Here are just a few of the many things that make me feel ill at ease. Please feel free to share some of your own, unless you're not comfortable with that.
10. Looking at myself in the mirror while getting a hair cut.
9. Spontaneous water fights with the young men and young women. If I look like I’m having fun, Super! My excruciating effort to act peppy has paid off.
8. Blog contention (That's web log contention, for those who might be uncomfortable with the word "blog.")
7. Tom Hanks faking an accent. This bothers me. A lot.
6. When Brad Carter, who Heidi and I were on a road trip with, needed to stop to use the restroom. He specifically said, “I really need to go. You know, I need to sit down.” His desire to communicate the type and style of his bathroom- going did more than just make me feel uncomfortable, it really disturbed me.
5. When my bishop calls me “President,” even though I insist on it.
4. Singing and dancing with my kids in Kindermusik—“Let’s swish hello to Kacy, Kacy, Kacy. ..” Uh, that’s not necessary. No really.
3. Sleeping without memory foam.
2. Most solos, of any kind, and some duets when extreme or innovative harmony is involved.
1. Bumpy gourds.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
I Took My Daughter's Memory Foam--Was that Wrong?
I went to Costco to get some new mattresses for my kids. This was just one in a series of my hair-brained ideas (hypo-allergenic pillows, 100% cotton pajamas, their own rooms, more exercise, less TV, vitamins, room-darkening blinds, etc.) designed to make my kids sleep better/faster/longer and thus improving my own quality of life. At Costco I saw “Memory Foam” and realized that, while no less expensive, it was much more portable than mattresses would be so I bought 2 twin-sized Memory Foam pads. My son (who is as enchanted with sleep-enhancing products as I am) was excited, appreciative, and even told about the Memory Foam for show-and-tell. But Maggie, as is her custom, couldn’t care less. She didn’t sleep better and wasn’t attached to it so one day I took the pad off of her bed and put it on my own. It was after she had spent the night throwing up and I thought if she’s just going to vomit on it why don’t I take it until we’re sure she’s over her illness--Memory Foam is not washable you know.
The Memory Foam—love it! It is such a pleasure to sleep on. But it is generously twin-sized so it takes more than half the bed. And it creates a 2 inch high platform on my bed leaving a strip of about 1/3 of the bed for Christian to sleep on--with me next to him, raised above him in luxury on the Memory Foam. He started to make comments about it after a couple of days but I just love the foam so much.
When we watched General Conference President Hinckley said we should do whatever is necessary to make our spouse comfortable. This made me feel guilty about the Memory Foam. In a benevolent gesture, I turned the foam sideways so that it was across the bed. Neither one of us would have the whole pad, but we could each have some of it. I think this really meant a lot to Christian until his back started to hurt. Memory foam is very good, but if your head and shoulders are on it and the rest of you is not, it causes problems. I left it there though—until he insisted I turn it back around and put it on my side again. I wonder: Does that make me bad person?
The Memory Foam—love it! It is such a pleasure to sleep on. But it is generously twin-sized so it takes more than half the bed. And it creates a 2 inch high platform on my bed leaving a strip of about 1/3 of the bed for Christian to sleep on--with me next to him, raised above him in luxury on the Memory Foam. He started to make comments about it after a couple of days but I just love the foam so much.
When we watched General Conference President Hinckley said we should do whatever is necessary to make our spouse comfortable. This made me feel guilty about the Memory Foam. In a benevolent gesture, I turned the foam sideways so that it was across the bed. Neither one of us would have the whole pad, but we could each have some of it. I think this really meant a lot to Christian until his back started to hurt. Memory foam is very good, but if your head and shoulders are on it and the rest of you is not, it causes problems. I left it there though—until he insisted I turn it back around and put it on my side again. I wonder: Does that make me bad person?
Saturday, October 16, 2004
The Village (Gardner Village, That Is)
Note: This post is not about M. Night Shyamalan's newest movie even though I have seen it and I did like it. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I like the Joaquin Phoenix--I like eet veddy mooch (if you missed my post on Robbie's costume which I deleted so it would remain a surprise to my sisters who are the readers of this blog--that's just my spanish accent. I use it a lot.)
On Friday I went with my mother-in-law to Gardner Village which is a little village of shops where rich stay-at-home moms go to wile away the day. On the way there she told me a remarkable story. She said she ran into one of her wretched “friends” who had the audacity to tell her, “I love your new haircut. It takes 10 years off of you. I couldn’t believe you used to go around with that horrid hair before.” Always a lady, my mother-in-law politely thanked her. Can you believe that? Her hair is cute now, and very up to date and stylish but it was by no means “horrid” before or even “awful” or “not so good.” I would have described it as “perfectly fine” which is more than I can say for the wretched friend’s hair.
We had a good time at the Village. I ate an enormous 3 dollar peanut butter cup. (That’s what’s nice about my mother-in-law: she doesn’t judge me.) I bought an antique wine stave coat rack. I don’t drink wine myself but I have no problem with a coat rack made out of a wine stave. In fact, I think it will make my house seem more like a home. There were a few stores with “No Strollers” signs which, I must say, is a little hard to take. It's like, “You sell distressed wooden blocks with the word ‘Believe’ stenciled on them. Do you think people WITHOUT strollers would even want to come in here?” But whatever.
There was just one little wrinkle in my otherwise delightful day at Gardner village. I was paying for my food at the “Naborhood Bakery” and I couldn’t help but notice a huge iodine-stained area with a cotton ball taped to it on the arm of the FOOD-SERVICE WORKER helping me. Of course I asked, “Did you give blood today?” His reply: “Yes I did. They said I had to leave this on for another hour.” Hello? You don’t really have to leave those on that long—especially if you work at the Naborhood Bakery where people who are about to eat will see it. I really felt he’d been suckered by the nurse who took his blood. I said, “Um, kind of unappealing.” I scrunched my nose up in what I thought was a really cute rabbit-like face and I said it with a smile but he didn't seem to find it endearing. He said, “I know.” As in, I know this probably disgusts you and everyone in this restaurant but are you actually suggesting I put my health at risk and remove it? So it’s pretty likely he spit in my sandwich. More likely? He dabbed it with his bloody cotton ball. It still tasted good though because it had been like 40 minutes since I’d eaten the 3 dollar peanut butter cup.
On Friday I went with my mother-in-law to Gardner Village which is a little village of shops where rich stay-at-home moms go to wile away the day. On the way there she told me a remarkable story. She said she ran into one of her wretched “friends” who had the audacity to tell her, “I love your new haircut. It takes 10 years off of you. I couldn’t believe you used to go around with that horrid hair before.” Always a lady, my mother-in-law politely thanked her. Can you believe that? Her hair is cute now, and very up to date and stylish but it was by no means “horrid” before or even “awful” or “not so good.” I would have described it as “perfectly fine” which is more than I can say for the wretched friend’s hair.
We had a good time at the Village. I ate an enormous 3 dollar peanut butter cup. (That’s what’s nice about my mother-in-law: she doesn’t judge me.) I bought an antique wine stave coat rack. I don’t drink wine myself but I have no problem with a coat rack made out of a wine stave. In fact, I think it will make my house seem more like a home. There were a few stores with “No Strollers” signs which, I must say, is a little hard to take. It's like, “You sell distressed wooden blocks with the word ‘Believe’ stenciled on them. Do you think people WITHOUT strollers would even want to come in here?” But whatever.
There was just one little wrinkle in my otherwise delightful day at Gardner village. I was paying for my food at the “Naborhood Bakery” and I couldn’t help but notice a huge iodine-stained area with a cotton ball taped to it on the arm of the FOOD-SERVICE WORKER helping me. Of course I asked, “Did you give blood today?” His reply: “Yes I did. They said I had to leave this on for another hour.” Hello? You don’t really have to leave those on that long—especially if you work at the Naborhood Bakery where people who are about to eat will see it. I really felt he’d been suckered by the nurse who took his blood. I said, “Um, kind of unappealing.” I scrunched my nose up in what I thought was a really cute rabbit-like face and I said it with a smile but he didn't seem to find it endearing. He said, “I know.” As in, I know this probably disgusts you and everyone in this restaurant but are you actually suggesting I put my health at risk and remove it? So it’s pretty likely he spit in my sandwich. More likely? He dabbed it with his bloody cotton ball. It still tasted good though because it had been like 40 minutes since I’d eaten the 3 dollar peanut butter cup.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Gratitude Journal: My Knitting Teacher and The Muscles in My Face
I am taking an adult education class called “Knitting” which was advertised for students from beginning to advanced. As it turns out, I am the only true beginner in the class. This is fine because my knitting teacher is very dear. I am required to go into Heindselmans, where she works, for extra help. It’s not like this class is for credit, but I do what she says. She has decided (and she’s right) that I’m not ready to knit socks so now I’m working on a scarf instead. I had doubts about the socks myself. I mean, it takes 4 needles to do a sock.[Note: one of the 10-year-old twins in my class finished her sock during our last class. Isn’t that GREAT! I’m just saying: she is home-schooled and probably doesn’t blog so what else is she going to do but knit all day?] I’m pretty much a disaster at knitting, but my teacher keeps trying to show me new ways to do it. “Does that seem more reasonable to you?” Or as she looks over my “work” she will raise her eyebrows and say, “Well, isn’t that fancy!” as she unravels it.
I’m grateful for her, of course, but here’s why I’m so grateful for my face muscles, which—for once—came through for me. Towards the end of class my knitting teacher--we’ll call her “Iris” because she seems more like an Iris than like her real name--Iris starts talking about her ward and how she’s working on this “revue” where they sing an old song from the 20’s and do a little routine—blah blah. She wondered aloud about whether she should actually perform the routine or just teach it to the younger people in her ward. Then they talked about the olden days and I think flappers were mentioned but I wasn’t really paying too much attention because I’m not terribly interested in road shows or other people's recollections about the past. But THEN Iris says, “Good. So everyone is done. I can do my song.” This caught my attention. I thought I had misheard but she stood up and started clearing chairs away. Several thoughts went through my mind. The prevailing one--Do not look horrified. Christian tells me I don’t hide my reactions very well and I was instantly mindful of this as Iris got ready to do her thang.
She had commented on the fact that we were all “done” so that meant I couldn’t just look down at my knitting, which was too bad because that was my first inclination. She really expected us to watch. And there are only 5 of us in the class—me, the twins, a really good knitter my age, and a mediocre knitter who didn’t want to take off her shoes to measure her feet for her sock (at Iris’s urging) because I think she thought they would stink—so it would be totally noticeable if I were staring down at my “knitting” which after 3 2-hour classes is still nothing more than about 1 inch of a tangled sampler of nothing that everyone else completed in the first minute of class #1 to “figure out their gauge.” So I know that my eyes widened very, very big. I felt that happening and couldn’t stop it. But I did stop them from darting side to side and all around the room desperately looking for something else to rest upon besides the old lady singing and dancing not 3 feet away from me.
It felt very much like a time at youth conference last summer when I sat down at a picnic table and got ready to hear a speaker. We were outside and the speaker was just walking all around the kids while she gave her talk. Unbeknownst to me, the highlight of her presentation was to have the whole group sing Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow” all together, accompanied by a guitar. The guitarist sat by me. Suddenly I was at the front of this spectacle. Everyone had been provided a copy of the words so I couldn’t act like I didn’t know the song. I actually had to hold the words for the guitarist, face the crowd, and muster up the enthusiasm to slap a smile on my face and sing that song along with the guitarist who, I might add, was “into it.” (You see? I’d do anything for those little monsters.) I was grateful for the muscles in my face then too. Anyway, except for my big horrified eyes I didn’t make any kind of face at all. After a while I tuned into Iris’s non-verbal cues of when we were supposed to laugh. I was even able to smile, ever so slightly, at the “funny” parts.
I am grateful for the muscles in my face because they enabled me to get through the performance—which was quite good--and to tell Iris in no uncertain terms that she simply must perform in the revue, which is, of course, what she wanted to hear. But no one else would say it! (The twins were totally telling her not to do it.) After seeing her performance it’s clear that Iris should be in the revue. She has to be there for the audience to “get” that it’s an old-fashioned thing. If it were just a bunch of young girls doing it the tone wouldn’t be right and it would seem like some Christina Aguilera impersonation gone awry. Thank you face muscles.
I’m grateful for her, of course, but here’s why I’m so grateful for my face muscles, which—for once—came through for me. Towards the end of class my knitting teacher--we’ll call her “Iris” because she seems more like an Iris than like her real name--Iris starts talking about her ward and how she’s working on this “revue” where they sing an old song from the 20’s and do a little routine—blah blah. She wondered aloud about whether she should actually perform the routine or just teach it to the younger people in her ward. Then they talked about the olden days and I think flappers were mentioned but I wasn’t really paying too much attention because I’m not terribly interested in road shows or other people's recollections about the past. But THEN Iris says, “Good. So everyone is done. I can do my song.” This caught my attention. I thought I had misheard but she stood up and started clearing chairs away. Several thoughts went through my mind. The prevailing one--Do not look horrified. Christian tells me I don’t hide my reactions very well and I was instantly mindful of this as Iris got ready to do her thang.
She had commented on the fact that we were all “done” so that meant I couldn’t just look down at my knitting, which was too bad because that was my first inclination. She really expected us to watch. And there are only 5 of us in the class—me, the twins, a really good knitter my age, and a mediocre knitter who didn’t want to take off her shoes to measure her feet for her sock (at Iris’s urging) because I think she thought they would stink—so it would be totally noticeable if I were staring down at my “knitting” which after 3 2-hour classes is still nothing more than about 1 inch of a tangled sampler of nothing that everyone else completed in the first minute of class #1 to “figure out their gauge.” So I know that my eyes widened very, very big. I felt that happening and couldn’t stop it. But I did stop them from darting side to side and all around the room desperately looking for something else to rest upon besides the old lady singing and dancing not 3 feet away from me.
It felt very much like a time at youth conference last summer when I sat down at a picnic table and got ready to hear a speaker. We were outside and the speaker was just walking all around the kids while she gave her talk. Unbeknownst to me, the highlight of her presentation was to have the whole group sing Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow” all together, accompanied by a guitar. The guitarist sat by me. Suddenly I was at the front of this spectacle. Everyone had been provided a copy of the words so I couldn’t act like I didn’t know the song. I actually had to hold the words for the guitarist, face the crowd, and muster up the enthusiasm to slap a smile on my face and sing that song along with the guitarist who, I might add, was “into it.” (You see? I’d do anything for those little monsters.) I was grateful for the muscles in my face then too. Anyway, except for my big horrified eyes I didn’t make any kind of face at all. After a while I tuned into Iris’s non-verbal cues of when we were supposed to laugh. I was even able to smile, ever so slightly, at the “funny” parts.
I am grateful for the muscles in my face because they enabled me to get through the performance—which was quite good--and to tell Iris in no uncertain terms that she simply must perform in the revue, which is, of course, what she wanted to hear. But no one else would say it! (The twins were totally telling her not to do it.) After seeing her performance it’s clear that Iris should be in the revue. She has to be there for the audience to “get” that it’s an old-fashioned thing. If it were just a bunch of young girls doing it the tone wouldn’t be right and it would seem like some Christina Aguilera impersonation gone awry. Thank you face muscles.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Ramble On: Let's Talk about Led Zeppelin
So I was getting the led out the other day and I says to myself, I says, "I like Led Zeppelin as much as REM and even more than I like the Doors, so why not blog about it?” I don’t claim to be an expert on Led Zeppelin; I’m just a fan. If you are like me you just like talking about them, referring to their songs, and watching things about them on VH1. So let’s do that. First, let me just set a couple of ground rules for this discussion.
1. Regarding John Bonham: Bonzo’s great and it’s sad that he died, but let’s not dwell on him too much.
2. John Paul Who? That’s right. We need to keep our discussion focused tightly on what’s really interesting and that is Jimmy Page, ROBERT PLANT, and Led Zeppelin as a whole.
3. I consider my blog rated PG so if you’ve read Hammer of the Gods and want to share some stories about the boys, please—for my sake, simmer down now. Let’s keep it clean. And light—like how they sold their souls to the devil in order to become wicked famous but which, sadly, brought a curse upon them all. You know, stuff like that.
Having said that, let’s proceed. If you are about my age your first time seeing Robert Plant was probably during the “Tall Cool One” era which, of course, made you say, “I’d like to see some more.” So when you rented The Song Remains the Same to see him in his full Led Zeppelin glory you might have been a little startled to see him prance on stage in a light blue, cap-sleeved shirt that Penelope Cruz would seriously wear today. (See photo link). I was lucky. My sister was there for me at this time. She gave me a reassuring look as if to say, “just go with it.” And so I did. I’m sure a lot of people will want to comment about the first time they saw Jimmy Page play the guitar with a bow so I won’t say anything about how AWESOME it is. People who are my age also feel a very strong link to Robert Plant because we are the same age as his son, Karac, who died. And Robert Plant feels a strong link to us too—I’m sure of it. I think that’s why it meant so much to him when I threw my bra on stage at one of his concerts.
Another thing about Robert Plant is that he loves Utah. More specifically, he loves Sundance. I got a job there hoping I would meet him. I never did. But I did see a lot of pictures of him riding on snow mobiles with the waiters I worked with. That’s how I know it’s true.
As far as favorite albums and songs, just off the top of my head I think Physical Graffiti is great. Out of I, II, III, and IV I would say I’m a III person (this is like saying whether I like John or Paul better—it’s very hard to commit. But I will, for the sake of this discussion.) But my all-time favorite album is (and I’m putting this out there without even googling anything for reviews or input) In Through the Out Door because I’m a sucker for songs that tell a story and “Fool in the Rain” is a very cute story. I also like it for a little gem called “Hot Dog.” And since I am basically Karac’s stand in now I consider “All of My Love” to be written just for me.
I hope this gets the ball rolling.
1. Regarding John Bonham: Bonzo’s great and it’s sad that he died, but let’s not dwell on him too much.
2. John Paul Who? That’s right. We need to keep our discussion focused tightly on what’s really interesting and that is Jimmy Page, ROBERT PLANT, and Led Zeppelin as a whole.
3. I consider my blog rated PG so if you’ve read Hammer of the Gods and want to share some stories about the boys, please—for my sake, simmer down now. Let’s keep it clean. And light—like how they sold their souls to the devil in order to become wicked famous but which, sadly, brought a curse upon them all. You know, stuff like that.
Having said that, let’s proceed. If you are about my age your first time seeing Robert Plant was probably during the “Tall Cool One” era which, of course, made you say, “I’d like to see some more.” So when you rented The Song Remains the Same to see him in his full Led Zeppelin glory you might have been a little startled to see him prance on stage in a light blue, cap-sleeved shirt that Penelope Cruz would seriously wear today. (See photo link). I was lucky. My sister was there for me at this time. She gave me a reassuring look as if to say, “just go with it.” And so I did. I’m sure a lot of people will want to comment about the first time they saw Jimmy Page play the guitar with a bow so I won’t say anything about how AWESOME it is. People who are my age also feel a very strong link to Robert Plant because we are the same age as his son, Karac, who died. And Robert Plant feels a strong link to us too—I’m sure of it. I think that’s why it meant so much to him when I threw my bra on stage at one of his concerts.
Another thing about Robert Plant is that he loves Utah. More specifically, he loves Sundance. I got a job there hoping I would meet him. I never did. But I did see a lot of pictures of him riding on snow mobiles with the waiters I worked with. That’s how I know it’s true.
As far as favorite albums and songs, just off the top of my head I think Physical Graffiti is great. Out of I, II, III, and IV I would say I’m a III person (this is like saying whether I like John or Paul better—it’s very hard to commit. But I will, for the sake of this discussion.) But my all-time favorite album is (and I’m putting this out there without even googling anything for reviews or input) In Through the Out Door because I’m a sucker for songs that tell a story and “Fool in the Rain” is a very cute story. I also like it for a little gem called “Hot Dog.” And since I am basically Karac’s stand in now I consider “All of My Love” to be written just for me.
I hope this gets the ball rolling.
Monday, October 11, 2004
Gratitude Journal: Take My Ferrets--Please!
My neighbor said to me, “These ferrets make our house stink. Would you like to have them?” I think he thought he was making me an offer I couldn’t refuse. But I did. I’m not an anti-pet person. You know, those people who also make you take your shoes off when you come in. But, truth be told, I have still not gotten over the ghastly loss of my dog, Lou, which happened about 3 years ago and I’m not ready for another pet. In fact, when I think about Lou’s death, I could cry. I can keep myself from crying but if I let myself, I would cry. Like if I were an actor (which I’m not--but my Bishop did ask me to be in a training video about ward councils. Probably because of my realistic portrayal of a competent member of his real ward council—Acting!) If I were an actor, Lou’s death would be the “place I go” when I need to act sad. Anyway, I don’t need the heartache and neither do my kids. It's bad enough that Lou died the first day of “Pet’s Week!” at Sam’s pre-school. It’s bad enough that Rosie, the token death-replacement-fish from great grandma, died not once, not twice, but thrice. (Yuck. Fish are so weird.) I did break down and get a cat from the animal shelter—Ozzy--to get rid of mice in our yard. I started to think perhaps I could love again. Though I am not a cat-person by nature, Ozzy won me over. Low-maintenance. Endearing. Mouse-killa. Then I saw him in action. And it’s disturbing. He stalks, torments, and murders mice. I respect him for it and, indeed, I hired him for the job but I can’t hold him in my lap and pet him until he purrs anymore. It’s just not the same. I can’t even look him in the eye. It’s like he’s Michael Corleone and I’m Diane Keaton and he’s the Godfather now. I want him to shut the door in my face like Michael does to Kay because I don’t want to see what he does, but I do want him keep killing those mice. So, I care about Ozzy. I wish him well. But I won’t be making him a Christmas stocking like I did for Lou. We don’t have that kind of relationship.
So I told my neighbor “no thanks” and he immediately appealed to my 4- year-old daughter. “Maggie, wouldn’t you like the ferrets to come and live at your house?” Many people might think that this is cruel or pushy but it is a smart strategy. Fortunately Maggie isn’t the easy sell she appears to be. She was all, “Let’s get out of here. It reeks like ferret.”
My poor neighbor. You see, he loves those ferrets. He would like to “pour honey on his chest and let the ferrets lick it off.” (He said that knowing, nay, hoping I would blog it so I feel justified including the rather personal detail here.) But he will be out of town for 4 months so he has to get rid of them. I guess giving them to us is a way that he can really keep them, because we live close by. But it ain’t gonna happen. In my own moment of weakness I appealed to Christian, “Sam would like having those ferrets.” “I don’t care!” he screamed. “We are not becoming a rodent family!” Sometimes in this crazy world we lose sight of what’s really important to us. I’m grateful for a husband who never waivers on the important stuff.
So I told my neighbor “no thanks” and he immediately appealed to my 4- year-old daughter. “Maggie, wouldn’t you like the ferrets to come and live at your house?” Many people might think that this is cruel or pushy but it is a smart strategy. Fortunately Maggie isn’t the easy sell she appears to be. She was all, “Let’s get out of here. It reeks like ferret.”
My poor neighbor. You see, he loves those ferrets. He would like to “pour honey on his chest and let the ferrets lick it off.” (He said that knowing, nay, hoping I would blog it so I feel justified including the rather personal detail here.) But he will be out of town for 4 months so he has to get rid of them. I guess giving them to us is a way that he can really keep them, because we live close by. But it ain’t gonna happen. In my own moment of weakness I appealed to Christian, “Sam would like having those ferrets.” “I don’t care!” he screamed. “We are not becoming a rodent family!” Sometimes in this crazy world we lose sight of what’s really important to us. I’m grateful for a husband who never waivers on the important stuff.
Friday, October 08, 2004
Neck NOT as Fat as I Thought it Was
I’ve noticed a lot of bloggers talk about things they are grateful for so I will take just a moment to do that too. The other day I saw the reflection of my silhouette on the shower wall while I was washing my hair (don’t worry—this isn’t gross). I saw myself just as the lather from my hair was sliding down the sides of my neck. I thought: Whoa! My neck has really gotten fat. I can’t believe I haven’t noticed how fat it is! I was relieved to discover that it was just lather rather than flabby side-neck fat. And, while my neck is fat, I am grateful that it is not THAT fat. It does feel good to focus on the things in life we are thankful for.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Visiting Teaching Adventures: Rollin' With Sista C.
I'm not a bad person but I'm just not such a good person that I seek out opportunities to serve beyond the relentless, thankless mothering I do day in day out with my 3 (wonderful) children or the overhelming, monotonous, demanding work I do with the (darling) youth in our ward. So when I tell the following story understand that it was service which I did gladly but did not offer to do. The visiting teaching coordinator left me a message on my answering machine telling me to do it so I had no choice. If I did have a choice I would probably not have chosen to help another person as I am usually not inclined in that way. So I don't really think I'm bragging or negating my meager reward in Heaven by mentioning it.
So today I got to take the ward semi-shut in, Sister See, to a clinic for a blood test. I'd never seen her before but I had heard about her because she organizes the compassionate service for the relief society from her home. When my friend Mark had some lillies leftover after sacrament meeting on Easter (which he took the liberty of purchasing himself since he was speaking) he asked me who in the ward he could give them to and I suggested Sister See. He left them on her porch. Well, this was a mistake because she had some sort of allergic reaction to said lillies and had to have someone move them to the far corner of her yard. At any rate, throughout this whole exchange Christian thought Mark and I were talking about "Sister C." You know, like what Fonzie would call Richie's mom (if they were Mormon). Like Mark and I were somehow so familiar with this woman (who none of us had seen) that we had started calling her Sista C.
So we stopped at the utilities building to pay her bill and pick up a rather generous roll of heavy-duty leaf bags (free with your bill). This solved the mystery for me of old people paying their bill in person at the utilities building. I have never in my life done that. But you see them coming in and out. Now I know why. Then we were off to the clinic for a quick blood test. She's really pretty mobile and can even drive. She pulls her car right up onto the lawn in front of her door. Isn't that a good idea? But she has an oxygen tank that she can't carry. So we did the test and she was pretty fun. The best part was afterwards when I thought I'd have to drop her off and then go out again to get a treat for the kids because they had been so good. When she got into the car she was all, "I feel like Carl's Jr." I want to hang out with her every day. Then we got to talking and apparently she is a huge Gillmore Girls fan, which I have only recently gotten into. She told me about tapes she makes for friends and family with episodes of shows they like and no commercials. I didn't have the heart to tell her about TIVO. "What are you, some kind of shut in?"
She's a real hoot and I think I have a new buddy. I resisted telling her flat out about my blog but felt her out a little: "So do you have a computer? And do you do e-mail? Oh, well you should really learn all about it. There's so much you can do with it." All of this was under the pretense that she could do some online shopping (maybe PAY SOME BILLS) but really I'm hoping to get her up to speed so she can start reading my blog because I think she'll love it. I bet she's a Paul woman. I'll ask her.
So today I got to take the ward semi-shut in, Sister See, to a clinic for a blood test. I'd never seen her before but I had heard about her because she organizes the compassionate service for the relief society from her home. When my friend Mark had some lillies leftover after sacrament meeting on Easter (which he took the liberty of purchasing himself since he was speaking) he asked me who in the ward he could give them to and I suggested Sister See. He left them on her porch. Well, this was a mistake because she had some sort of allergic reaction to said lillies and had to have someone move them to the far corner of her yard. At any rate, throughout this whole exchange Christian thought Mark and I were talking about "Sister C." You know, like what Fonzie would call Richie's mom (if they were Mormon). Like Mark and I were somehow so familiar with this woman (who none of us had seen) that we had started calling her Sista C.
So we stopped at the utilities building to pay her bill and pick up a rather generous roll of heavy-duty leaf bags (free with your bill). This solved the mystery for me of old people paying their bill in person at the utilities building. I have never in my life done that. But you see them coming in and out. Now I know why. Then we were off to the clinic for a quick blood test. She's really pretty mobile and can even drive. She pulls her car right up onto the lawn in front of her door. Isn't that a good idea? But she has an oxygen tank that she can't carry. So we did the test and she was pretty fun. The best part was afterwards when I thought I'd have to drop her off and then go out again to get a treat for the kids because they had been so good. When she got into the car she was all, "I feel like Carl's Jr." I want to hang out with her every day. Then we got to talking and apparently she is a huge Gillmore Girls fan, which I have only recently gotten into. She told me about tapes she makes for friends and family with episodes of shows they like and no commercials. I didn't have the heart to tell her about TIVO. "What are you, some kind of shut in?"
She's a real hoot and I think I have a new buddy. I resisted telling her flat out about my blog but felt her out a little: "So do you have a computer? And do you do e-mail? Oh, well you should really learn all about it. There's so much you can do with it." All of this was under the pretense that she could do some online shopping (maybe PAY SOME BILLS) but really I'm hoping to get her up to speed so she can start reading my blog because I think she'll love it. I bet she's a Paul woman. I'll ask her.
My First Blog
This is my first blog. I think blogging is a little too self-absorbed for my taste, but most of the people I informally surveyed feel strongly that I start a blog so I will comply. Really, I'm doing it for my vast readership. So today I took Maggie to pre-school (her first field trip to Pumpkinland is today) and on the way home I saw Andy walking alongside the road. That is, not in school. Oh dear. Before I commit to blogging I suppose I need to grapple with a few ethical questions first--such as when to disclose incriminating information, etc. Oh well. Don't tell his parents!
The title of my blog, "Times and Seasons" just sort of came to me. It's really only a temporary name. I wonder if anyone else has it trademarked--another ethical question to deal with. In order to create a real buzz among my readers I'm having a contest: Name Kacy's blog. The winner gets to name my blog. The name should be pretty cool, but not so cool that I can't pull it off. You know how that is. Any kind of good musical or literary allusion would be fitting; a quote, perhaps; or something completety original would be great.
Since this is my first post, I'd like to define (generally) the parameters of what I will be discussing on my blog. Since it is an election year, I might talk about that. I might talk about what I do all day or what I hear on NPR or what my kids are doing. I might talk about my hair and my clothes or other people's hair and clothes. Shows that I like could come up (although I don't get to watch nearly as much TV as I would like, in spite of TIVO). I am really into ITUNES right now and, as a result, getting back into music so that will probably come up. I like to talk about that a lot and welcome all comments. My church calling is huge for me, but perhaps inappropriate to blog about; nevertheless, rest assured, I will blog about that. Rarely, when I make dinner, I might talk about it or ask for suggestions.
What I hope most is to bring people together in their interests--more specifically, in their interest in me. What could be better? Actually, I think we all need a blog. Please note that you can make comments in response to these posts.
*After calling my blog "Times and Seasons" for a few days I changed it to "Every Day I Write the Book."
The title of my blog, "Times and Seasons" just sort of came to me. It's really only a temporary name. I wonder if anyone else has it trademarked--another ethical question to deal with. In order to create a real buzz among my readers I'm having a contest: Name Kacy's blog. The winner gets to name my blog. The name should be pretty cool, but not so cool that I can't pull it off. You know how that is. Any kind of good musical or literary allusion would be fitting; a quote, perhaps; or something completety original would be great.
Since this is my first post, I'd like to define (generally) the parameters of what I will be discussing on my blog. Since it is an election year, I might talk about that. I might talk about what I do all day or what I hear on NPR or what my kids are doing. I might talk about my hair and my clothes or other people's hair and clothes. Shows that I like could come up (although I don't get to watch nearly as much TV as I would like, in spite of TIVO). I am really into ITUNES right now and, as a result, getting back into music so that will probably come up. I like to talk about that a lot and welcome all comments. My church calling is huge for me, but perhaps inappropriate to blog about; nevertheless, rest assured, I will blog about that. Rarely, when I make dinner, I might talk about it or ask for suggestions.
What I hope most is to bring people together in their interests--more specifically, in their interest in me. What could be better? Actually, I think we all need a blog. Please note that you can make comments in response to these posts.
*After calling my blog "Times and Seasons" for a few days I changed it to "Every Day I Write the Book."
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