All I Want For Christmas

When my husband asked what I want for Christmas, I drew a blank. I'm not some altruistic person who never thinks about my own needs. It's just that, I don't want to be disappointed.

Of course I could have asked for some grand, expensive something or other. But, considering my first hand knowledge of our finances and the desire I have to remain out of debt and to travel some day and retire well, I know that money spent on frivolity now, would disappoint me later.

So, I said I'd like some bubble bath. And not Lightening McQueen, nor Elmo, nor Bubble Gum scented bubble bath. I would like some relaxing, grown-up, high-quality bubble bath. I'm pretty sure I'll get what I want.

However, as I've put more thought into it, I've realized there are at least two more things I would like for Christmas, both of which would probably cost little in the way of cash, yet are probably far too costly to request. And both harbor huge risk of utter disappointment.

First of all, I would like to never concern myself with garbage, compost, or recycling again. I want it to magically disappear before I can even think "Gee, the garbage is getting kinda full." Same goes for the recycling and compost bins. I don't want to have to think "Boy, it's pretty full, I should do something about that." Then, two days later, "I don't think I can stuff another thing in there". Nor arrive at the point where "if I trip over another empty bottle, I'm going to scream!" or even "Where are all those fruit flies coming from?" And especially, I don't want to ever have to utter, or even think the phrase "Could you please take that out?"

I just want it to magically disappear.

Secondly, caulk. I never, ever, ever, ever want to concern myself with caulk again. I don't want to think "Boy, that caulking is starting to look a bit shabby and moldy, I should really do something about it." No, I want the caulk redone before that. I don't want to have to calculate the next time we're going out of town exactly when to strip the old caulk (in the midst of packing everyone's suitcases and cleaning the entire house) so I have maximum drying time before applying the new caulk as we're walking out the door, in order to allow maximum drying time whilst we're gone. Nope, I don't want to even get to the calculating point. And I especially don't want to ever scrape the moldy old caulk from the tub, nor apply the new caulk in a "simple, narrow bead, smoothing it with my finger". Yeah, right. I never want to Google "caulk bathtub" again. And I certainly don't want to ever feel compelled to utter the phrase "Will you please re-caulk the tub?"

I just want it magically done.

See what I mean? Way too costly, and surely to be disappointing. But a girl can dream.

Tomorrow I'm taking a luxurious bubble bath in my newly caulked tub, after I take out the trash.

Language of Love

I've rediscovered some old italian cds I purchased when I was in Italy some 12 years ago. It seemed like only yesterday however as I listened to and sang the heart-wrenching lyrics of Claudio Baglioni's Piccolo Grande Amore.

You may say that cheese is cheese in any language, but in Italian, cheese is poetry. Let me share some of my favorite phrases and a loose translation:

Quella sua maglietta fina
tanto stretta al punto che m'immaginavo tutto

(Her thin t-shirt was so tight, I could imagine everything)

ti amo davvero, ti amo, ti giuro, ti amo, ti amo davvero

(I love you truly, I love you I swear, I love you, I love you truly)

E lunghe corse affannate incontro a stelle cadute
e mani sempre più ansiose di cose proibite

(Long walks under falling stars, and hands always more anxious for prohibited things)

non sono sicuro se ti amo davvero
non sono, non sono sicuro

(I'm not sure if I love you truly, I'm not, I'm not sure.)

che lei
lei era
un piccolo grande amore
solo un piccolo grande amore
niente più di questo... niente più

(and she, she was a big little love, just a big little love, nothing more than this, nothing more)

adesso che saprei cosa dire
adesso che saprei cosa fare
adesso che voglio
un piccolo grande amore

(now that I'd know what to say, now that I'd know what to do, now that I want a big little love.)

Wow. Everything's better in Italian.

I bet you know someone that could use some italian lessons.

Law Vs. Theory

I have a theory as to why my kitchen floor is rarely fully mopped. You see, I seem to think I can only mop if my kitchen itself is completely cleaned. My mother taught me to clean the floor last because what sense does it make to clean the floor, then wipe down the counters, do the dishes and drop crumbs and dishwater everywhere right? I realized, that I never seem to have a large enough block of uninterrupted time in which to clean and mop. So, I clean the kitchen, move on to something else that is pressing, and before I can return to the floor, the kitchen is filthy again. My theory therefore is that, my imaginary rules are just that--imaginary. I think that if I break that rule, and mop the floor of a filthy kitchen, my floor will still be cleaner, and my kitchen will be as clean as usual.

So today, I tested my theory. I shoved the kitchen table, with a few remaining breakfast dishes and all, over in the corner, rolled my full, clean dishwasher out of the way, cleared one half of my sink and filled it with mop water. I swept and mopped my floor. I did it! I no longer have to clean before mopping (reminds me of the moment I discovered that as an adult, I can turn on the A/C and roll my window down if I so choose). It felt good to have just gotten it done . . . until Murphy showed up.

Not 5 minutes after finishing drying my clean floor, I walked past that kitchen table in the corner and accidentally knocked a half-full cup of apple juice off the table, spilling it all over my clean floor.

My Theory, zip; Murphy's Law, point and game.

Is there a Doctor in the House?

I'm so glad my son received the Flu mist this year. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about flu vaccines. Ethan had influenza A a couple of years ago and it was the most miserable experience for all of us in recent memory and I vowed to get my children vaccinated from that point forward. The flu mist is apparently a kinder, gentler vaccination. No shots, no bandaids . . . oh and no dead virus. Yeah, the flu mist contains a weakened LIVE virus I've since been informed. So pardon my skepticism if the flu mist (that they give out for free in the elementary school to keep kids healthy and in school) is a prime suspect in my household. One to four members of my household have been ill since November 10th. That is just three days after Ethan received the mist. He has subsequently missed 4 days of school and we have paid over $100 in office visit copays and I'd guess about that much in prescription and OTC medication, not to mention the $200 we'll likely be billed for Matt's chest X-ray to rule out pneumonia. Some free vaccine.

This morning we had another man down. Elliot, who appeared on the upswing the past week, suddenly came down with a fever. As Ethan had developed a secondary infection (ear) and Matt as well (bronchitis), I knew the routine. I called our family practice. Being Friday, they were unable to get me in until very late in the day. I took the appointment, but called the pediatrician who couldn't do much better. So, I decided to try our former family practice which we left last year when the doctor we liked left. Little did I know I was about to be scolded.

He already has an appointment with the family practice.

Yes, I know, I was hoping to get one sooner with you. How do you know he has an appointment?

Our practices are both owned by the hospital and the records are shared. I show you have an appointment this afternoon. You can't just jump around to different doctors.

So I'd have to have my records transferred back if I wanted him seen this morning?

That would be the only way to do it.

Okay, is there an urgent care clinic near by?

Yes.

So, I could take him to a doctor at the urgent care clinic who's never seen him before and has no records, but not to your practice where he has been seen before and obviously has some records on file?

That's up to you.

You're kidding. We saw a doctor there last year. It's not like he's seen the new doctor a whole lot.

I show he's been in 4 times this year.

Big brother now aren't we? So he had a diaper rash, it's not like he's chronically ill. So, if I wanted to transfer his records, do you even have an appointment available?

With the nurse practicioner.

Thank you, I think I'll call the urgent care clinic.

I knew there was a reason we left that clinic.

Perhaps someone could explain to me the difference between seeing a doctor within a practice who is not my doctor, because he is available, and seeing a doctor in a clinic owned by the same people that obviously has my records in their system? And who is working for whom here anyway? Isn't it my (and my insurance company's) money that pays these bozos? Why can't I just switch doctors lady? You still get paid, Miz Gatekeeper--NO DOCTOR FOR YOU!!!

So, I spent a couple of hours at the urgent care clinic, with a feverish child asleep on my lap, so they could tell me he has an ear infection and give me a prescription for an antibiotic. I could have told you that and saved everyone the trouble.

I was the last one to fall victim to the initial virus, and am the only one not yet in round two. Knock on something will ya?

Things Beethoven Did Not Write

I may have mentioned that I play (and not terribly well) for a local orchestra. This season, I signed on to be the orchestra librarian as well. This means that, among other duties, I am responsible for unmarking music. I get to go through everyone's part after the concert and erase all the little things they've put in the margins to help them remember how to play their part.

My husband was helping me erase the other night and asked,

Why don't they just play it as it was written?

Good question. I answered that just as a scriptwriter cannot possibly include every nuance of human behavior and speech in his script (nor would we want him to), neither can, nor should, a composer script out every fine detail of the music. Music has tools that allow a composer to be more specific than perhaps a scriptwriter can be, nonetheless, there is still a little room for artistic collaboration and interpretation. And of course emphasis and clarification.

And further, as became obvious as I was cleaning the Beethoven parts, Beethoven did not have the colorful range of musical terminology we employ in this day and age.

Now, I consider myself quite fluent in Italian and this has come in very handy in understanding musical terminology. It does not however, help me very much in understanding some of the notes I recently erased. Here is but a sampling of the personal touches added by musicians in this little orchestra:

A violinist reminding himself to play at the tip of his bow might write: Tip
An extra enthusiastic violinist my also write: Tippy-Tip or the more heartfelt Tip-o-rama.

There is also the obvious: No Sleeping Here!

The particularly descriptive: BLASTING!!!

Or, so you don't forget, you might scrawl in 1-inch letters across the top of the piece, the handy reminder:

DYNAMICS ARE EVERYTHING!!!

Perhaps you want to scare yourself into paying attention. You could pencil in: BOO!!

If the notes on the page are not sufficient, you can add: Yes, we can play here.

Being a violinist, I don't have much understanding of how a woodwind instrument is played, but apparently a handy reminder is: Tongue!

To get your point across to yourself, you can always opt for short, yet descriptive words such as HUGE! or BOOM!!

Or, if you respond better to such things, vulgarity is apparently an option: F***ING LOUD!!! . . . and here I always thought ff meant fortissimo.

And lest we forget that all musicians, even the trumpets, need occasional positive encouragement, one can always make a musical record of nice things the conductor has said:

10-28 9:36 pm "Brass, that was Good!"

And my personal favorite, simply because I have no idea what it means, let alone how to say it in Italian:

Release the Penguins.

Yes, please do.

Tap Shoes

This is for those of you who have read (or memorized in our case) If You Give a Pig a Pancake . . .

Today as we were getting ready to leave I asked Elliot which shoes he wanted to wear. In all seriousness he replies:

My Old Tap Shoes.

Pauses for effect, then giggles. If I had the patience required to be a baby-booker or scrap-booker, this would be one for the baby book--baby's first humorous literary reference.

I love that my boys, long before learning to read, have discovered the magic of books. I love that they memorize them word for word and can "read" them to me. I love story time--even though I admit, I have been fooled by the promise of "just one more" and "this is the last one" and caved to the piteous "pweese Mom! I tan't read da words" more times than I remember. I even love that, despite the late hours they sometimes keep, they both love to lay in bed at night, pouring over book after book. I love that Ethan is being awakened to the higher magic of books as he learns to read and now devours every letter and word in sight--like a hungry man sitting down to a feast after hours of smelling dinner cooking. I love that library day rivals any number of other outings (and it's free!). I love my boys, and I love books.

Guns 'n Chromosomes

My grandmother once saw my mother snuggling and kissing her baby boy and commented:

You're going to make a kissy-boy out of him.

I declare that this world is in dire need of more kissy-boys. You know what I mean don't you? Boys who grow into men who kiss their wife and their children. Men who aren't ashamed to cry or to cuddle their babies.

But, you may ask in horror, what if he likes playing with dolls? Or grows up to be . . . you know?

I'm here to say that I have strong evidence that nature plays an overpowering role in these things. It is my job as a mother of boys to tamper that three-headed-macho-monster a bit. I have a couple of babydolls that I keep in my boys' toy box. I'm happy to find them playing with them on occasion. When I was pregnant with Elliot, I encouraged Ethan to hold and rock the baby doll. I've tried very hard not to shame or discourage "girly" interests such as when Ethan's favorite color was pink, or when they want to play with my jewelry.

And though we haven't outlawed toy guns, I do try to avoid having them in the house and discourage violent pretend play. And though we don't discourage sports play and Matt does occasionally watch a game, we certainly aren't sport fanatics in our household. Let's just say the macho threshold is very low around here.

All this withstanding, my boys both know how to distinguish a skid steer loader from a front loader and an excavator from a backhoe. Why? Because they're naturally interested. We own The Little Mermaid and they both enjoy using their Fairy toothpaste, but by and far, the winning movies in this household all revolve around heavy equipment.

Imagine my surprise the other night when we came in and the boys asked to leave the lights off. They began commando crawling around the house with headlamps and flashlights. A little bit later I noticed they both had ball point pens clipped to their clothing.

What are those? I asked.

Those are our guns! Ethan happily replied.

We're dookin' for bad duys in da dark. Elliot chimed in.

And they ran off making shooting noises at shadows lurking in dark hallways.

I smiled and put them to bed and they both asked to sleep with their guns. The next morning Elliot comes to me bright-eyed.

Good morning sunshine! I say.

Where are my duns?! He asks with concern.

I'm not overly disturbed by this. Boys by nature are definitely boys. I doing my darndest though to make sure we end up with a couple of kissy-boys--even if they're dun-toting kissy boys.

Trapped

Last evening I spent several suspense filled minutes trapped in my car. No, don't go getting the jaws of life or anything. Though perhaps some tomato juice would be in order. Can you see where this is going?

As I pulled into my driveway after yet another harrowing orchestra rehearsal (I swear I'm going to get better at this whole violin thing before long), I spotted something darting across the road in front of me toward my driveway.

I stopped, backed up slightly and shined my lights on it for a better look. I didn't get much better of a looksee, but it was definitely black and I distinctly saw some white on it's head region. What do I do now? What would you do? Dart up the driveway hoping the likely skunk wasn't on it's way up? Wait patiently at the bottom to see what the next move would be?

I did both. I waited a moment, then figured I'd dart up and hope it wasn't headed for my tires. I made it--no dead skunk in the middle of the road, stinkin' to high heaven--yet. So then what did I do, you may ask. Well, being as smart as I like to think I am, you might assume I'd hurry inside and lock the door. But no, I figured it'd headed on up the road and I decided to gather up a bunch of junk in preparation for my $700 car service tomorrow (why is it I feel compelled to clean out my car before it goes in the shop?).

Then, I began to exit the vehicle, arms full of garbage, having completely forgotten about the critter, when suddenly I hear leaves rustling over behind my shed. I jump back in, slam the door and spill garbage all over myself. Now what?

I turned on my cell phone--perhaps I should call Matt and he can . . . I dunno, do something. Oh yeah, no cell service here. Plan B--horn? No, lights! I start flashing my lights in it's general direction . . . nothing.

I wait, trapped in my car, for perhaps 10 minutes. Then, I open the door slowly and again those darn rustling leaves--but this time behind me! I look and the thing is running back down my driveway. I slam my door and start checking my rearview--hit the breaks to get a little breaklight shine going. Finally, I think he's gone. I grab my garbage and dash in the house.

Crap! I forgot my violin. I can leave my wallet on the front seat of my unlocked van, but I draw the line at my violin--especially if there is a skunk in the vicinity. So, I enlist Matt and his big flashlight and we head out again. Slowly, slowly, we're almost to the car. What's that noise?

Those darn leaves again. It's back behind the shed again. We turn tail and run back into the house. We spend the next 20 minutes shining flashlights out the back windows and finally it heads up the hill behind the house. We dart out to the car, grab the violin and run back in, locking the door behind us.

I think I need a glass of tomato juice.

Weight Wait

Every time I go to the doctor I'm asked to step on that scary looking scale and wait, and wait, and wait, for the nurse to fumble around with the little weights. I like to think it is a compliment, that perhaps I look slimmer than I am, but I'm skeptical.

Last week when I stepped on, she started at 150 pounds. Yes, 150. Excuse me, do I look like I weigh a mere 150 pounds? I know we're in blogosphere land, but just imagine me--5 foot 9 and a far cry from slender. Not to mention the fact that the nurse is holding my file which clearly states my weight when we did this a mere 6 months ago was 260 something. Perhaps I've lost a good 100 pounds in 6 months? Perhaps not.

So, as I watch her put the big weight on 150 I say:

Um, you're gonna need to go up a bit.

So she moves the little pounder up 20, 40 . . .oh the suspense.

Um, better start at 250.

So she moves the hefty weight to 200.

I'm about 270 . . .

She moves the little guy--220, 240 . . . really, you're killing me.

Then finally moves the biggie up to 250.

There we go.

260, 270, 272 and she says: There it is.

Yes, there it is. I'm flattered really, but would have been perhaps happier if the whole weigh in had entailed much less suspense.

You'd think for the amount of money I pay my doctor and insurance company, they could afford a digital read scale.

FairyLand Fall Finery

Okay, so I finally got to posting some fall pictures. I literally have taken over 500 pictures in the past month. I suppose my spree is over at present as all the trees seem to have given a big shiver as it were and suddenly dropped all their leaves. This afternoon we were piling leaves at the bottom of the slide for fun. I know I never posted pics with my Forest Fire entry, so pretend these are for that post. Though none of these actually came from that day. I took my camera to the bus stop to get Ethan a couple of days last week and from that and a short walk around my house I pretty much got all these--they're actually much better than my blue ridge parkway shots. But still, in no way do they do justice to the beauty of fall in FairyLand. If you want to see more let me know, I'll post an album online for you. Enjoy FairyLand.

This tree looms over our house. It's like it's imprisoned in an ivy straight jacket and is just managing to burst out in yellow splendor. Some days I feel like that.

This is perhaps my favorite fall pic of the season. This is a tree at the bottom of our driveway.

This is the view from the mountaintop FairyLand perches upon.

This is the view from the top of my driveway. Some days it's hard to get down the driveway without running into something for gaping in awe at the beauty of this place. My favorite phrase: "We LIVE here!"

This doesn't even halfway do it justice, but I was trying to capture the feel of being shrouded in these trees and colors as I drive 5 minutes to the bus stop every afternoon.

Fall is like a cozy blanket to me. I love finally having some relief from the miserable heat of the summer. I love the sound of leaves crunching under my feet. I love the smell of campfires in the crisp air. Perhaps because I was born in the fall (did I mention I turn 35 in a mere 18 days ? I can't wait!). I love pumpkins and stuffing and squash and all the hallmarks of the season. I love that I was married in the very beginning of fall --even then I wanted to be surrounded by brown, red, orange and yellow (I'll show you my wedding pictures sometime). Fall makes me happy. Can you tell I'm smiling?

Cap and Trade

As I took the garbage to the FairyLand dump today I contemplated my trash. FairyLand is a bit of an EcoTrash sort of place. We like to recycle and compost around here. Some have even been known to use (shudder) cloth diapers. And please don't mention styrofoam, as it is harmful to fairy habitat and makes their little ears wither just to mention it.

I'm all for kindness to our environment, but I try not to get carried away--moderation in all things. As I said, I do recycle and compost, but perhaps not for the reasons you may think. Yes, I feel good because I'm told I'm doing my part to save Mother Earth when I carry my potato peels out back and stomp on my cardboard boxes . . . yada yada.

In most US cities, the magical garbage truck comes along in the wee hours of the morning once a week and magically gobbles up your garbage so you don't have to think about just where it might be going. These magical trucks cannot penetrate the uber-magic of FairyLand for very long. So, we have one big magical garbage truck which every now and again comes up to the dump and swaps out one giant compactor bin for another. But beyond that, it is my responsibility to feed my garbage to the giant compactor, which is not my friend.

I have been startled by wildlife jumping out of the compactor at me. I've slipped on the platform and nearly cracked my head open on said compactor. I compacted in the rain, I've compacted in the snow and I've compacted in 90 degrees, 100% humidity--not a pretty scent.

I've tried various methods such as collecting my stinky garbage (which consists almost entirely of poop) into a large can for a couple three weeks, hefting the large stinky can into my van and driving to the dump. This collection can attract bears however. I've tried nagging my husband to take care of the garbage, but I am a terrible nagger and would just as soon do it myself than nag. Recently I've begun taking the trash straight from under my kitchen sink, add the cat box contents, add the diaper pail contents, and head for the dump. This has been working fairly well. But nonetheless it requires loading the stinking stuff into my car and making a dump-run whenever my can overfloweth. So, I do my best to reduce the number of trips I must make.

But, and here is my guilty secret, not only do I really dislike the Fairyland dump, I really, really dislike a stinky cat box, and I really, really, really dislike the concept of cloth diapers. Therefore, I like to think I'm operating my own little cap and trade policy. By recycling and composting, I am off-setting my landfill input of disposable diapers and clumping cat litter. You may argue that it doesn't nearly offset those nasty disposable diapers and kitty chemicals. If that is true, perhaps I'll plant a tree or two, but I refuse to spend my days rinsing diapers in the toilet.

So you see, I don't recycle and compost just to save the planet (though that is a nice byproduct), I recycle and compost primarily to reduce the number of trips I have to make to the dump and to asuage my disposable diaper guilt.

. . . How many Hail Mary's does that require? Oh wait, I'm a Mormon, maybe I should call the Bishop.

The End of the End

I'm thrilled the end is tomorrow . . . the end of the election that is, though some seem to think it will coincide with the end of the world.

I've been away from my blog a bit of late. I've had ideas, just none that really wanted to formulate because I've had a few other things on my plate and my mind. So, as tomorrow is the end, I'll use this last opportunity to express just a few things that have been on my mind concerning the election.

First of all, unlike a few Mormons I've encountered, I actually do believe the Church's statement on political neutrality. I believe they meant what they said, and not in a "nudge nudge wink wink" sort of way. I really believe that "Principles compatible with the gospel may be found in various political parties". And yet, I'm going to miss hearing from the pulpit during the testimony meeting, things like the democrats are "Gadianton Robbers".

Second of all, given the anti-Mormon persecutions, the lies, the false accusations of not being Christians and so much more that has been spread, whether through ignorance or malevolance over the past couple of centuries, I would like to think that we Mormons would be able to rise above such things and choose not to spread the same kinds of lies about others. I would hope that before speaking, or forwarding defamations of characters, we would scrupulously fact check and refrain from spreading around anything that even smacks of such filth. Yet, again, from the pulpit at testimony meeting yesterday, I was priveleged to hear my fellow saints saying such things as "in the future we may have a non-Christian president." And in case you didn't get his not-so-subtle inference the first time around, he adds "in the very near future." Nudge nudge, wink wink. I'm hoping his intent was either to induce his audience to run out and vote for a democrat tomorrow, or at least head out to the church parking log and slap "Mormons for Obama" bumperstickers on their vehicles, because that was certainly my desire after the meeting.

Third, I'm glad there are people out there, though few they may be, who are willing to have a political conversation without extreme emotion, manipulation, and most of all without using the phrase "I'm so scared" in regard to views they disagree with. Hooray for those who choose to rise above the muck, seek out truth, search out what they themselves truly believe rather than parrot others' views. Isn't this what it's all about? Disagreeing without being disagreeable, I believe is the cliche.

In closing, let me say that I believe I will be voting for Obama tomorrow. I'm not going to give my reasons here. Instead, I'm going to let you guess. Multiple-choice like. Please respond with your best guess.

I am voting for Obama because:

A) He has a great smile.
B) It's a great conversation starter when I visit the in-laws.
C) After weeks of research and introspection, it matters exactly squat who I vote for.
D) John McCain is an admitted adulterer, and I therefore find it difficult to trust him.*
E) All of the above.

*I was called out, and rightly so for my hypocrisy in the personal attack I posted in option D. I should not have referred to him, even in a multiple choice question on my personal blog, as a "philandering creep" and I have tried to clarify what I meant.

Bumper Sticker

Jesus is Coming . . . Look Busy.

Purple States

I was listening to NPR yesterday (again) and Ethan, who I assumed wasn't listening, suddenly asks:

How do they change red states to blue states?

So I embarked upon a simplified explanation of politics and the presidential campaign.

Who are you going to vote for mom?

I don't know yet. Here's a picture of Barak Obama, and one of John McCain. Who do you think you should be president?

Bakobama.

Why?

Because he has a big smile. With a smile like that, he'd probably be a good president. Isn't that a good idea?

It's probably as good a reason as many people have for voting for a candidate.

I think this should be a red state because my favorite color is red.

Again, as good a reason as any.

Forest Fire

These days driving home can be a frustratingly beautiful experience. You see, everyone around here drives up to FairyLand to see the leaves this time of year. This means that when I am in a hurry to get home, there are a gazillion cars driving ridiculously slow admiring the amazing fireworks display of leaves. It is at these moments that I take a deep breath, remind myself that not everyone gets to live in the beauty of FairyLand, and take a good look around me and try and enjoy the ride a bit more myself.

Today after Church, I decided to finally make it up to the Blue Ridge Parkway. We've lived here nearly two years and had yet to drive on the famous parkway. This little highway litterally straddles the mountaintops. By way of several bridges and tunnels, it affords the most stunning views of these mountains--even more stunning in full fall color. I wish I was a decent photographer. Instead I'll have to count on my writing skills to describe the overwhelming beauty of fall in Fairyland. I have taken a few pics over the past couple of weeks I'll attempt to post (but you know how good I am at that).

As we left the parkway and descended into the full splendor of what we'd been observing topside, I realized that I actually prefer the beauty from below. It's a bit like life I figure. Sure it's lovely to observe the color rolling in waves across the top of the mountains--it's very neat and almost orderly in it's beauty. But it's nothing like driving under those same trees. There is nothing orderly about that. You go from shadow to sun and back like a strobe light. One moment shrouded in dark greenery, the next awestruck by a bright red tree, then a yellow limb sprawled overhead. Then, the breeze picks up and I am showered with the colorful fallout. I like the nitty-gritty in life. I like it a little bit messy, a little bit earthy. But not too much. I don't want to roll around in the detritus or anything.

It reminds me of my mission. Italy is a bit like that. Florence is clean and well kept and beautiful. Rome is a bit more wild and messy. Naples is like burrowing under the leaf litter--you can find some really interesting stuff down there, but do you really want to spend much time crawling around in it? Let's go to Rome--or at least Pisgah Forest.

Fungus Amongus Again

No, this isn't a follow up to Elliot's diaper rash, though it looks like it may be making a return appearance. This post is dedicated to the freaky fungi flowering profusely in Fairyland. I'd always wondered why mushrooms are sometimes called toadstools, or why little gnomes are pictured sitting near or on a mushroom.

Since moving to FairyLand, I've discovered the answer. Mushrooms reach enormous proportions around here and come in an amazing array of colors, shapes and sizes.


It got so bad that as I'd drive to pick Ethan up at the bus stop, I nearly ran off the road for looking at 'shrooms.


So finally, I brought my camera with me and for a week my boys and I stopped wherever we could to photograph mushrooms in all their Fairyland varieties.

This one popped right up out of the driveway. I thought I ought to photograph it before it got squished.

I've posted a mere fraction of the photos I've collected. Let me know if you want to see more and I'll send you an album or something.

I've gone a little mushy over mushrooms . . . but you gotta admit, they're pretty cool little critters.

Switcheroo

I think my child has been abducted and replaced by an alien lifeform--but only occasionally. Like when he goes to school and behaves well enough to earn the Student of the Month title. Then, somehow, they zap back my real kid on the bus ride home.

Same thing for his Sunday school class--but this time I was around to witness the impostor at work. My child, you see, refuses to sit nicely and sing during singing/sharing time at church. Instead he insists on "helping" me lead the music. His assistance generally amounts to playing with my stash of props and such, and messing with the CD player, followed by crawling under my little table or running circles around me all while I'm attempting to teach the rest of the children a song or two.

So imagine my surprise when today during the primary singing program he stood up at the podium and with all his might sang out nearly all the words to every song--nice and loud too. I wish the other kids knew the songs like that and sang out so well.

Whomever it is who is abducting him really messed up today. Perhaps they didn't think I'd catch on, but I know my child, and I am convinced that was not him.

Hairy Situation

I've been listening to way too much NPR lately. The liberal bias has gone to my head (I think I'm voting for Obama--don't tell my family or they might institutionalize me, but that's another post entirely). But, there was a snippet the other day that really disturbed me.

The economic crisis? The election? No, this little piece was all about children, oh and waxing. Apparently there are salons out there that recommend and perform cosmetic hair removal on young girls. And mothers who take them up, nay insist upon it.

One terribly disturbing point made by a salon owner was that apparently virgin hair waxing begun young enough, say at the age of 6, often requires just 2 or 3 waxing session before hair removal is permanent. This, she pointed out, is such a great idea because it saves thousands of dollars in waxing fees over a woman's lifetime.

This brings me to two questions:

1) What is so wrong with body hair?

2) Have you considered that not every girl will choose to remove her body hair for the rest of her mortal existence. (maybe in 10 years hairy legs and pits will again be in fashion--think of the women you know who plucked out their eyebrows in response to a trend and to this day have to paint on scary clown brows).

It reminds me of the time I learned of the Brazilian wax. (Overshare warning--skip the rest of this paragraph if you're disturbed by graphic descriptions of OB-GYN visits). I was in my gyno's office, stirruped up, undergoing an unusual procedure. You see, I have the bad luck of being born with moles in unfortunate places. After a scarring experience with mole removal from my nipple region as a teenager, I opted to have my OB take care of the removal of the two scary moles residing in my nether regions. As she shaved the hair necessary for the procedure, she mentioned the new trend she'd begun observing in femail hair removal--the Brazilian wax. Which, as most of you I'm sure know, involves complete hair removal down south. This disturbs me.

My husband's family has serious issues with body hair. I recall his little sister one time mentioning that she'd had her forearms waxed. Her forearms? I also unfortunately overheard that my mother-in-law had a bikini wax. A bikini wax? For a mormon woman in her mid fifties? That's just all shades of wrong.

I remember my teenage years when I had low self-esteem and wanted to fit in and began shaving my legs. Prior to this I had fine blond hair on my legs. Funny thing happened once I started shaving it. It began to grow back in dark and coarse. So I stopped and eventually it mostly softened back up. Though it's still a bit patchy. I like to think of it as my own little forest.

I must admit, since then I still do occasionally shave. I like to think of it as my Christmas and/or Easter ritual. But even that has become fairly inconsistent (especially since moving to Fairyland--you see, fairies aren't concerned with body hair). And, my body hair is relatively sparse. Though I don't see that had I been given thick, dark hair, that I'd be rushing off to the salon for a bikini wax.

I dunno, I suppose I understand the desire to get rid of unsightly facial hair, and even the non-obsessive level of leg and pit shaving if that makes one feel better. But it seems really excessive and somewhat sadomasochistic to regularly strip in front of strangers and pay them to pour hot wax on your naughty bits. But that's just me.

I'm glad I have boys.

Late Bus

Ethan rides the late bus. It usually arrives at our stop between 4:05 and 4:15. One day I was running late and arrived at 4:10. The bus of course had arrived at 4:07 that day. Fortunately the driver waited a couple of minutes. I've been told that if I am not there to meet the bus, they will take him back to school.

Today I arrived promptly at the stop at 4:00 pm. I waited. And waited. Worried. And waited. At 4:30 I was going a little crazy and had begun to seriously worry. So, I started down the road along the bus route, assuming I would probably meet the bus at some point--likely in the midst of some gory accident scene of course. By 4:45, no bus. So now, 15 minutes from home and 15 minutes from school I had to make a decision. No cell phone since I don't get reception at home or the bus stop, so I decided to head for the school. I never encountered the bus, arrived at school at 5:00 pm. The Assistant Principal informed me that his bus had been involved in a fender bender (I knew it!!!). Everyone was fine, but the bus was delayed and is now completing its route. He radioed the driver to discover that they were approaching our bus stop--now 30 minutes from the school. So, she kept him on the bus, completed the route and returned to school where I met him about 5:45 pm.

Elliot must have been worried. He gave Ethan a big hug and held his hand as we walked to the car. We were all relieved. Ethan told me every detail of the accident. The police car and the other vehicle involved. Tomorrow he said, he's going to play "bus accident" when he gets home from school

I told Ethan we could go out to dinner and he could pick the restaurant. He chose the Twin Dragons Grand Chinese Buffet because it's the only place in town where he can get mussels--except maybe the Food Lion.

SOTM

If you've read my previous Kindergarten follies, you may be surprised to learn that Ethan was recently nominated Student of the Month for his kindergarten class. You may even be more surprised when you read the SOTM selection criteria:

You were chosen for coming to school with a great attitude and ready to work.

Yes, you read it correctly: a great attitude and ready to work.

Do you think they'd revoke his award if I video taped the morning screaming-whining-fighting-fit-filled ritual? Or do the only take into account the attitude and readiness once you hit school property, not actually the coming to school portion of the adventure?

I think I won't ask.

As you can see by the photos, this award is sponsored by a local grocery store. I told Ethan he was to have his photo displayed in the local Food Lion. As we don't shop there very often, I thought maybe for the next month, we should. Ethan is under the misconception that the Food Lion is a restaurant.

Mom, can we go eat at the restaurant where they have my picture?

What, is this Sardi's?

I explained that it is a grocery store and that perhaps we could go shop there. I still don't think he understood as later when I asked what his favorite food from Food Lion is (for the attached questionnaire) he replied: Mussels!

Considering this new development, I'm seriously thinking of appealing the revocation of my Mother of the Year title.

I Have Gas!

I'd begun to get a little panicky, which considering I still had half a tank of gas, seems a bit unreasonable. However, I hadn't seen any gas all week, except the one place with an hour wait, and I began counting how many trips to town I have to make this weekend and it occurred to me that if I don't find any gas before I take Ethan to school Monday morning, I'd be hard pressed to get home--and there's no promise of gas even then. The news is saying this shortage may last a month or so. So, I took a drastic step.

After I dropped Ethan at school in North Carolina, I turned around and drove 90 minutes back to South Carolina to run some errands I'd been putting off, and gamble that the rumors of gas in SC proved true. I knew that if I didn't find gas there, I'd have just burned the little that may have taken me through Monday morning. So, I found my heart beating rapidly as I approached my favorite fill stations--the first was empty, but as I got closer to the city, I began to see signs of hope. Stations with one grade, two grades, some with three grades and, best of all--NO LINES! God bless America and South Carolina. I now have gas!!! At least until sometime next week. I may have to make SC errands a weekly ritual.

Do You Have Gas?

Ethan got his midterm report today. Kindergarteners are evaluated on the following points:

Sits quietly and listens
Holds scissors correctly
Follows Directions
Writes first name
Keeps hands and feet to themselves

Ethan is doing very well. He received the highest possible mark (satisfactory) for everything but “writes first name” for which he received and “improving”. The fact that he writes it at all is a marked improvement in my book as he has never shown any interest in sitting still long enough to write anything at home.

He seems to be adjusting very well socially. As a side note, it appears the engagement is off. I asked him who he plays with at recess:

My club

Who’s in your club?

Madison and some other kids.

Do you still play with Sommer?

She’s not in the club.

Are you still getting married?

She’s not.

Are you going to marry her?

I don’t know.

We’ll just leave it at that. I’ll be sure he sends all gifts back and we’ll keep you posted.

As gas has become more and more scarce around here, I’ve begun having second thoughts about whether I should have homeschooled him. However, I realized that had he been in my care all day, his midterm report would have looked more like this:

Sits quietly and listens: Only when physically restrained
Cuts with scissors: Does hair count? How about stabbing your brother?
Writes name: Yes, with a stick in the dirt, while running around
Follows Directions: not if the directions include go to your room.
Keeps hands and feet to himself: see first response

So, I suppose school is a good place for him right now. However, if I don’t find gas soon, he’ll be getting up at 6am to catch the bus next week. Today I found one station with gas, but the line was two blocks up the street in either direction. I figured I’d likely use all my gas idling in line only to have the pumps run out as soon as I got there. Here’s hoping tomorrow’s gas prospects are better.

McBama '08

As long as we’re rewriting our entire financial structure in this country, I’d like to propose a major overhaul to the presidential election system.

As it is obvious we are in need of some serious bipartisanship in this country, and as both candidates are making all kinds of bipartisan promises, I suggest the ultimate bipartisan solution: The Demopublican Ticket.

I’ll leave it up to someone smarter than I to rewrite the rules for the primary elections and nominating conventions. Let’s just start once we have a nominee for each party. At this point, we can save weeks of ugly campaigning and millions of dollars by simply declaring a winner. One candidate is the President, the other the Veep.

But of course you ask, which is which? You may suggest we go old school where whomever gets the most votes in the general election is the Pres, the other is the Veep—which really is not such a bad idea. I don’t know why we got away from that. Regardless, if we did that, we’d still be wasting all kinds of time and money. So, since back when they did that they didn’t have smear campaigns and unlimited wealth with which to fund it, I have a modern day solution: Both would get to be president.

They would take two year turns—or just take every other year. After the nomination the two candidates get together and hold a best of 7 rock-paper-scissors competition, winner gets to pick who goes first.

Think of all the problems that could be solved! Think of the bipartisanship required! I’m all for it. Write your congressman today.

DeeJay Jazzy Jen

My brother recently gave me a rapper nickname: J-Hoisy. I wasn't too sure how I felt about it until I remembered my weekend DeeJay gig. I like the idea, but feel that perhaps I should go with DeeJay Jazzy Jen.

Our Primary Sacrament Meeting Program is in exactly four weeks. Will we be prepared? It's hard to say, but, the important thing to remember here is that it will be over. You may ask Gee Jen, I thought you were in the Primary Presidency, why are you overly concerned about the music? to which I would reply In a branch where sacrament meeting attendance hovers around 35, anyone who shows up regularly has more than one calling. So, you see, not only am I the second counselor in the presidency, I am also the Primary Chorister.

If you were my mother you might say Chorister huh? That's not so bad, that has always been my favorite calling. And you'd be right. If you were my mother. You see, my mother sings well, she leads music well, and perhaps more importantly, she's always been a chorister in wards that a) have more than 10 kids show up every week, thus allowing for both a junior and a senior primary, b) have primary teachers show up on a regular basis, c) have primary children whose parents generally require that they wear shoes in church, and perhaps most importantly d) have a primary pianist.

Now, I don't want to complain--well, yes I do. If a girl can't complain on her blog, where can she? I find it difficult to get a handful of children aged 3 to 11 with inconsistent attendance, to learn and sing primary songs with a cd accompaniment. I find myself constantly fumbling with the buttons, trying to rewind just a little bit to review a section, switching cds to change songs and so forth. But, I must say, I've gotten quite adept.

This Sunday was the day I decided to pass out the parts. We have exactly 3 sundays to prepare for the program so I figured we'd work the first half today, the second next week and the whole shebang the week before the program. Then I got to church and realized we had 8 children there (not poor attendance for our primary) and one teacher. So, I spent the second hour with the three from the 8-11 class, reviewing their parts. Then, just prior to the last hour where we were to have our grand rehearsal, four of the children went home with their parents. This left us with four children aged 8-6-5-3. Try having a rehearsal with that motley crew.

To their credit, they did well. We read their parts and practiced some songs. I have written the program such that if hell freezes over and everyone shows, we'll go a bit long. But, it's also been written such that we just skip the parts of no-shows. Assuming a certain percentage of no-shows, and assuming that every 8-12 year old who shows prepares their assigned 2 minute talk, we should be able to cover the proscribed 30-40 minutes. I suppose that is a blessing in disguise for these children. Whereas most children in regular wards will get to say a one sentence part if they're lucky, every one of these children have at least 3 parts, and the Valiant class have page long parts and 2 minute talks. So, it's a lot to ask of them, but also a good learning experience.

The icing on the cake for the upcoming program is that my husband will be out of town. So, in addition to DeeJaying and leading, I'll have my two-year-old on my lap (probably pushing the buttons on the CD player) and my five-year-old likely refusing to sit on the stand and opting instead to sit in the front row and fight with his brother over the CD player. DeeJay K-Diddy (Ethan) and DeeJay E-Monkey (Elliot). I'll let you know how it goes.

Guilty Pleasures

Elliot's new guilty pleasure is sitting in Ethan's car booster seat while Ethan's at school . . . don't tell Ethan.

Weak in the Knees

Knee replacement surgery runs in my family. As do torn ACLs, general knee surgery and obesity. I know what you're thinking--get over the obesity and you could do away with the knee problems. That is a good theory but considering that the men in my family don't generally get the obesity until their thirties and my brothers all tore their ACLs in their teens and twenties, I think that obesity is an aggravant, not a cause.

Now, being female, I did get the childhood obese end of the stick as it were. But, I never did tear anything. I was diagnosed with the dreaded Osgood Schlatter's disease as a youth. And although I get random pain and swelling alternating in my knees, I'd yet to incur any semi-serious to serious injuries--until last night that is.

What was I doing last night you may ask? Hiking through camp? Biking? Preparing for a triathalon? No, of course not. I was at orchestra rehearsal. You see, the tuba part had somehow mysteriously been lost in the mail and as I am now somehow the orchestra librarian, the best solution I could come up with at the start of rehearsal was to borrow the conductor's score, head to the library and copy all 100 pages for the poor tuba player who has like 10 notes the whole piece.

So, I found the college library, walked around to the front and began to ascend the wide staircase to the door at an angle. These steps are narrow enough for someone on an important mission to be able to take two at a time, I thought. So, I planted my right foot on the bottom step and pushed off, intendint to hit the third step with my left foot. Instead, I felt a bit of a pop on the outside of my knee joint, reconsidered taking the steps by twos and hit the second with my left foot. When I again planted my right foot on the third step, I felt significant pain.

Well, I couldn't let a little pain stop me. I proceeded into the library, made the copies, rushed back to rehearsal, finished rehearsal, carried everything to my car at a dead hobble, got in and started crying.

I called my husband and cried some more. Then I went home, took some advil and cried some more while I googled knee injuries.

Another thing that runs in my family is internet self-diagnosing. I have determined that I did something to my LCL (Lateral Collateral Ligament). Considering the non-violent nature of the injury and the fact that today it seems much improved, I believe I may have just over-streched the ligament. After my self-diagnosis, I determined that I just needed some rest (yeah right), some ibuprofin and ice. I have been hobbling around with a crutch or walking stick (until one of my children wanders away with it to play horsey or smack his brother). If it doesn't improve markedly in the next three days, I promise I'll call the doctor and let him know what the problem is.

Sommer Dreams

I don't typically use my blog to make major family announcements, but perhaps just this once. I thought this day would come much farther down the road, but I suppose we embrace things as they happen. We haven't had a wedding in the family for some time, so I suppose we're about due. Here goes: Ethan is getting married.

Yesterday as I drove him to school I asked him about the other kids in his class. Ever since the kindergarten camp week in August, he's talked about a girl with a lemon necklace named Sommer. I asked him if he plays with any of the boys in his class. He said yes, but that Sommer follows him around and vice versa. Then he added that soon he and Sommer would be spending even more time together.

Why's that? I asked.

You have to guess.

Akward silence, big grin on his face.

We're getting married.

Really, when?

Not until we're grown up. But it's good to find out who you're going to marry when you're still little.

Ah, Sommer lovin' happened so fast . . .

Fool

As the boys have grown, Elliot has become, somewhat annoyingly if you ask Ethan, Ethan's shadow. It's been rather fun therefore to see Elliot turn into his own person every day while Ethan's away at school.

Where Enah?

You know where Ethan is, where did we take him this morning?

Enah at fool?

Yes, Ethan's at school.

He's become quite a little chatterbox. He flirts with the camp staff, does puzzles, plays games and watches moomies.

He's become my little buddy. I'm remembering what it was like to hang with just Ethan before Elliot was born. It's an odd feeling to have to think about activities for him to do rather than just breaking up fights between brothers.

Lately he's entered the NO! I do it myself! phase with hurricane force. Mix that with a good two-year-old tantrum and you have quite the storm.

Yet, the minute Enah gets home from fool, he immediately reverts to shadow.

The other day in the car, we notice he's covered himself completely with his favorite blanket. Then we hear:

Where Are Me?!

Hypothetically Speaking

Let’s go back to our hypothetical friend Sara. Let’s pretend that Sara works at a very family friendly organization located on a large property. The organization owns many tools and pieces of equipment in order to maintain this property. Meet Sam, Sara’s husband. Sam, who is not an employee, has been given permission to use some of the tools at the organization because, like I said, it is a family friendly organization. While Sam is occupied with the tools, their 9-year-old son Mason is hanging around. Somewhere along the line, Sam gives permission to Mason to hop into a golf cart owned by the organization and take it for a little spin. This being a family friendly organization, there are other employees’ children around. Mason, being adventurous, offers to give two other children, aged 5 and 8, a ride. Their mothers whose spouses are also employees, make this discovery and are understandably upset. What would you do? Talk to Sam directly? If this were a regular neighborly situation, yes, that is perhaps the proper course of action. You might approach Sam and discuss the apparent safety concerns, ask him to keep his child and cart on his own property, or keep your child on your own. But, let’s consider a couple of things:

1) The golf cart belongs to the organization, and it is against policy not only for non-employees to drive it, but obviously for any child to do so.

2) The incident occurred on organization property. The safety concerns and liability are considerable.

3) Knowing Sam, he’s likely totally unconcerned.

4) Sam’s wife, Sara is easily offended.

5) Both Sam and Sara already feel like they are unfairly treated by the higher-ups in the organization.

Maybe I’m an overprotective parent—I know, we all grew up without seatbelts and lived to tell about it. But can you just imagine how you would feel in the unlikely event that your child injured or killed someone else’s child (or himself) in such a preventable situation? 9-year-olds may have the dexterity to operate such a vehicle, but there are reasons we don’t give out driver’s licenses to them. Any number of horrible accidents could occur including pinning under, between, around, falling, crashing etc. Beyond bodily damage, let us also consider the risk of property damage.

So, in our hypothetical situation, let’s suppose that the mothers opt to discuss this with their husbands who are employees of the organization. One of them, chooses to bring it up directly with Sam. What is Sam’s reaction? Perhaps he says “Oh, gee, I didn’t realize he was driving it, let alone offering rides, I’m sorry.” Or maybe “Oh, I didn’t think of it that way, I’m sorry, won’t happen again.” Or just maybe, “What, am I a big mean guy that they can’t come talk to me? Come on, 7-year-olds drive those things! What’s the big deal?”

What’s the BIG DEAL?!? The big deal my friend is that the cart is not yours, the property is not yours, you are not an employee (and neither is your child for that matter) and if, heaven forbid, something should happen, the repercussions in terms of publicity, liability, life and limb are enormous. Not to mention your wife could probably lose her job whether or not there is an incident.

What grown adult thinks this is okay? Perhaps the reason I didn’t want to discuss it with you myself is that it is like talking to my 5-year-old, but more frustrating because you should know better.

Don’t get me wrong, I like this hypothetical Sara and Sam. They are nice people. They are fun to be around and very kind. They do nice things for me and my children like to play with theirs. But, as evidenced by my last Sara posting about the library, they can be very frustrating because they treat rules like a big smorgasbord and tend to have double standards where their own children are concerned. While it does allow for discussions with our children about how not everyone chooses to obey the rules and just because Sara says it’s okay for her kids, it’s not okay for ours and so on, it does make parenting in vicinity more of a challenge. It makes life around here difficult, because we all have privileges and as many an adage suggests, it only takes one to abuse privileges to the point of ruining it for everyone. It makes friendship a challenge, because it’s hard to want to hang out with people who are constantly doing things you just disagree with vehemently. It obviously rubs off on their children and you certainly don’t want it rubbing off on your own. I know, live and let live right?

I should really spend less time fretting about hypothetical situations

Pants

Ethan started Kindergarten last week. I didn’t even think to take a picture. Mother of the year. Tomorrow, I’m going to let him take the bus home . . . this is a big step, for mom. It should give me some sanity though, considering the 90 minutes it’s been taking to pick him up from school (30 minute drive, 30 minute wait in line, 30 minute drive home). Maybe I’ll take pictures as he gets off the bus tomorrow.

He’s done very well, or so I’m told. Matt says they frown on parents hovering outside the classroom door, or installing video cameras in the classroom. I have no doubt his teacher is doing an excellent job. I’m just struggling to believe Ethan is not manifesting his superbly defiant and stubborn nature with her.

Today he came home with a blue dot instead of the usual green. This indicates he had some difficulty today and had several warnings. He refused to tell us what had happened though. I’m not surprised. This morning was a rough morning.

Tuesday evening, we pick out clothes, try on as necessary and decide on the outfit of the day.

Wednesday morning, I try and wake Ethan up.

I’m tired!

I know, me too. Car is leaving in 15 minutes.

School’s boring, I don’t want to go.

I know. Car is leaving in 14 minutes.

MOOOOOOOOMMMM!

Yes?

I’m tired!

I know, me too. Car is leaving in 10 minutes. Are you going dressed or in your pajamas?

I’m just going to follow you wherever you go. I won’t stay in class.

That may be true. Here are your clothes. Car is leaving in 5 minutes.

These pants are too loose!

Would you like me to tighten your belt?

NO! I NEED DIFFERENT ONES!

Alright, here are different ones.

THEY’RE TOO TIGHT!

That’s terrible. Car is leaving in 3 minutes.

MOM!!

I’ll take these things to the car and come back and check on you before I leave.

MOM!! THESE ARE TOO TIGHT!

Gee, that’s strange. Those are the ones that were too loose a couple of minutes ago. Car is leaving now.

Much more whining and crying ensued. The beauty of the 30 minute drive to school is that generally by the time we get there, he’s awake, happy and ready to go.

Bye mom! I love you!

Bye sweetheart, have a good day!

Do you ever find yourself making up complex excuses to get out of doing something you don't want to do. The next time I find myself in that situation, I think I'll just get weepy and complain that my pants are too tight. You'll know what I mean . . .

Hefty

I am disturbed, and have been for some time--oh, and not just in the ways you already know about. I'm disturbed by many things. One thing disturbing me of late (again) is the ongoing issues with women and body image. I spent several days this week with relatives. We spent many hours watching the Olympics. I can't recall spending more time discussing bodies and weight loss and vitamins and the like before in my life. One comment in particular just keeps grinding on my brain. We're watching the women's marathon (that's running 26 miles thank you) and I kept hearing:

"Look at that one, she's hefty."

"Boy, she's a bit hefty."

It carried me right back to a day some years ago when I heard the same voice saying, in jest of course, to someone he loves (who was relatively thin at the time):

"Hey Thunder-thighs!"

Let me just say that such "teasing" of a teenage girl from her father--the one man who is supposed to love her unconditionally, is not just not funny, it's reprehensible.

We can pretend that this obsession is because we're concerned about our loved-one's health and well-being, but when it become an obsession--something talked about all day long, day in and day out, and when the subjects of such concern are far from obese, it's not so much a health concern as our own body-type bias.

I am disturbed not just generally about female body issues, but I am concerned in particular about the contributions men make to our body issues and more particularly, as a member of the LDS church, I am deeply disturbed by such attitudes amongst our membership.

I am again carried back to a time, again a few years ago, when a conversation with a few LDS friends really bothered me. (I did say that I've been disturbed about this for some time--it was the hefty commentary that pushed me over the edge). You see, we were walking early one morning when these beautiful, intelligent, charming (and thin) women began discussing the desired plastic surgeries they were hoping one day to have done. They indicated that their husbands were in full support of such enhancements, and may have even suggested them. Around the same time, I had a similar conversation with another dear friend. This conversation revolved around how her husband wanted her to lose some weight.

Below are some suggested comments for husbands whose wives begin discussing plastic surgery or weight loss.

"You know dear, I married you because I think you are beautiful. I will always think you are the most beautiful woman in the world." (you could play the Beatles When I'm 64 at this point).

or, for weight loss woes:

"You know, you have borne my children and neither of us are as young as we once were, so you really shouldn't beat yourself up over a few pounds. I still think, and will always think you are the most beautiful woman in the world. I certainly didn't marry you for your waistline. If you want to lose weight to feel healthier though, I will support you in whatever way you want me to. Just let me know what you need."

What kind of world are we setting our children and our spouses up for when we tell them in no uncertain terms that their bodies are not acceptable to us? That somehow our love for them is dependent upon a few key physical features. Then we sit back and wonder why our daughter sinks into a depression because she can't shake the weight she gained after her first baby. Or our wife talks incessantly about her diet program of the week and how she needs to drop 20 more pounds as she struggles to find the right mix of hormones and antidepressants.

To me, being hefty and having my own set of thunder-thighs, I find all this very disturbing. Sure, I'd like to lose quite a few pounds myself, but have learned to try not to let my weight determine my self-esteem or consume my life. I am grateful for parents who never made fun of me and never tolerated my siblings doing likewise. I am oddly and sporadically grateful for my lifelong struggle with weight--there's something very comforting in knowing that I met and married my husband at 250 pounds, so he's certainly not in it for my waistline. I am very grateful to my husband. I am grateful that despite being raised in a culture and even a childhood where weight was everything, he's somehow risen above that--he's in it for my charming personality and my lightening wit . . .

Shoo Bear

Since moving to FairyLand, I’ve consistently been told how shy black bears are, how they avoid human contact. My first bear encounter led me to believe it. My last was a different story.

I’ve come up with a new ploy to deter bears and other wildlife from getting into my garbage. Apart from taking it to the dump more frequently, I’ve also bungee corded the heck out of the poor chewed-up can. I’ve also tied it to my fence just outside my bedroom window. The reasoning for this is two-fold. 1—that the smell will encourage me to take it to the dump more regularly and 2—the motion light right there will discourage the shy bears and wildlife from digging in.

A couple of weeks ago, it finally cooled down enough to leave my windows open. About 4am my cat started sprinting back and forth from one of my bedroom windows, to my bed, across my head to stare out the other window. I subsequently woke up and noticed the motion light was on. I got out of bed, peered out my window and noticed a 400 lb (appx—I didn’t bust out the scale) black bear dining casually on my trash.

What did I do next you might ask? What would you do? I woke up my husband.

“Matt! Wake up! There’s a bear in the garbage!”

We’ve been told, “If you see a bear, just make yourself seem large and talk to it sternly like you would a dog and tell it to go away.”

Alright. “Hey! Go away bear! Shoo!”

The bear paused his dinner of dirty diapers and cat poop, slowly turned his head to look at me, turned back to the diapers and continued with his meal.

So Matt of course went to the kitchen and grabbed a pan, took it to the window and banged on it. He got a similar reaction.

I suddenly remembered that my children were in there beds, soundly asleep with the windows open. Recalling vague stories of bears eating children in their sleep, I ran in and closed their windows. This gave me another brilliant idea.

I ran to the front door, opened it and slammed it shut, then flashed the porch lights. I ran back to my window, slammed it shut a couple of times. Bear still eyeball deep in trash.

“What do we do?”

“Well, I don’t think we ought to go out there and clean up the trash just yet. Go back to sleep.”

Yeah, right.

I laid back down, my head propped up, staring at the bear. Then he casually sauntered away. After a few moments, the motion light turned off and I laid my head back down, attempting to sleep. Alas, my reprieve was short-lived. A few moments later, our friend returned for seconds.

Eventually he left and eventually I got back to sleep. I wish I’d had the presence of mind to grab a camera instead of a pan. Oh well, next time. I’m thinking of leaving out bowls of ripe berries. Just kidding, my trash now resides in my shed.