personal professional photographer/filmmaker. Sigh. I know this is a controversial thing to say, but I don't know what's happened to the old sleepy town I grew up in. Where are my humble orchards and peculiar, salt-of-the-earth people? Where is my auto shop/Mormon art store, not to mention Norton's, D&B Woods, GRANDVIEW ELEMENTARY, and all that they embody? I know everyone means well, but what has happened to normal Provo? I guess elite Provo is replacing it.

3. Kids make horrifying messes and break things, no matter what you do, or how hard you try to prevent/avoid it.

4. Whatever happens, there will be urine to clean up.

5. I can't dance.

6. I am going to have to toughen up and crack down on people that I hate, including some children and some of the elderly.

It's been a rough couple of weeks.

Latest Articles

Here are a few of my latest newspaper articles:

Mommy Wars: The Battle of the Blog

Mothers have been at war with each other for as long as I can remember. In the eighties, it was the working mother who was under attack by the non-working mother. I know, because my mom worked (she had to) and we got a lot of guff about it. That battle continues between those who work and those who stay home. Not only is there the working/stay at home mom battle, but there is also the battle over breastfeeding and bottle-feeding. Then there’s the lovely epidural vs. non-epidural debate, which I have been a victim of several times (I just want to avoid unnecessary pain so I can have some energy for when the baby is born and needing constant attention—is that so wrong??) These issues are designed to divide us, and make us feel alternately superior and inferior.
And now that kids have so many options, from piano lessons, to Kindermusic, to sports, to play groups, and so on, there’s another battle going on: the battle of the scheduled vs. the unscheduled. I know some moms who have their kids’ entire days packed with various lessons, practices, and classes. This can cause some anxiety in those of us who choose not to force our children into piano prodigy-hood at age 3. And yet those of us who choose not to schedule our children’s lives can be a little judgmental of those who do. It’s a vicious battle.
This is bad enough, but as technology has made us even more connected to each other, the mommy wars are getting much worse, and now the battle has reached us on that most hallowed ground, the blogosphere.
If playgroups in the park have made us compare ourselves to other mothers, then blogs have made us obsessively compare ourselves to other mothers.
Let me preface this by saying that I have a blog, and have been blogging for five years. And I blog for selfish reasons: for validation, for connection, for an outlet. My blog is called My Misadventures, so named because it is about ME. It’s not one of those family blogs with 20-photo entries entitled “ Baby Caden Tries Peas.” Occasionally I post photos of my kids for the benefit of family who live far away, but my blog is primarily about me. So I realize that those moms who blog only about their family and children probably think I am the ultimate self-absorbed loser. But at least I am open about it.
Don’t get me wrong, my blog may be all about me, but it’s not a braggy blog: most of what I talk about are the embarrassing moments, you know like when the gift-wrapper at the BYU Provo bookstore makes me cry, or like when I humiliate myself at church, those kind of things. Self-effacement is the way I roll. But this way of blogging is dying quickly.
See, nowadays, many blog moms choose to blog about how perfect their lives are, rather than the missteps, gaffs, and awful things that can happen on the road of life. For example, I recently read all about a 6-year-old’s “Yoga Birthday Party.” The mother’s Ashram allowed her to use her yoga space, which was decked out with hand-made felt decorations. Each girl was also given a handmade yoga mat, and a special symbol was designed and silk-screened onto organic cotton t-shirts for each of the party guests to wear. I can only imagine what a riot it was for the girls to practice their downward dog and then snack on organic fruit and veggies, followed by soy cupcakes. What the . . . ? And this is not just a freak blog. There are dozens of them, possibly hundreds! I saw another one about a two-year-old’s “Mr. Man Birthday Party” that included chocolate mustaches, organic cotton t-shirts with hand-embroidered ties down the front, and custom-made sugar cookies from a fancy bakery. For a two-year-old? Contrast this with the hideous teddy bear birthday cake I tried to make for my daughter’s birthday, with its ugly brown frosting, haphazard sugar sprinkles, and almond buttons, and you can see why blogging has become a painful experience for me.
And these blogs aren’t all just about birthdays. Some moms blog about all the excruciatingly adorable things they sew, or how cleverly they organize and decorate their homes, or how good they are at putting an outfit together, or how wonderful they are at cooking, etc. etc. etc. And what gets me is that they do it under the guise of “helping others.” I guess the rest of us slouches can’t figure things out on our own, so these supermoms have condescended to share their best tips, like how to line the inside of your drawers with wrapping paper that costs $20 per foot. Really, my life wasn’t complete until I had that choice tidbit. How did I live without adorable liners for the inside of my drawers? HOW?
Two things really annoy me about these “Look How Great And Perfect I Am” blogs: 1. They seem to indicate that blogging is no longer a practice to enhance quality of life, but rather that people may actually be enhancing their quality of life in order to impress other people on their blog. It seems like these moms go to great lengths to document every moment of their enchanting day and then put it all on the internet for the rest of us to see. Whatever happened to just enjoying a moment and not capturing it on camera?
2. They really do make the rest of us look and feel bad. I was reading through the comments on one of the birthday party blogs, and among all the “wows!” and “amazings!” was a very disturbing comment: “I am such a loser mom. All my kid got was a Costco pie with a candle on top.” Since when was that not a perfectly acceptable birthday for a small child? These supermom bloggers may have the best intentions, but they are perpetuating this battle between mothers. In fact, they are making all the problems and issues between mothers much bigger and more complex, not to mention available 24 hours a day.
I suppose I could just stop reading these blogs, and I have--sort of. Sometimes I have to just check in to see what new thing is being done with organic cotton t-shirts. It’s a bit of a sado-masochistic relationship. I look at these blogs, and first I feel horrible about myself. Then I start to get mad and think that this can’t even be real, or that these people must be hiding some deep dark secret. Then I get this nice, satisfied feeling of superiority, cause at least I am not hiding anything. Slouchy moms: 1; supermoms: 0. And the battle rages on.


Cruise + In-Laws = Surprisingly Good Time

Last week I had the rare opportunity to go on a cruise to Alaska with not one, not two, but all of my husband’s brothers and sisters, not to mention his mom and dad. I think congress is still debating whether seven days on a boat with your in-laws is, in fact, torture. Yet despite congress’s uncertainty, I had a great time. Maybe it was the fact that my children were not with me. Maybe it was the copious amount of food available at all hours. Maybe it was the beautiful Alaskan scenery. Whatever it was, I highly recommend going on a cruise, especially if you can go with your in-laws. Here are some reasons why you should go on a cruise with your in-laws:

10. If you go with Holland America, your ship will likely be named something like “Zaandam” or “Rotterdam.” Anything ending in “dam” makes for some Zaandam good jokes, don’t you think?

9. It’s interesting to find out just how intelligent your various in-laws are during the daily trivia quiz. They seem to have known all the right answers even if they wrote down the wrong ones!

8. There’s nothing quite like watching your spouse’s family try to dance to “Billy Jean” in rough seas.

7. Afternoon laziness + kids two thousand miles away = napping for as long as you want.

6. Learn everything you ever needed to know about the following: engines, various types of boats, ventilation, welding, snow loads, glaciers, and “how things work” by sitting next to your husband, his two brothers, and their father at dinner every night.

5. Two words: Lobster Tail.

4. Two more words: Dessert Extravaganza.

3. There’s nothing quite like watching your brother-in-law perform Simon and Garfunkel’s “Kodachrome” on stage for a huge audience of people in an American Idolesque superstar competition.

2. Relive/redeem a very bad prom on formal night.

1. Get a glimpse of what your spouse will be like in ten, twenty, and forty years by observing his brothers and father. If you don’t like what you see, escaping is as easy as jumping off the starboard side.

So, reserve your cruise, and call your in-laws today. You won’t be sorry.


The Best Laid Plans . . .

Well, it’s that time of year again: back to school time. There is very little I love more than back to school time. I love school supplies: pencils, folders, notebooks, systems of organization for various school projects and papers. I love going school clothes shopping, although my son would rather die than try on clothes. I love that different, crisp feeling in the air as school approaches, and the way things smell on the morning of the first day of school. It’s a smell of excitement, new asphalt, new clothes with the tags just cut off, and the impending autumn leaves. There’s also a palpable sense of relief in the air, as mothers congratulate themselves for surviving another summer and get together to compare their battle scars. Back to school time is the one time of year when I really do a lot of planning and hoping. I plan and hope for a school year that is organized, healthy, rewarding, and fun.
I picture making creative and nutritious lunches in a tidy little lunch box with a blue ice pack to keep organic veggies and dip cool throughout the morning. I imagine volunteering in the classroom, and discovering that I really am a great artist. I envision a perfect little mudroom, complete with well-appointed cubbies for each child’s hand-knit mittens, scarves, and hats. I plan out the ways in which I will display my children’s artwork: laminated placemats, rotating museum-quality exhibitions, a wall painted with magnetic paint to stick them on. I even imagine the nutritious snacks and strict homework-first rule for after school time. Ahhh, it’s a wonderful vision.
And then of course reality sets in about a month into the school year. Remember those nutritious and creative lunches? Half of their contents get thrown into the garbage before they are even consumed. That classroom “art mom” gig I volunteered for? Much more involved than I thought, and the only thing I discovered is that I am not good at art and I know nothing about the color wheel. Those organized cubbies and fancy artwork displays? The sheer volume of papers, jackets, backpacks, and shoes coming into my home in a steady stream has buried me, along with all of my intentions for making a place for them in my already brimming-with-clutter home. The after school snack and routine falls by the wayside as I simply try to keep my head above water.
By the end of the school year, a lunch consists of a granola bar and a box of juice thrown into a Ziploc bag. Papers that come home are glanced at, then immediately thrown into the garbage. I’ve alienated the entire PTO by crashing a special teachers and staff dinner that I would have known wasn’t for me if I had carefully read the letter that came home with my son before tossing it into the garbage (sorry, PTO. I owe you a piece of Fried Chicken and some potato chips!) The portfolio of artwork brought home at the end of the year, though it should be considered a great piece of history, a great artistic accomplishment, is viewed merely as a huge piece of junk that I must somehow find a place for, which happens to be behind the couch.
Why does this happen every year? I can’t decide if the problem is with my high expectations and lofty goals, or if the problem is just that I am too lazy to maintain this level of efficiency. Since my natural instinct is to avoid hard work, I am going to go with the first option: my expectations are too high. So this year I am going to do the opposite of all my urges for organization and efficiency. First, I am going to buy ten giant boxes of granola bars and juice boxes from Sam’s Club and have them at the ready, right next to the Ziploc bags. Then, I am going to resist the temptation to volunteer. Let someone who is qualified be the art mom this year! My absence in the classroom can only help those kids. Next, I’ll place a shredder and a recycling bin next to the door so incoming papers (homework excepted) can immediately be disposed of in a guilt-free manner, and hopefully by my kids themselves. I think it’s about time my son learned the use a shredder responsibly.
Here’s the after school drill I have planned for my son: come home, shred non-essential papers, throw backpack and shoes anywhere, grab a bag of chips and a sugar-filled can of soda, retire to couch, watch cartoons while wiping greasy hands right on the cushions, maybe get some homework done sometime before dinner (which consists of frozen tater tots and chicken nuggets), throw clothes on floor while putting on pajamas, crawl into unmade bed (taking care not to step on toys littering the bedroom floor), go to sleep.
And the wake-up routine is similar: wake up, crawl into rumpled, dirty clothes from the day before, eat a breakfast of pop tarts, frozen waffles, or donuts, brush teeth, assemble lunch in bag, walk to school.
Maybe if I plan on this routine, I will be pleasantly surprised when something goes better than expected. It’s a new way to live! And I’m hoping for the least organized, least nutritious, least rewarding, and least fun school year ever.

Newspaper Article Catch Up

I have been lazy about posting my articles on my blog. But here are the latest two (one of them came from a blog I wrote a while ago, so if it seems familiar, that's why. Sometimes life imitates blog.)

Summer Magic

This is my son’s first REAL summer. He just finished first grade, and so he can now officially appreciate having his days blissfully empty of any sort of plan or schedule. I’m so excited for him, although on day one at 10:25 a.m. he’s already said “what should we do now?” three times. All this summer-talk has made me very nostalgic for the summers of my youth.
I grew up in Provo, Utah, in the eighties, in an old turn-of-the-century house surrounded by cherry orchards, ditches (from which we would flood-irrigate our yard), and the most exotic and interesting junkyard imaginable. Combine those conditions with the advent of MTV, cable, the VCR, twin pops, and Kool Aid, and you’ve got a recipe for the best summers ever. This was the era when penny candy still cost a penny, when a sun burn was a beginning-of-summer rite of passage that slowly turned into a dark brown tan till September, and mosquito bites were battle scars we wore with pride.
We slept outside most nights, but not in fancy rainproof single-walled Gortex tents. Instead, we spread towels over a picnic table and climbed underneath. Often we just put our sleeping bags and thick foam pads right on the ground. We’d awake to dew on our faces, the sound of birds chirping, and a morning so bright and crisp that I would declare it a “nature morning” and sit outside in my pajamas basking in it until the sun got too hot and I needed to go inside for a blue popsicle.
I remember our secret clubs in my parents’ basement, and the ramshackle hut we built ourselves at the base of a huge tree. I remember playing “Indians” out on the mysterious cement pads near the junkyard and making my own special trail mix (cheerios, chocolate chips, and raisins) to take outside and enjoy all afternoon.
We roamed free in the summer, walking down to the nearest gas station (called “Minute Man”) for a treat and a soda (called “pop”), climbing trees and eating cherries till we were sick, playing night games in other people’s backyards, and trying to follow the ditch all the way to its beginning. We never worried, nor did our parents, about where we were going.
To balance our tree climbing, fort building, and ditch playing, we watched an inordinate amount of television, MTV and Days of Our Lives being our favorites. I was the youngest, so I felt lucky just to be invited to watch whatever my older sisters were watching. We’d pore over the music video offerings on MTV, choosing our favorite members of Van Halen (my sisters loved the quiet and cuddly Eddie Van Halen, but I, like my mother, have always been partial to the theatrics of David Lee Roth). Shortsighted as I was, I thought U2 was sort of boring and I preferred Duran Duran to The Police (I have repented for that severe misjudgment many times since then).
We followed the romances of Bo and Hope, Roman and Marlena, and Patch and Kayla faithfully, and then I usually re-enacted each love scene with my Barbies later. Summer was always full of hope for our own romances (which never happened) and a belief that we were as beautiful as the actresses on daytime television (which was also a bit of a stretch).
Summers were also the time when my half-sister would come to stay with us all the way from Arizona. She arrived extremely tan and full of stories so different from my own life that I always assumed she was not just from a different state, but from a different country and race, altogether.
Summers were a time for drive-in movies, trips to Lagoon, and the local swimming pool. I never remember adults being present, but they must have been there.
In the summer, I held and attended a million sleepovers, at which I always stayed up too late and from which I always returned extremely grumpy and miserable. But I was always anxious for the next one.
In the summer, we’d buy a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken (before it was taboo to use the word “fried” and Kentucky Fried Chicken became KFC). We’d take our fried goodness up to my grandmother’s cabin in Lamb’s Canyon and make ice cream and celebrate Independence Day.
Summer was hot back then, like it is now, but the heat didn’t seem as perilous. Nobody was afraid of global warming. No one was concerned about water and food shortages. Instead, we let the sprinkler run for hours while we ran through it. We “layed out” to get tan, our 32 oz. sodas always at our sides.
Our parents weren’t concerned with our laziness or looming obesity. They only put their foot down when I wore the same flip-flops (called “fongs”) every day and my feet, and their immediate surroundings, took on a hideous, other-worldly smell that probably could have taken paint off our house. The “fongs” had to go, but the good times rolled on. You see, my parents did not think we needed all sorts of camps and sports and classes in the summer. Our time was our own, and we were responsible for what we did with it. If that meant lying on the couch with a bag of potato chips until the wee hours of the morning, then so be it.
Those days are now gone. Our ditches have been buried to avoid too much evaporation, because there is always a shortage of water. Our junkyard is now the site of Grandview Farms condominiums, where retired men and women nit-pick at each other and their neighbors for such things as “unruly hedges” and “a car parked on the street over night.” Our orchards have also disappeared, making way for obscenely large McMansions that are too close together, that have no yards to speak of, and that are grouped together under the name “The Estates at Burr Orchards.” (What a touching tribute.) Provo is still a wonderful place, but it isn’t the same.
Still, I won’t forget the magic of those summer days in the eighties. And I hope my son has the same wonderful summer memories. Of course in this age of skin cancer, West Nile virus, Amber alerts, and global warming, I’m not sure that’s possible. He did sleep outside last night, but in a tent, and I spent the entire night wondering if I was a reckless parent for letting him be alone outside all night. Luckily Rexburg still holds a little bit of that same old-school summer magic, which I am hoping to tap into this season. Here’s to a carefree summer for all of us, stinky flip-flops and “nature mornings” included.


And:

The British Reality Invasion

I've noticed lately that we Americans don't have a leg to stand on when it comes to raising our children, running salons, owning successful restaurants, coming up with sophisticated advertisements, and choosing our own pop stars. That's why we rely on mean, outspoken, potty-mouthed, sharply dressed British people to come and whip us into shape. You know who I'm talking about: Gordon Ramsey, Super Nanny, Tabitha, of “Tabitha’s Salon Takeover” fame, those British-accented people who do all the voice-overs on ads for everything from mattresses to collections of encyclopedias, and of course the ubiquitous Simon Cowell, from American Idol.

Honestly, what has happened to us? After all our founding fathers sacrificed to get us some freedom from these people, we are just welcoming them with open arms to come into our homes and places of business and boss us around. There’s nothing more irritating than an ad on the radio with a fancy British person telling me that I should buy a product that I neither want, nor need, but that will presumably cure my subconscious desire to be British, because we Americans are all just a bunch of wanna-be’s, right? Come on!

And who are THEY? Just because they have accents does NOT make them any smarter than us. Oh they sound smart and sophisticated, but I challenge anyone to watch an episode of “Absolutely Fabulous” and come away with the same perception of the British people. They are regular just like us, despite the fact that they have a soft “r.”

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am a huge fan of England and the English, but didn't we establish some clear boundaries back in 1776? Wasn’t there some sort of document, declaring that we are not the same as them? That we choose to be different? But of course they can’t leave well enough alone, so they continue to insinuate their way onto our television shows to mock our love of a good mullet hair cut, an over-indulged child, and a bad eatery. I mean, really, so what if we Americans want to spank our children, refuse to listen to our clients' hair requests, serve leftovers at our restaurants, and sing in ugly falsetto voices? That's our right. We claimed it when we declared independence.

I suggest that we declare a new independence from the British. We could call it a Declaration of Blissful Incompetence. If I want to let my three-year-old hang onto her pacifier for the sake of my own sanity, I call that the right to pursue happiness. If the people at Super Cuts give their clients mullet hair cuts with religious zeal, I call that freedom of religion. Let's dump that English shampoo into the Boston harbor! Let's take those chore charts from Super Nanny and burn them! Let's tell Gordon Ramsey to take his fancy mushroom truffles and shove 'em someplace where the sun don't shine! Let’s boycott all ads for products bought in America but sold with nothing more than a British accent. And someone really needs to take kick Simon Cowell out of our country. Those snarky remarks just aren’t what they used to be. Let's tell them that they can't tread on the sacred right of Americans to ruin their kids' lives, cut ugly hair, sing poorly, and serve mediocre food. Because we're Americans, and that's what we like to do.

Mother's Day Article

A “Tribute” to my Mother

Mother’s Day is fast approaching, everyone, so you’d better start thinking about an appropriate gift. I was reminded of Mother’s Day when I was standing in line at Porters and saw someone gluing the letters that spell out “MOTHER” onto some painted blocks. I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure that blocks are the most appropriate gift for a mother, even if they do announce to the world what her role in life is. If we are going to be honest about the role of a mother, then perhaps a more fitting message on the blocks could be something like “Urine Cleaning Specialist.” I’d like to get that in vinyl cursive letters and put it on the wall over my bed, just in case I ever forget why I am around. But I digress.

Thinking about Mother’s Day gifts got me thinking about my own mother, who, for as long as I can remember, has loathed Mother’s Day. It’s not that she’s being humble, or shy about all the attention she gets on the day. My mother actually hates it because it makes her feel guilty. She goes to church and must sit patiently as people (who usually are not mothers themselves) go on and on about how fantastically amazing mothers are, and she feels like a big failure. I never understood how she could feel this way, until of course I became a mother myself.

I think the problem is that we honor a fictitious, Donna Reed-type mom on Mother’s Day (the kind who cleans her house in a skirt and high heels, who makes cookies for her children every day after school, and who has dinner—made from scratch--on the table by 5:00 p.m. every day no matter what). The Donna Reed mother never yells, never gets confused about how to raise her children, and never complains about the drudgery of her domesticity. This mother has an endless capacity for love and patience and is never caught in an act of self-indulgence. She sews and cooks perfectly. She irons. She scrubs the baseboards on a regular basis. She does windows! Worst of all, she would rather listen to soft classical music than rock and roll. Does such a mother exist?

We need to start looking at Mothers as the individuals that they are, rather than lumping them all into the same category of angelic perfectness. Who can live up to that? Is there really a mother out there who never raises her voice, never burns dinner, and never makes a terrible mistake? Mother’s Day rhetoric leads us to believe that these perfect mothers exist--indeed, they are everywhere!—and that we are the inadequate mothers who are missing something. We hear the talks in church on Mother’s Day and wonder if there is some secret we are missing out on, or if we are just more depraved than every other mother in the world. It’s a shame, a guilt-inducing shame.

I can’t say I would give up the Mother’s Day presents, but I sure wouldn’t mind giving up the Mother’s Day guilt (there I go, being selfish again!). So this year, instead of giving my mother some tacky reminder that she isn’t as awesome as the Mother’s Day rhetoric says she should be, I am going to write her an Anti-Mother’s Day Tribute right here in the Standard Journal. Thus, without further ado I give you
Ten Reasons Why I Love My Mother

10. She has a raging crush on Van Halen-era David Lee Roth (ripped spandex pants, long, shaggy hair, etc.).

9. She keeps a running list of all the Baldwin Brothers on the white board in her kitchen (“Eric, Alec, Billy,??”).

8. She watches reality TV only to be shocked by how disgusting it is (“I can’t believe that Flavor Flave!! He’s so barfy!”).

7. She can fall asleep at any time, in any place, and in any position.

6. Her idea of a good sled substitute is two layers of garbage bags.

5. She fostered our senses of humor by allowing us to stay up late and watch Saturday Night Live.

4. She concocts the most elaborate, bone-chilling, and exciting Halloween scavenger hunts on earth (just ask the hundreds of 12-18-year-olds who have been accosted by Freddy Kruger on Elm Street in Provo).

3. On an ordinary day, she may burst into the house singing “If you want my body, and you think I’m sexy, come on, baby, let me know!” (She went through a Rod Stewart phase, too).

2. She is never in too big of a hurry to stop for Milano double chocolate cookies.

1. She taught me the value of hard work, humility, kindness, peanut M&M’s, always doing the right thing, mashed potatoes and gravy, humor, and Elvis Presley.

This Mother’s Day I hope we all take a moment to think about our moms as real people, not just the angels we proclaim them to be. Do that, and then buy your mom a glorious five pound bag of peanut M&M’s. I think she will appreciate that.

Hiatus

I've been on a bit of a hiatus lately--not just from blogging, but from pretty much everything: cleaning, cooking, teaching... You see, I've been sick for a week and Ruby has also chosen to stop sleeping at night. Try getting up with a baby every two hours when you are supposed to be enjoying a Nyquil-induced coma. It's not easy. So that is one reason why I haven't blogged. I'm in total minimum maintenance mode. For some people min. maint. mode means only sweeping the floor, doing the dishes, and making the beds. For me it means: NOTHING. It occurred to me today that when Holden left for school I was lying in bed and when he came home from school I was also lying in bed. I mean, a few things happened in between, but do they really matter? What I did between 8:05 am and 2:35 pm really only involves Diet Coke and Dove Promises. That's. About. It.

Another reason why I haven't been blogging is that I'm a newspaper man now. Yes, I write for the Rexburg Standard Journal. I've had two opinion pieces published and let me tell you, even though they are getting more money from my subscription than they are paying me to write, it's a heady experience, my friends. Heady. It also has helped me discover that I can't blog and and write thought-provoking opinion pieces at the same time. I'm just not that much of a multi-tasker. Clearly I have some tough choices to make.

It's sort of like choosing between this:

And this:
Tune in to see what I will choose.

The Jews Hate Me (But I Love Them)

I've always considered myself a friend to Jewish people. Growing up I couldn't help but feel a strong connection to the Jews. I mean, who can read The Chosen and not come away loving Reuven and Danny? The Jews always seemed cool because they have so many different sects--Orthodox, Reform, I could go on--and they have all those customs and languages, and outfits, and beards and long curly things on the sides of their heads (well, some have those). They don't eat pork, and I have a real sympathy and admiration for anyone who can withstand the temptation of bacon. I mean who can just not eat bacon? Maybe it was reading all those books about them, or maybe it was the fact that all the seminary teachers at Provo High taught us that we Mormons aren't so different from Jewish people--except for the whole "Messiah" thing. I mean, Mormons and Jews are virtually the same! Heck, I know all the words to "Hava Nagila!" Michael Chabon is my favorite author! Fiddler on the Roof? FANTASTIC! My favorite Christmas album happens to be sung by Neil Diamond. I own the soundtrack to the Jazz Singer! I even wrote a sympathetic poem about the Jews and it won an award and everything! And, as Bono yelled on the stage at the last U2 concert I attended, we are all sons of Abraham. I believe this to be true.

So, you can imagine how excited I was when I found out that not only had my cousin converted from being a Mormon to being a Jew, but that she was also having a Bat Mitzvah! When I heard this, I immediately told my mother that we should do whatever it took to attend the Bat Mitzvah to show our support. Finally, I thought, I can meet some real Jews and become friends with them and show them that I like them a lot, and we can talk about Chaim Potok and Michael Chabon and Neil Diamond, and Golems, which rule.

Well, the moment arrived, and there I was at the Bat Mitzvah, which was impressive and interesting--just like I thought it would be. And then afterwards there was what we Mormons would call a "munch and mingle" with food and what not. While I have to say that some of the food was a little upsetting to me--anchovies, liver paste, etc.--most of the food there was really good and it's not like we don't have our own culturally specific and equally strange Mormon food--jello salads with shredded carrots, etc. So my cousin takes me over to meet some of the people from her synagogue--don't you just love the word "synagogue"?--and here's what happened:

I got all excited and was so happy that my moment had finally come, so I wholeheartedly shook these peoples' hands, telling them how much I enjoyed being included in the Bat Mitzvah, etc. I was so. . . respectful. Then they asked me where I was from.
"Utah," I said proudly.
"Oh, I'm so SORRY," was their response. Then they went on to explain what a backwards and terrible place Utah is , and how bone-headed and closed-minded we Mormons are. I think there may have even been a feigned Utah accent--I believe the word "fark" might have been tossed around a few times--and the mention of jello salad with carrots floating in it. Well you can imagine my bitter disappointment. I had just spent the last twenty years loving these people collectively only to discover that they did not love me back. I guess it's high time they had the chance to ostracize and marginalize somebody, only why did it have to be ME? I spent the rest of the afternoon huddled in a corner with my mom while people cast disapproving glances our way.

Sigh. I still love the Jews, but now I feel like I'm not good enough for them. Why can't they love me too? [Stay tuned for my next post: "African Americans Hate Me (But I Love Them)"]. . .

School Day Fantasies

The following are the most frequent fantasies I had in grades K-12.

10. While in line to go inside after recess, I suddenly faint. The person I have a crush on, throwing decorum to the wind, rushes to my side to be sure I am all right.

9. During a test I come down with accute appendicitis, and/or collapse with exhaustion, and am rushed to the hospital. The person I have a crush on, throwing decorum to the wind, rushes to my side and rides in the ambulance with me, alternately holding and kissing my lifeless hand.

8. I win "Student of the Year" at Grandview Elementary! (This never happened, to my bitter disappointment).

7. In order to shake things up a little, I decide to sing a solo for my 5th grade book report, to rave reviews. The person I have a crush on, in a very revealing moment, is the only person to give a standing ovation.

6. I receive a carnation on Valentines Day at Provo High--from a MALE, not from a well-meaning female friend.

5. My idea to do a Kangaroo Court for the teachers at Dixon Middle School is such a raging success that every person in the school wants to thank me personally.

4. I play the lead in the high school musical (sadly, I didn't even make it into the CHORUS of the musical I tried out for).

3. I rip the coveted Bausch and Lomb scholarship from the clutches of the Collings family, breaking their multi-generational monopoly on smartness.

2. A large bouquet of roses is delivered to me, red with embarrassment, in the middle of choir/English/biology class.

1. My foreign exchange student boyfriend--usually from Italy, yet who looks surprisingly like Rattle and Hum-era Bono--shocks the world by giving me a kiss while we are walking down Main Hall together, en route to get some seriously good fried chicken at Hardees (the fried chicken at Hardees is the only part of this fantasy that I actually experienced....and on a regular basis).

We Interrupt This Countdown to Bring You: THE FIRST TIME I HAVE EVER BEEN TAGGED!

I never get tagged, and it secretly hurts my feelings. Maybe I am too candid on my blog, so nobody really CARES to know anything more about me. But I FINALLY got tagged and I am so excited. I will try to provide new and exciting information.

10 YEARS AGO
I was almost finished with my second semester at BYU. I was being inspired by Louise Plummer in my introduction to the English major class. I was writing to, and spending a great deal of time and effort on a missionary whom I neither dated nor married after he returned from his mission (I want my hand-painted, Italian-made nativity back! You know who you are....) I was preparing to kick my Italian 101 class's butt and get the highest score in the class. I was also having elaborate daydreams about my Italian 101 teacher, and spending a great deal of class time wondering why he wore such strangely pleated pants (for the record: the daydreams were not romantic. He was married and his wife was in my intro to English major class. I was just fascinated by him, since he was the first Italian man I had ever seen up close.) I wore forest green nike sneakers, listened to a lot of Indigo Girls and Sarah M, and never imagined that in ten years I would be living in Taiwan, not married to my missionary, and pregnant with my third baby.


5 THINGS ON MY TO DO LIST
1. Go back to the Jade Market before we leave Taiwan
2. Find a house to buy in Rexburg
3. Figure out what to name our new baby
4. Take a shower
5. Pack up my apartment


5 SNACKS I ENJOY
1. Pretzel Pete's chocolate covered, peanut butter filled pretzel nuggets
2. Blueberry filled donuts
3. Craisins
4. Popcorn: movie theater
5. Quaker Oat Squares


5 FOODS I LOVE
1. Fried rice from Zhuwei
2. Roast beef and mashed potatoes
3. Pizza
4. Pot stickers, but only when Mike makes them
5. Chili's chicken crispers


WHAT I WOULD DO IF I WERE SUDDENLY A BILLIONAIRE
I think about this more often than I'd like to admit. First, I would give money to every member of my family, enough to pay off their houses at the very least. Then, I would set up a scholarship for English Masters students at BYU who are married to Chinese Masters students and who have two year old boys that they have to pass back and forth on BYU campus all day long. Then I would probably buy Mike a unimog or whatever kind of off road vehicle he is interested in at the time. Next, I would get myself a house that has TWO dishwashers.


5 PLACES I HAVE LIVED
Actually, we have lived in 6 places over the course of our 7 year marriage.
1. Tianjin, China
2. Provo, Utah
3. Rexburg, Idaho
4. Tucson, Arizona
5. Springville, Utah
6. Zhuwei, Taiwan


FAVORITE QUOTE
My favorite quote comes from Jeffrey R Holland, who, when talking about the sabbath day, said "lighten up." Boo-yah!

I tag Robyn, Smash, Frozen Cacti, the cast of the Provonian, Jenny, Tricia, Ginna, and everyone else who has ever felt the sting of never being tagged. You know who you are.

Who Likes to Rock the Party?

Well, I know you've all been wondering how my birthday went. Here's my answer: it rocked the house.

It began on Friday night with a trip to Ruby River, where I ordered a New York strip. I'm sorry, Neil. I know you would have seen me eat a rib eye or prime rib, but this was some good steak, and it was just what I wanted. Sadly, while I tried hard to avoid sour cream on my baked potato, I forgot to ask if they also put on cheddar cheese. After I scraped the cheese off, the potato was heaven--I've never seen bigger chunks of bacon on a potato!!!!! Hazel got into the swing of things and did some country line dancing on the bench, but only after getting really upset that she couldn't kiss the giant elk head hanging near our booth. Holden was too scared to order steak and went with his old standby, chicken tenders, but then tried my steak and declared it to be the "best steak in the universe" to the waitress, after which he fell backwards and bonked his head. It was a typical restaurant experience: I had to scrape off some cheese, Hazel squealed and danced, Holden flirted with the waitress, and then did something embarrassing, and Mike ate too much and complained about it.

When we got home from Ruby River, Mike surprised me with a backpacking trip up Spring Creek Canyon. YAY! He had my pack all ready! I changed my clothes and we marched out the front door, down the street, and into the canyon. We pitched our tent in the dark, took some tylenol pm shots, and slept soundly till the next morning, when we heard gun shots and saw two hunters. The fall leaves were pretty, and I was proud that I had done the whole carry-your-own-gear camping thing. It was not your run-of-the-mill trip to the Homestead, or night at a bed and breakfast. Good old Mike!

After we got home from our backpacking, the gifts began pouring in:

First of all, Mike got me this cool camera:

It's a Nikon Coolpix. Only the coolest pics on the coolest camera for the coolest 29-year-old.

Then, Kacy took me to lunch and bought me:

this awesome purse from Mode in Provo. Sam and Maggie both made me awesome cards, and Maggie made me two bracelets, a heart, and a rock. Notice that the roots of the tree on Sam's card spell my name.

Then I got some birthday money from Mike's parents and my dad, so I bought:

this freaking cute wool coat made by the same people who make military uniforms. The question remains: can I pull off a beret with this? Possibly in a foreign country.....

Marcy Dibbleblotts (aka Hoss) sent me this little beauty from Layers:

It's so pretty!!

My mom made a triple layer chocolate cake,

and gave me an awesome Halloween decoration:


Heidi gave me:

a meat thermometer/timer. Now I can grill with confidence!

And I received a series of excellent and hilarious cards, some of which contained swear words (!)

(swear word card not pictured)

I had a good time. And I really like to rock the party.

Pretending to Be Honest in My Dealings

So the other night Mike and I had temple recommend interviews with the stake president. I went in first, right as Mike got a phone call and went outside to talk. To my confusion, the stake president began talking to me as if he knew me.

"It's so nice to see you. And how are you liking Tucson?" he asked. Okay. He's just trying to be ultra-friendly because he just got called and he doesn't know who I am.

"We are liking it," I responded.

"Now, you were a Goodmunson, right?" Hmmmmmm

"Uhhhh, no. I was a Rasmussen," I answered, my confusion growing by the second.

"OH! So you are President Rasmussen's daughter!" A look of recognition came over his face.

"Well, no. I'm not."

"Oh, okay." (He looked very disappointed). "Well, so I never thought I would see Mike P____ again. If you'd have told me he would get a PhD I would not have believed you!"

This guy must know Mike, I thought. He got our last name right. Mike must not have told me he knows him?

"Oh, I know. It took some convincing, but now he's committed to it," I replied genially.

"What is he studying again?"

"Chinese." With this information, the stake president looked positively ASTONISHED.

"And...where did you move here from?"

"Provo. That's where Mike got his Masters. I went to school there, too." I kept on talking like this, telling him about my Masters, and my teaching, etc. All this time, in the back of my head I am thinking who is this man? But, rather than clarifying the situation, I merely assumed that I was the fool who had forgotten that he knows Mike.

So, he asked his temple recommend questions, including the "are you honest in your dealings with your fellow men" question, and then it was time to leave.

"I'll send Mike in," I said, rising. Then I looked out the door and he was missing.

"Oh, I saw him talking on the phone outside," said the stake president. Further proof that he must know Mike, I thought. And I am just the idiot who doesn't know what's going on. It's happened before.

So I left and found Mike.

"That guy is talking like he knows me," I said in a panicky voice, "so you just have to go along with it. That's what I did."

We parted company and I went into the cultural hall for a Relief Society dinner. As we were cleaning up, I found myself holding a folding table with none other than stake president!

"Oh, hello," I said nervously.

"Honest in your dealings, eh?" he asked, laughing.

Then I burst into a frenzied explanation: "I just assumed that you knew Mike and that I was the fool who didn't know what was going on. I just went along with it..."

This did little good. I am sure that the stake president, though he had never previously met me or my husband, will never forget us now.

24 hours till I am in Provo, by the way. And just three short days till Bono. What will I wear, you ask? I'd like to know that, myself. As none of my pants fit me properly, I am at a loss. Too bad I threw out my intensely hot (and I mean temperature-wise) pleather pants--had to retire them after a particularly raucous Indigo Girls/Bonnie Raitt concert.

This is how I look right now:

YIKES! Though I'd like to think that I don't usually have such a perplexing expression on my face. (It was a candid shot). I'd also like to think that the camera adds a couple...hundred pounds. And wearing those light colored clothes is just asking for trouble. But seriously, I am NOT ready to face Bono this Saturday night.

Expect a detailed report of the concert soon.

Until next time (i.e., the next time I humiliate myself)...

Eating a 1/2 Pound of Chocolate in One Day: A Good Idea for Weight Loss and Self Esteem?

As if the jerks at "What to Expect When You're Expecting" didn't make me feel bad enough when they wrote that "delivery won't make thighs and hips thickened by overindulgence during pregnancy magically disappear," I now find myself plunging into a spiral of shame and lies. And by "spiral of shame and lies" I mean "being too ashamed to tell the truth to the girl in the Old Navy dressing room, so lying that the jeans 'worked out great' when really I had to put them back and get a bigger size."
And then I eat a whole Hershey bar in one day--I HATE when that happens!

Then Holden makes me look like a bad mom when he refuses to pay his tithing to the bishop during tithing settlement. "In a year or two," the bishop told him, "you'll be mature enough to understand what it means to pay tithing." "In a year or two," thought Holden, "I'm moving to Australia." Then, turning to us, the bishop went on: "and in the meantime your parents will teach you about why it's important to pay tithing." Unfortunately, Holden was not the only one who was secretly saying "not bloody likely." (Hehehe, that Mike! He's so rebellious...). To add insult to injury, we were then informed that this kind of thing "has never happened" to our Bishop before. Surely he was joking? I have a hard time believing that there has never been a three year old who didn't want to pay his tithing. That one kid in the ward with the unibrow looks pretty stingy...

Though Holden did finally put his 55 cents into the envelope (after refusing to shake the bishop's hand, even for candy!), he wanted it back immediately when we got home. "I want to throw it away," he yelled. I guess he would rather have thrown it in the trash than contribute to the church. Youch. You have to admit it, though: that boy's got moxy. It makes me wonder. Will he be our token rebellious child, or will this be one of those hilarious personal stories told over the pulpit at General Conference?

Only time, and some well placed family home evenings, will tell.

And, as a final blow: bless his heart, Mike said the following things to me all on the same day (and it was Sunday, the day when I usually have a breakdown over nylons and skirts and hair):

"Then stop eating Kit Kats."
"Did you serve Top Ramen at the ward break the fast dinner?"
and my favorite,
"Yeah, a person really DOES have to be pretty to wear really short hair!"

Now, the correct statements were
"You don't need to lose weight, you look great!"
"I bet the ward loved your your delicious cooking at the break the fast dinner"
and
"But you ARE pretty enough to have really short hair!"

Ahhh, Mike.

It makes me wonder: is he really just so full of honesty and integrity that he cannot tell a lie, or was he just not paying attention when I baited him with these comments? Only time, and many more loaded questions, will tell.

T minus 7 days till we fly to Provo. Obviously we are all going a little crazy here in Arizona.

My First Halloween Away From Home

This is my very first Halloween away from Provo, UT. I think it's almost worse than missing Christmas. I don't know what I will do without Vincent the Living Skull.

We've had him since I was in seventh grade, see. He's been in every Halloween movie I've ever made. When you walk by him and the light changes, his eyes glow red and he laughs like Vincent Price (or Vincent VAN Price, if you are a 12-year-old Carly). We have some sort of a strange, mystical connection, Vincent and I.

And I will really miss my mom's witch costume with the built-in air pump.When she wears it she looks a little like Violet Beauregard as a giant blueberry on Willy Wonka. Oh, how I'll miss the gentle whirring sound that accompanies her as she makes us delicious Halloween food and frightens small children.

And the worst part is that I don't have a costume because I always rely on my mother's collection of hats and noses. I'm LOST! And furthermore, I do NOT appreciate the "whimsy" of jack-o-lantern cactus plants. It's 86 freakin' degrees here. Why even bother to leave the house at all?

I thought it would be fun to go as Brooke Shields (on account of my postpartum condition) and Mike could be Tom Cruise and I could be stabbing him with a phony knife or something. But it's not like we have a big party to go to. Maybe I'll just wear a brown paper bag over my head. Or, better yet, stay home and hand out toothbrushes and toothpaste to the weird kids in my neighborhood.

And could somebody send me a darn fall leaf? Just one!!??

How I Ended Up In China

A lot of people think that my journey to China began when I met Mike at our singles ward barbeque, was impressed with the way he dressed and the fact that he couldn't play volleyball either, and started flirting with him until the awkward moment when his girlfriend came and sat down by him--incidentally, he made her a hamburger shortly thereafter and she got food poisoning from it. A few months later, they broke up (more to do with the bad hamburger, probably, than the flirting. I was not the type to go after a taken man, and was myself in the throws of an email flirtation with another man), Mike and I started dating, and two minutes later we were married and on our way to China.

But that is just the short version of the story. In reality, my path to China started years earlier. I would say it was some sort of a divinely inspired path if the contents of aforementioned path were not so trivial and, at times, shallow and politically incorrect, but let's just get on with it, shall we?

It began sometime when I was between the ages of 12 and 13. Kacy and I used to sit up late on Saturday nights watching Saturday Night Live (it was the era of "Sprockets" and "Wayne's World" with Mike Meyers). Every so often an ad for a Chinese restaurant called "Fong Ling" came on. It showed two people sharing a romantic dinner while seated on fancy wicker furniture. Here's where some of the political incorrectness comes in: we thought the ad was a laugh riot, and would shout "Fong Ling: Have good time on wickah fuhneecha!"

These late night forrays into racial stereotypes inevitably led to my formation of the "Chinese Sisters" club with three of my other junior high friends. We each had a "Chinese" name and a "Chinese" job: mine were Ling Ling and a peacemaker. Robyn's were Kamasaki and a warrior. The other two are hard to remember, but I know one of them was a chef and the other was a shepherd.

Of course we met monthly to update each other on our various peacemaking/warmongering/cooking/shepherding missions. Most of these meetings are documented on film. At one point we dressed in Kimonos and ate at Formosa Gardens in Provo (we were not yet schooled in the differences--both subtle and extreme--between Chinese and Japanese). I am sure the people in Formosa Gardens were offended when we walked in looking like a group of underage Geisha Girls, giggling and trying to speak in Chinese accents.

Even after our club disbanded, China was somehow a part of my life.
Case in point: the hilarious and humiliating music video I made to David Bowie's "Little China Girl" (why, oh, why did I ever think it was a good idea to choose navy blue rubberbands for my braces???!!!!)

Not only that, but I was fascinated with Chairman Mao, after hearing the lyrics to the Beatle's "Revolution" about 100 times. "Who is this Chairman Mao?" I would ask myself. "He must not be very good if John Lennon is saying not to carry pictures of him around..." This fascination came shortly after a brief period of confusion over the term "euthanasia" and the scenes of the Tiananmen Square incident. "The youth in Asia are acting up, again!" I would exclaim while watching a news broadcast that moved quickly from a discussion of assisted suicide to a report on the student uprising in Beijing.

But the most telling and important point--a crossroads, if you will--came while I was writing a pro/con list about going on a mission. There, sandwiched between "companions with personality disorders" and "weight gain" on the con side was the phrase "Two words: Taiwan/Chinese." Of course that sealed my fate. When I wrote that down and then didn't go on a mission I was just asking to end up living in a skyscraper in Tianjin, staring out of my window at the smog and the masses of people on bikes, vomiting in a squatter...you get the picture.

When I met Mike and learned that he studied Chinese and had special feelings in his heart about Chinese people, my first thought was "I should have gone on a mission." But then my second thought was "I look SO good in a Kimono," so it all worked out. But seriously, I had a good time there. And Bono even endorsed my journey when he wrote "see the world in green and blue, see China right in front of you" in "Beautiful Day" which became my anthem as I prepared myself to move to that place in Asia with those crazy youths.
PS: once I can borrow Kacy's scanner, I will put a few pics of myself in China up just to be annoying and slide-showy. No Kimonos, though.

Carly Here....I've Got Nothing to Say

My latest baby girl name is Matilda. I know, I know...but remember the book "Matilda" by Roald Dahl? Although now that I have Mother-in-law approval, Sophia/e is now higher on my list. What to do what to do? I'll tell you what I have done: buy adorable baby girl clothes.

Other things I have done today include
1. shopping for maternity dresses online and ordering two dresses
2. going to the mall
3. eating at chick fil a
4. attending the semi-annual sale at Bath and Body Works
5. eating a slice of swedish apple pie left over from last night
6. building a fort in our living room with Holden
7. iming with Marcy Dibbleblotts

You may have already figured out from this list that Mike is out of town. Usually the first place I go when he leaves the city limits is Chick fil a. It's a good place to go to drown my sorrows in deep fried fat. Mike will be gone for a week doing work in Oregon--or, if you are a stalker/rapist: Mike will be home all week, but he will be in the adjoining weight room/target practice area, bulking up and working on his aim (not that he needs to, big hulking sportsman that he is).

If you feel sorry for me because I am alone, you should. And you should stop by or invite me out. Or offer to babysit for me.

So, here's another serious problem: I will be in Oregon on July 16th--the day Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince is released; the day I should be getting my pre-ordered-since-January copy in the mail in PROVO. What should I do? I could just buy a second copy in Oregon. Or I could have my mom fly out to visit me at the beach, book in tow. We could have fun while she visits, too--as long as I get to read my book.

If you have solutions to any of the above problems, please let me know.

Why I Would Rather Blog in Ohio Than in Hawaii

For me, blogging is the same as living. So what I am really getting at with this list is why--why, why?--I would much rather live in Ohio than in Hawaii. Many of you may be thinking that I must be crazy. Living in Hawaii is the typical dream come true, and if you've seen my white legs then you REALLY must be asking yourself why an albino such as myself wouldn't jump at the chance to live in a tropical, tan-all-year-round environment. I wonder this, too. But when I delve deep into my soul, in addition to finding a lot of congealed mascara, I find that I would much rather live in Ohio. The reason why I am in this Hawaii/Ohio debacle is that Mike applied for PhD programs in both places. He also applied to a school in Arizona, which I am just trying really hard not to think about at all (no offense to any Arizonans out there, it's just not my type of weather or landscape). So, here's my rationale for preferring Ohio to Hawaii:



1. I'd like to live in a place wherein my vote will actually matter.



2. In Ohio we could buy a house. In Hawaii we could buy a beach towel and maybe a folding chair--if we saved up, that is.



3. In Ohio I could pursue my dreams of becoming an eccentric antique store owner, and of restoring an old house built in 1910.



4. I really can't deal with the pressure to say "Aloha." I mean, when people say it here in Provo, like in Sacrament Meeting or Sunday school, I have to turn the other way. I just can't say it back. As far as I know, people just say "hello" in Ohio. Maybe if they are British they say "wotcher."



5. Ohio would put me in slightly closer proximity to Five Guys in VA. Hawaii would be a depressingly long distance away.



6. I could maintain and continue to build my enormous sweater collection if I lived in Ohio.



7. My legs are fat and white, and if I live in a cold climate, they will never have to see the light of day. In Hawaii, at some point, there will be that "first day out" humiliation, in which my fat, white legs will be on trial until they can become thin and tan. Self tanner--I know, I KNOW!



8. I have been watching a lot of that bounty hunter show--you know, the guy named "Dog"? I dunno, it just seems like he's always in Hawaii....



9. I've always had a thing for Christopher Columbus, and we'd be living in Columbus.



10. I don't really want any visitors while I am away, unless those visitors are Kacy, Erin, Heidi, my mom, and Marcy. In Hawaii, there's a chance that my second cousins once removed might suddenly turn up. Where will we fit them in our grass hut on the beach?? (Cousin Neil, you are a distant cousin that would be welcome any time).



So, now it makes sense to everybody, right? Hawaii=bad; Ohio=good. Arizona=don't want to think about it.

Things That Will Haunt Me Forever

I carry things around for a long time. I mean, a really, really, really, really long time. I never let go of grudges, little mishaps, stupid things I said to high school teachers. Embarrassing, confessional emails. You get the picture. Here are a few things that I will carry till the day I die (and then some, probably).



1. When I turned 11 I had a birthday party at the mall. My mom gave each girl $1 to spend on a scavenger hunt. Then we had lunch. She wanted to take us to a cheap place and get us all hot dogs. I insisted that we go to Chick-Fil-A instead and order $4 meals. I whined and embarrassed her in front of all my friends, then we went to Chick-Fil-A and I made a big deal about how juicy their chicken is. I'm sure it was very expensive. Recently I asked for my mom's forgiveness, and she said "what party?"



2. Just after my sister got her driver's license she was in a car wreck. She called our house and I answered the phone. She cried hysterically into the phone, "I got in a wreck! I got in a wreck" I thought she was joking and said "yeah, right, Kacy."



3. When Mike and I were just married, we lived in China and had this tiny little white fluffy dog named Pengyou. While I was out one day, Mike got in the shower. I came home and heard him in there. He said "hello?" but I didn't answer. Instead, I picked up Pengyou, crept into the bathroom, and threw her in the shower really suddenly. Mike screamed like a woman. I thought it was hilarious, but he still talks about how awful it was.



4. I broke up with a boy I was dating via email. He was affectionately known as "Opie," and bore a striking resemblance to Ron Howard. Alas, the initial excitement about dating a Richie Cunningham look-alike waned and, according to the email, "it just wasn't working."



5. I used to spit on the door of a teacher I despised in sixth grade. Why did I despise him? He said I looked like Carly Simon once.



6. One time in high school I went to Camp Williams (military camp) for Provo City Youth Government. We did all the training/obstacle course stuff. When we did the simulated parachute thing I was too afraid to jump. The instructor was like "jump!" but I kept saying "no, push me!" Then finally he did push me. As if that weren't bad enough, to my dismay, the boy I had yelled at earlier that day and called "tons of fun" in a sarcastic David-Spade-to-Chris-Farley sort of way, was waiting at the end of the zip-line to help me down. (On that same trip, I hugged a military officer on the top of the repelling tower because I was afraid. Then I yelled "Hellooooo, UTAH!" as I sped down the wall. Basically, if I could wipe my Camp Williams experiences out of my mind completely, I would be able to sleep at night.)



7. Very bad bathroom experience at aforementioned military camp that good taste and mixed company won't allow me to elaborate on. But Kacy knows. Oh yes, Kacy knows...



8. When we lived in China we visited the country and stayed with Mike's Chinese friend, who we called Sean. Everybody was playing Mah Jong. I didn't know how to play Mah Jong. When Mike's friend put together a "want to learn how to play" sentence in English (which must have been a difficult task, much like it would have been for me to say ANYTHING in Chinese) I answered "no, thank you."



9. Another China-guilt story: we visited Beijing, which was exciting for me because they have a Baskin Robbins there. Mike had just gotten off his all night shift and was barely functioning. Still, I insisted that we walk the 25 blocks to Baskin Robbins so I could get a Banana Royale.



10. Once I tried to sluff a class at Provo High. My friend and I got caught at the tennis courts. We were heading over to McDonalds for some apple pies and egg mcmuffins. When we were found, the hall monitor asked us where we were going and my friend, thinking very quickly, said "over there," and pointed his finger in a nebulous direction. We didn't get in trouble, but had to go back to our classrooms. I have always wished that we could have made it.

Fire On Ice

During the highly awkward era between 8th grade and my sophomore year in high school, I had the unfortunate experience of taking ice skating lessons from a woman named Lorissa who lived in a trailor park, loved Sammy-Hagar-tainted-Van Halen, and often tried to do double axels while she was nine months pregnant. Even more unfortunate was the name of our little "ice skating club" that Lorissa tried to establish: "Fire On Ice." I hated this name, along with the accompanying black spandex pants, blue-or-white sequined belt, and big, baggy black t-shirt uniform that set us apart from the rest of the ice skating clubs--oh, wait, there weren't any in Provo; there weren't any in Utah County, for that matter. We were a step away from those high school pep squads and drill teams, from the masses of spandex-clad youngsters who perform at the Stadium of Fire, only our biggest gig was half time at the Weber State Hockey game.



"If you hated it so much," you ask, "why did you stay in it for all those years?" Like an unhealthy relationship with a human being, or with junk food, ice skating lessons were chock-full of a sado-masochistic pleasure. For example, Lorissa would sadistically force me to do yet another sit spin, while I groaned within myself, and masochistically did as I was told. She had a sven-gali (or is it jolly?) type hold over me, hypnotizing me to do things I would normally despise or at least laugh at in real life. I've already mentioned the black spandex uniform, but there's more. I wore little ice skating dresses with bright, tropical flowers on them OUT IN PUBLIC. She had me waking up at 4:00 am just to drive all the way up to stinkin' Cottonwood Heights and do "patch," a mind-numbing activity in which you use a huge compass type thing to draw a circle on the ice, then spend the next hour skating over it on one leg. I PERFORMED IN FRONT OF PEOPLE because of this woman.



The funniest thing is that this woman's hold on me was completely irrational. It's not like I wanted to be just like her some day. If anything, I ran from her lifestyle and her values. I mean, Sammy Hagar? Making us do a skating finale to "Right Now"? Stone washed jeans and ripped white t-shirts? She represented everything I was against in life. I dreaded our lessons like some people dread dying. Yet, I kept coming back for more. I tired to break free, but she kept sucking me back in with her little references to the Olympics in 2004, my athletic ability, my Nancy Kerrigan-esque grace. All of this was a lie, of course.



I think the moment that changed all of this for me was the half time performance at the Weber State hockey game. Students in the arena that night probably still talk about "that group of girls in spandex who looked like a bunch of bobbleheads out on the ice." I'm sure we are legendary up there, though I have never dared to show my face at Weber State since the dreaded "Fire On Ice Incident."



The ice was particularly slippery that night--or so we like to tell ourselves, to rationalize our humiliating performance. Our song was "Right Now." Our uniforms were the traditional black spandex. Everything was going according to plan: we were lined up according to height, waiting just off the ice for the music to start. My heart was pounding, and I may have leaned over to my friend, Amy, and said something unprintable; I can't really recall when the swearing took place.



Suddenly, it began: the crashing symbols, the intense, purposeful guitar, Sammy Hagar's oh-so-inadequate-compared-to-David-Lee-Roth's voice. As we skated onto the ice, one by one, I could just picture the caption "right now you are on the verge of humiliating yourself in front of an arena of twenty-somethings" hanging over my head, just like in the music video: Right now someone is stealing. Right now 70% of Americans are suffering from AIDS. I came out of my daze just in time to think "right now, two people are crashing into each other on the ice." And it was horribly true: tall skinny girl had crashed head-on into short stocky girl during the tricky direction-switch of the pinwheel. Chaos ensued. Instead of executing our jumps and spins, we executed each other on the ice: girls were dropping all over the place as we tumbled into each other in a disoriented stupor.



The crowd was loving this. They were cheering, laughing, pointing, taking every ounce of pleasure from watching us fail, and slide helplessly across the wet ice. Looking out into the crowd, I only remember seeing a sea of rugby shirts and plaid flannel, and a few demonic faces twisted in sardonic pleasure. Mercifully, the music stopped, and we skidded into a frenzied version of our pose: girls' arms sticking out every which way, some facing backwards, some flat on their backsides. The only sound was the last little scrape of an ice skate as Amy, pathologically late, got into her place in the middle. Then the crowd errupted. They clapped; they roared; they stood up for us; they stamped their feet. We stumbled to our feet, bowed sheepishly, and made our way off the ice.



Yes, it is accurate to say that this particular event broke Lorissa's strange, hypnotic hold on me. Amid the cursing and shouting, I recall telling Amy "I WILL NEVER DO THIS AGAIN. I WILL NEVER DO THIS AGAIN." And I meant it. My interest waned after Weber State; Lorissa moved away, and I haven't seen my ice skates in probably 8 years. But I still say things that are unprintable when I think about that awful night.