The blahs

1. I received an e-mail the other day with this ubiquitous stamp at the bottom: "Sent from my iPhone 4"

It isn't enough that you have an iPhone and I don't -- you have to throw in the "4" just to rub it in. I got an iPad for Mother's Day, and I hate to use it for e-mail because I haven't figured out yet how to turn off that little statement, with all of it's implications: I didn't want to say anything, but you should know that now I am more super awesome than you are. And also I probably have more money. Or at least I did before I dropped a bundle on this gadget. Neener, neener!

2. If I received a terminal diagnosis tomorrow, here is where I would go for my drop dead trip:

Redwoods in the Mist. Photo found here.

The giant trees are calling to me, people. I don't know what it is about these trees, but I could conjure up a good cry just looking at pictures. Every time I sit down at the computer to work on something, somehow I end up scrolling through images of Redwood National Park. I know, this gives me more in common with Kate Gosselin than I would ordinarily admit to, but the draw is undeniable.

There's an old growth forest further west, way up in the mountains here, called Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest -- one of the largest tracts of untouched hardwoods east of the Mississippi. I've been, and it's awe-inspiring: some of the oldest trees are over 400 years old. I was no less tearful there, but I still want to see the giants.

3. Here is what happened in at our house yesterday: Craig had an MRI (not, actually, in our house) on his right knee (most likely a torn meniscus, surgery pending), which he injured a mere fraction of a second after breaking his left foot in a thoroughly un-macho way; Mason was diagnosed with Mononucleosis pending the virus titer results we'll have in another day or so (HOW does a 4-year-old get mono?!?); I decided since he really is sick I'll stop being so hard on him about the whining, but heaven help me if he's going to whine like this for the next month; Laney puked all over the neighbor's swingset and then had diarrhea in her vomit bathwater; Garrett was stung by a hornet, giving me a great opportunity to whip out my package of chewing tobacco; my eyes glazed over and Craig had to hit the reset button when he got home from work; and the hero also brought dinner. (This is why my sister stopped wallowing: my day was WAAAAAY worse than hers.)

4. I won a dress from Shabby Apple. All I did to enter was give some money to Rising Star Outreach on behalf of Karl Marx, the little boy sponsored by MommySnark. My sister, Jenny (who is also Mommy Snark) sponsored the giveaway, and she told me that once the winner was determined, and it was me, just for kicks, she tried the random number generator again. It was still me. Eight times in a row. So it's karma. Yay for a new dress!

5. But booh to the blahs. And writer's block, from which I am suffering something fierce. I think it's because my brain is being slowly liquefied from overexposure to bodily secretions not my own. That's right, childless people! How's that for birth control?

6. I just read this to my husband, and he said, "It's great. It doesn't have to be a work of art every time you post." (What? This amazingly fantastical post is not a work of art?!? How dare he?!?) Except it does, or so I've led myself to believe. And apparently, I'm incapable lately. (Kim, please ignore all the sentence fragments, and the egregious run-on.) Oh, well. Aaaaaannnd . . . Publish!

Is this thing on?

Tap, tap, tap . . . is this thing on? Is anybody still out there? Can you hear me? This must be what it feels like to play a one-woman show to an empty theater. Of course, in my case the theater is empty because I've failed to show up for curtain call. For a month. Again.

So here's what I want you to do: immerse me. I've hit "Mark all as read" so many times in my Google reader it's not even funny, and I know I've missed some stuff. Probably, some pretty good stuff. So link up. Send me to the things I didn't comment on, but should have -- whether you wrote them or not. I've never visited your blog? Now is the time to tell me about it. I want to be here, in this virtual world, and it's time to catch up.

Crickets . . . (Oh, how I wish I could write the sound that they make instead of just saying "crickets". That's lame. But you can still hear them, right?)

Help Me, Karma

I went for a run on Monday morning at the park. I just discovered we have a greenway, and while I appreciate the blessing of having both a treadmill and a place to put it, I am SOOOO much happier running on the ground, counting species as I go.

So I was running along, minding my own business, plugged into Muse and Chris Isaac, thanking God for the miracle that is my husband (who used his unexpectedly long lunch break to mind our kids at the playground while I ran) when suddenly, out of nowhere, a huge hornet attached itself to my right index finger. Apparently, I distracted him from something extremely important because he stung with one end and bit with the other until I flicked him off, and then ended his short life with my brand new running shoes. It hurt. I cried out. But I kept going, because, you know, I was running! I was high on life! And I was way far away from the van, and Mason had to be picked up from preschool in a half hour!

To add insult to injury, as I danced a tarantella (hornetella?) down the trail, trying, I suppose, to shake the venom out of my finger, I realized that if I didn't find a way to empty my bladder pronto, I'd be jogging back to civilization in need of a diaper change. (Curse you, stress incontinence -- you are my least favorite side effect of childbirth ever.) So I waited until there were no other people in sight on the trail, and ducked into the cornfield where I actually considered peeing on my throbbing finger, a method that according to both Survivor and Friends (my favorite sources for first aid advice) works on a jellyfish sting. I put myself back together and finished my run, and by the time I met my family at the playground, my finger was really beginning to swell.

By the next day, I looked like I had hijacked the entire right arm of a much larger woman -- one with sausage fingers and a killer case of pitting edema. I couldn't hold a pen. I couldn't open a bottle. I couldn't take Benadryl because, well, I have four children and must remain awake and standing for most of the activities required by their care. It took a solid week for the itching and swelling to subside.

Lately, it seems like every time I make an effort towards better physical fitness, something goes wrong: iPod battery dead as a doornail. Baby nap over before I can even get through the first mile on the treadmill. Rain when I plan to run out doors, kids too sick for the gym when I'm ready for a class. I just can't seem to get into the groove. I'm trying, but I think the groove hates me.

I'm ready for some karma. I need a tailwind the next time I hit the trail for a race -- Saturday, maybe? How about an unexpectedly warm 8AM temperature so my fingers aren't frostbitten at the finish line? A little bit of instant gratification would go a long way towards motivating more hard work: a faster time, a pound or two lost, a second wind, an improvement . . . help me, karma.

Unless, of course, it involves hornets.

Let the Sun Shine In

It's been so long since I've posted that I'm not sure I remember how to do it . . . good gracious! Has it really been over a month?!? Yes, it has, and I have nothing to offer by way of explanation. Did you miss me? Did you even notice my absence? Please don't say no. (You can think it. But please don't say it in a comment.) I've randomly commented here and there, but good friends in the blogosphere have dealt with major life events and weathered the aftermath without so much as a how-do-yo-do from my corner. I hope you don't hate me.

I'd like to be able to tell you that I have been furiously participating in NaNoWriMo, and the publishing of my masterpiece, the fabled Great American Novel, is forthcoming . . . but I can't, because I haven't been. I'd like to be able to say that I've been so caught up in cleaning and organizing my cluttered and messy house that I just haven't found the time to blog. That, too, would be a lie. I have also not been on a long trip, secretly pregnant and delivering another baby, spending all of my time volunteering at a homeless shelter, meeting with Hollywood producers regarding a made-for-TV movie about my fabulously interesting life, or engaging in a principled internet-fast. I have, quite simply, been lazy. And maybe I've been wallowing a little.

The other day I was cleaning Garrett and Connor's room. I am baffled by boy smells. Even if they go to bed squeaky-clean and Burt's Bees-scented, I am still overwhelmed by a mysterious odor not unlike scrambled eggs whenever I check on them at night. This prompts me, on a regular basis, to fling open the windows and let the breeze blow through, in a futile attempt to air out the latent smell of burgeoning testosterone.

I pushed the windows as high as I could, and then, as I tucked the quilt and fluffed the pillow and arranged the stuffed animals on Garrett's bed, I noticed the play of light through the open blinds. I watched windblown leaf-shadows dance across Laney Kate's dimpled fingers as she patted the bedding, an ardent and surprisingly productive mimic of my own tidy efforts.

I had a brief moment of clarity as I watched her golden-red hair glint in the bright light: the sun, I realized, keeps on shining. All I have to do is let it in -- throw open my windows, pull back the curtains, raise the blinds, let myself be illuminated by the light that cannot stop itself from filling up an empty space -- my empty space. The sun keeps on shining. The grass keeps growing, the world keeps spinning, the birds keep singing, even if I'm not watching.

This is the greatest tragedy of blocking out the sunlight: What did I miss? What did I not see because I was closed off from the possibility? I'll never know.

But now I'm watching, and these windows are open for good.

The End of an Era, and Other Observations

1. Wow, how things change.

We are winding up our third week of kindergarten. My house is cleaner than it has been in, oh, about 5 1/2 years. Garrett and Connor (Real names! Don't faint!) started year-round kindergarten this month and, I tell you what -- this regular schedule thing is A. kicking my butt, and B. fantastically awesome. We all go to bed earlier. I am home from taking the big boys to school by 8AM. My kids are happy, excited, engaged, and totally into the whole school experience. And I am extremely relieved -- especially for Garrett, whose complicated personality sometimes, well, complicates things. Life is good. I am, however, a little nostalgic for the time when I was pretty much the only influence on these little guys for 90% of the day. But not nostalgic enough to home school. There are not enough anti-anxiety medications in the world.

2. My baby is beautiful. And standing, whilst staring at her feet, willing them to move. Precocious mobility is not anywhere on my list of favorite things . . . but I think Elena (Another real name! Actually, we call her Laney Kate) will be my earliest walker. Curses. She also just cut four teeth at once, and her hair becomes more red every day. She is eating real food and crawling all over the place -- I no longer contain her, except to close the door to the basement.

Also, she's a shoplifter. But then, she learns from the best. Let me explain.

Last week, my friend and I took our little ones with us on a shopping trip to a semi-close outlet mall. After we left the first store, my friend pulled a pair of little boy size 6 month shorts out of my stroller. "Did you mean to get these?"

No. No, I did not. But apparently, Laney Kate did. So we took them back.

And then we went to Gap. I loaded up the top of my stroller with cute things for all of my kids. While checking out, Mason (yep, that one's real, too) was playing peek-a-boo with Laney by opening and closing the sunshade. I was halfway to Banana Republic before I noticed two cute little outfits still left on top of the sunshade that I had totally stolen.

So I went back and paid for those. She even let me use my 25% off coupon again.

3. That trip to the outlet mall was merely an excuse to drive past all the peach orchards on the way and load up on my most favorite food IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. I've said it before and I'll say it again: if I had been Eve, and the forbidden fruit had been peaches, the serpent would not have had to try very hard. As in, he wouldn't have even had to show up. Last night, I ate three. In one sitting. Of course, that's because I had just finished . . .

4. a three mile run. In the heat of the day. I'm a little crazy like that. And if it's hot and humid, it counts more. My husband is training for a triathlon (which I will NEVER do) and he was making me look bad. And I discovered that the park near my house has a greenway . . . cool, and shaded and breezy by the river. And on that greenway, half-buried in the vines, is an old abandoned wreck of a car. It's totally creepy. In a good way.

5. I have always loved "Masterpiece Mystery!" But this season has been uncommonly good. If you are so inclined, find yourself a way to watch this season's "Murder on the Orient Express." Poirot at his best. (In the interest of full disclosure, my husband hates these shows. Passionately. But that's okay. Because I also hate "Gearz".)

6. Maybe the summer heat (way more extreme than usual around here) is getting to my brain, but I have nada for blog fodder. So instead of writing crap, I have chosen (until now) to write nothing. And really, just between you and me, it seems that a lot of other people out there are not refraining even though their fodder wells have dried up, too. (No, not you! Ha, ha. Of course, not you! I mean those other people!) I have found myself commenting less and less, partly because I'm still doing the one-handed-typing-while-nursing thing, but partly because . . . I don't have much to say. Have I offended you? Please don't take offense. The muse will strike me again, and with it will (hopefully) come a desire to once again engage in widespread internet conversating. But for now, you're stuck with drivel to read from a blogger who mostly lurks. Signing off . . . for now.

And in case you're wondering . . . it's Emily.

A Sad Commentary on the Current State of Affairs

In the future, when my children watch "old" movies and discover the most recent iteration of King Kong, they will think the scene with King Kong holding Naomi Watts on top of the Empire State Building is a reference to the "Attack of the 50 Foot Sister" episode of Phineas and Ferb.

Whoa. That's deep, man.




(And if you don't know anything about those two idiotically-named characters, they're brothers who, each day during summer vacation, do something absolutely outrageous -- think build a portal to Mars -- while their older sister tries to get them busted. Meanwhile, their pet platypus Perry, a secret agent, plays Candace to the sad arch-villain-wannabe Dr. Doofenschmirtz. One scheme usually cancels out the other so Candace's oblivious mom always just misses catching her sons in the act, and Dr. D's plans are always thwarted by the silent but effective Perry the Platypus, who manages to simultaneously save the Tri-State Area and protect P & F's summer vacation plans. Can you tell I've seen every episode? Frequently? I won't complain. There are definitely worse things for my kids to enjoy.)

Bright Future

The only picture I took during the entire weekend of the CBC:

Shallow

Have you heard? The CBC is in a little over a week, and I've had a running of list of things to do to get ready for months now. Business cards? Check. Awesome butt-shaping blue jeans? Check. Cute shoes? Check. A functional diaper bag that can also be my carry-on? Check. Cute haircut? Check . . . oh, wait.

I got my hair cut last Thursday. My hair is curly and big, and really has a mind of its own. When it's curly, I manage it mostly by not managing it . . . that, and great products which, I swear, are an invention of the 21st century. Occasionally, I blow it out myself, but usually, if I want to wear it straight, I pick what I hope will be the first day in a long stretch of rainless ones, and go have someone else do the 45 minute elbow-wrenching job. And if the gods have smiled upon me, that blow out will last . . . 4 or 5 days.

That's why I have just noticed today the carnage. I don't know what happened. My stylist usually does a fantastic job . . . but Thursday, she cut my shorter layers so short that they could now be classified as bangs should I choose to wear them that way. She left my longer layers so long that now that I've allowed it to do what it wants to do, I can only describe my new do as a curly mullet.

I fixed my hair this morning, and then I cried. And then I called my sister and sent her a picture. She kind of laughed and then didn't say much except, "I . . . um . . . I think we can fix this?"

Not exactly convincing.

We then discussed the merits of having a Jane Austen-ready haircut (there are none), and I did a Google search to see if anyone is casting for Louis XIV (most are looking for a man to play the lead, even if the hair is spot on).

I called the salon this afternoon. And I'm going back in tomorrow morning to get it re-done. But the bangs? The bangs I didn't ask for, and that have not, for a reason, graced my face since an unfortunate eighth grade hairstyle mishap -- well, I'll just have to wait for them to catch up with their cohorts.

I should just wear it straight until it grows out. But have you been to the North Carolina mountains in the summer? The whole afternoon thunderstorm weather pattern is pretty much the norm around these parts, and what kind of crazy person straightens curly hair on a rainy day? Even on a good day, my straightened hair has a look of potential energy about it -- like any exposure to humidity might cause my head to explode into an afro-like puffball of unruly ringlets, mostly because that's exactly what happens.

So somehow this bad hairstyle sent me into a tailspin that I have struggled to get out of all day long. It's a symphony week and I like to get things in order early when I know 5 of the next 6 nights will be occupied with non-housekeeping and mothering activities. I've done NONE of the things I needed to. I played with my kids. I figured out how to webchat so MommyJ could see my ugly hair. I wrote this blog post and put out some other fires, but I didn't clean the floor or fold any laundry or even make dinner -- my lovely husband brought home burgers for the kids and sushi for the grownups instead.

To add insult to injury, Miscellany pooped all over my bed, onto sheets that I just changed last night. LAST NIGHT, I tell you! It is on CPod's side. Maybe I'll just leave it. Poop? Bad hair? Anything else? Please, let the cleansing strains of Appalachian Spring do their work on my psyche tonight. I need a lift in the worst kind of way.

I spent the afternoon asking myself if I was really that shallow -- so shallow that a bad hair day can turn me into a self-centered ogre? Yes. Yes, I am.

I was due for a reality check, and I got it when I spoke with my best friend this afternoon. Her mother is in end-stage renal failure, and at this point, dialysis is out of the question and the best they can hope for is a short wait on the transplant list. We just went through this with CPod's mom, and I wish that degree of worry on no one. Our outcome was positive, and I can only pray that hers will be as well.

That bad haircut? Pales in comparison to the sentence of a life-shortening disease calling in its dues. That needed perspective-kicker has shifted my focus away from the mirror. Good thing, because the reflection is really, really bad.

(I just read this to CPod. He really thinks I should say something about how I'm trying to work on my present lack of depth. Or some redeeming characteristic that mitigates my narcissism . . . yeah. I got nothing. Maybe the act of posting the debacle will be cathartic enough for me to move on, but chances are I'm not moving on until tomorrow morning. Keep your fingers crossed for something halfway attractive!)

Lucky Day

Because I found 13 four-leaf clovers today. And a few with five leaves. In about 3 minutes. It's a gift.

I haven't written much lately, because I've had so much to write about. I've said that before. Someone else has said that recently, but I can't remember who. So I'm cleaning out my (figurative) closet RIGHT NOW and I'm just going to write one big, huge, messy, disconnected post of Blog Nothing. And then I will feel better and I'll be able to get on with my life. Here we go!

1. I also cleaned out my literal closet. My husband hates it when I do this. He says it creates a vacuum of space that needs to be filled. He's right. I'm going shopping on Friday. My sister loves it when I do this because she gets all of my cast-offs, if she wants them. And she does. Everybody wins. Except my cash stash.

2. Did you hear? I'm going shopping on Friday. With my sister. And my mom. And our beautiful babies. And then we (including sisters-in-law and Lucy) are going to play cards and drink Mexican Co'Cola until the cows come home. (When, exactly, is that? Does anyone know? Annette?) And all of the men in our family are camping. And we are all, every one of us, campers and shoppers alike, Very Much looking forward to this weekend. I have a vacuum to fill, after all.

3. I asked my sister the other day how she would describe me to a stranger who had to find me based on her description. I know, it's a weird question. She said, "I would tell them to look for the beautiful (she has to say that because people sometimes think we're twins) short girl in a red coat with a mass of curly dark hair." And I said, how can you leave out the boobs? She said, No one notices your boobs. I said, Are you on drugs? Because, well. They're ginormous. And now that I've had my last baby, I am going to give my back a blessed break and surgically alter my figure. I have looked forward to this since before I had children, and now that it's 6 months or so away from actually happening, I'm worried that my buxom-ness is an actual part of my identity. I know. Every day, the (Not) in "I'm (Not) Crazy Mommy" fades a little.

4. I just read this post by Heather of the EO. But before I read it, I listened to/watched her Thank You video here. And I was so happy to hear her voice. When I read blogs, I narrate them in my head. But if I have really heard your voice, I hear your voice . . . in your voice, instead of mine. And I loved it. I will forever read her blog with a Minnahsohtah voiceover. This is one of the many reasons I'm excited to go to the CBC in just THREE WEEKS. Finally, my little dramatic interpretations of what you've written will have an all new cast of voiceover actors.

5. Speaking of the CBC, I'm having some anxiety about it. In case you don't know, I'm speaking on a panel with my sister (MommyJ of Mommy Snark, in case you just thought I was her stalker -- although she's very stalk worthy. But don't. Please.), Kristina Pulsipher of Pulsipher Predilections, and Jessica Bern of Bern This. These girls are FUNNY. Me? Not so much. And so while I am a complete and total attention hog when it comes to things that, oh, I don't know, showcase my brilliance and help me feel super-smart, I do not shine in the comedy department. Unless you count unintentional physical comedy. I'm totally good at slipping on an invisible banana peel, or magically dropping something that I wasn't even holding. Anyway, our topic is Finding Your Voice. I'm still looking for mine, I think, but if you can think of anything you think would be interesting for us to cover, glance furtively the other way to make sure MotherBoard and MomBabe aren't looking and e-mail me some suggestions!

6. Speaking of sisters, I love mine. I decided the other day that I'm glad I only have one. If I had another sister, we would have to share. And someone would always be left out. And, let's be honest here people. It would be me. Critical? Check. Overbearing? Check. Controlling? Oh, yes. Know-it-all? I invented the term. Willing to change? Absolutely not. In other words, MommyJ is stuck with me by default. Yay for me!

7. I can't decide if my hair makes me look more like this guy (note the fine halo of snowboarder extraordinaire Shaun White's out-of-control frizzies that WILL NOT be controlled by any amount of leave-in conditioners, smoothing balms, control creams, or shaping waxes -- trust me, I know):

Or this guy (note the heavy, hanging-to-the-jowls, face-elongating, horse-ifying qualities of Maestro Bach's 17th century wig):

Although I'm not sure either one is really worthy of my hair worship.

Later, my friends. I will blog again before . . . Sunday, midnight, EST. Promise!

InkMom Speweth Forth, Lightning Round

Okay, let's finish up these questions.

From Eowyn:

8. "Where is the most exotic place you've ever lived?"

You're not going to believe the answer. Considering, though, that I've lived in a small southern town for most of my life, the place that was the most different from what I was used to?

Drum roll, please.

Provo, Utah! I know. Not very exotic. I haven't really lived that many places: Winston-Salem, NC; here (which is the same town my family moved to when I was 5); Provo; Memphis; Johnson City, TN; Charlotte, NC; Spartanburg, SC. And that's it. But. I have traveled widely, so I don't feel quite so bumpkin-ish.

From Amber:

8. "Was your 4th planned or unplanned?"

Is there another category? Let's say our fourth child was . . . unprevented. How about that? After undergoing extraordinary measures to conceive our twins (for that story, see this post) and the shock of getting pregnant the old-fashioned way before the twins were a year old, we just decided to let nature take its course. If we ended up with another baby, great. If we didn't, that would be okay, too. (Although, now that we have little Miscellany, I can't imagine being without her.) Who knew the pendulum could swing so drastically from "absolutely infertile" to "whoa, you have a whole lot of little kids all at once"?

From Lisa:

10. "Have you ever had an online friend that turned out to be "not so cool" when you met in person?"

I'll let you know after CBC in May, okay? Because I have *gasp* never actually met one of my on-line friends in person. I know. Strange. I have met a few random strangers who recognized me from my blog -- those were surreal moments, let me tell you. But they were just that -- moments. So no time for chemistry or lack thereof to really kick in, and no reciprocal relationship. They were my readers, but I was not theirs.

From Emily (who is currently living in a 700 sq ft basement with 3 toddlers & infant twins):

11. "How would you handle living in a 600 square foot space full time?"

Oh, my goodness. 5 children in 700 square feet? Including twins? God bless you, woman. I'm impressed that you have the wherewithal to string together a coherent thought that doesn't include SOS!

Our first apartment, when we were still at BYU (25E 900N #1), had 12" of counter space and an Easy Bake Oven. The shower was so tiny that if you dropped the soap, you had to get out to pick it back up. Or else, you wedged yourself in so tightly that the fire department would need to use the jaws of life to extricate your embarrassed and naked body from the tiny tile cubicle. But I inhabited that space without any children or the accompanying accoutrements.

The worst parts about being confined to a hotel room in an urban space are, in order of impact: 1. Lack of familiar stuff: toys, blankets, snacks, etc. You can sort of alleviate this by bringing a truckload of gear, but not really. 2. Lack of ability to go outside. Parking lots aren't the greatest place for my kids to hang out, and running laps around the coffee table inside the room does bad things for everyone involved. 3. Lack of natural light. This one is mostly a problem for me. But still. Basement apartment, right, Emily?

So, how would I handle that all the time? A lot of outings. A LOT. And I would not keep anything that was not absolutely necessary, because lack of clutter goes a looooooong way to improve my outlook when I'm feeling bad about my space. And I would sleep train the heck out of my kids to take maximum advantage of child-free hours. The other thing? The most important thing? You can do anything as long as you know it's temporary.

From Andrea (who has been scarce in the blogosphere lately, and I miss her):

12. "Are you still doing your cleaning schedule that you posted long ago (I loved it and use it)?"

She is referring to this. And this explanation for its genesis. Yep, I'm still using them. Because they work! I periodically retool them, tweaking little things here and there, adjusting the frequency, whatever. But they're basically the same lists as the ones I published here last year.

Also from Andrea, these next five:

13. "What do you do with photos? (scrapbook/ albums etc.)"

Sad, this answer. Because what I intend to do is a far cry from what actually happens. I DO NOT scrapbook. I WILL NEVER scrapbook. Not even digitally. However. I like the idea of digitally produced photo albums without all the extra layout stuff. That's my intention -- yearly photo books, with copies printed for each kid, so they'll have a personal history of sorts to take with them when they no longer live in this house. For now, my photos enter the black hole that is my computer and never see the light of day again, unless I post them on this blog or my mother threatens to disown me if I don't e-mail some to her.

14. "What was your favorite place to vacation?"

I love to travel. LOVE it. But I have a few favorite places:

• Rome -- it's magical. It's dirty, and gritty, but it's a city for lovers. I could live there.
• Paris -- I could live there, too. Oh, the art! The food! I even love the people.
• Interlachen, Switzerland and the little villages up above -- the most refreshing, incredibly relaxing time I have ever spent. Anywhere. My favorite place on this planet is Trummelbach Falls: 10 glacial-runoff waterfalls, 5 of them inside the mountain. I will write about this in greater detail in another post.
• Smaller places: Orvieto, Italy; St. Malo, France; Wilmington, NC; Palisades Reservoir in Idaho; the lake where we take our kids every summer
• My own mountains -- serenity, here. I love it. My heart lives here, and always will.
• Cities -- New York, LA, Seattle, Atlanta, DC. Love the energy. Love the food and shopping. Love the music. Love the bigness, the diversity. Love how different they are from the world I inhabit on a daily basis.
• Vacations fall into two categories for me: retreat and expansion. Sometimes I just want wilderness, a cabin in the woods, a house on the beach. Other times, I want to be enlarged and challenged by new places and experiences.
• Any place where my kids can run around without restriction: beach, forest, field, desert, prairie.
• Here's where we want to go: New Zealand. Alaska. Australia (CPod served his mission in Sydney). Prague. Jerusalem. Chicago (how have I missed Chicago?). Vancouver. Toronto. Scotland. Greece. Barcelona. That's just the tip of the iceberg. (Ooh! Iceland!)

15. "What age can you start learning a musical instrument? (piano/ violin)"

It's never too early to begin early rhythmic play with your kids. And sing with them from day one. It helps a lot to develop an ear. And I don't teach Suzuki, so I like to start kids when they have a firm grasp of letters. Music is one huge system of symbols, and when kids are learning to recognize letters, then associate a specific sound with it, it's really a great time to take it one more step and translate it onto the piano keyboard. I also think it's essential to start with piano, because even with other instruments, it is so much easier to grasp concepts of music theory if you learn them on a piano. And it's never too late to learn! If you want to start now, go for it! You may have to work a little harder at it than you would have as a child, but as an adult, you're much more likely to have the discipline to do the work. So do it!

16. "What's a date recommendation?"

My husband and I love good food. So a date will always involve eating something delicious. We also love to browse. Book stores are a big favorite. So go eat. Then go pick out things for each other to read at a big book store. Then get dessert. Boring, I know. But very satisfying for us.

17. "What's your favorite easy dinner recipe?" as well as from Lisa, "what is your favorite meal that you make?"

My favorites are constantly changing . . . but the one I always come back to is simple, down home food: pan fried boneless pork chops (thin ones), home made cornbread (note here that cornbread DOES NOT have sugar in it. That would be corn cake. Cornbread is savory and crumbly or it's not cornbread.), steamed cabbage with lots of salt and butter, and applesauce. For a food snob, this isn't really snobby, is it? But it's plain, simple, good food.

There are a few questions I have left unanswered. That's because they've inspired honest-to-goodness, full-length blog posts of their own: teaching kids about sex (KP, I'll be consulting you!); why the church grows so slowly in the south; book recommendations; my soapbox.

Thanks for the questions, readers. I have certainly enjoyed answering them!

Stream of Consciousness

I'm breaking you back in slowly, my friends. It's been so long since I've posted anything on a regular basis that I've got to remind myself a little what this here blog thingy is all about. Without further ado, a list of random crap:

1. You should really be careful about how you pronounce the word "pianist." Do I need to explain why? Last Sunday, as our esteemed Stake President announced from the pulpit that a new person had been called as the stake Priesthood pianist, I had a premonition of what was about to happen as little ConMan turned to me and said, loudly, "Hey! That guy said (insert the word you're all hoping he didn't say)!" Well, at least now I know he was listening. Some of you early InkMom adopters will remember this is not the first time ConMan has spoken of verboten body parts during church. But really. pee-ann-ist. Three syllables. PLEASE!

2. I've been reveling in the soundtrack to Glee. I love it. My kids love it. I think I'm raising a bunch of musical theater nerds, and I'm totally okay with that. I turned it on this week and when the boys heard it for the first time, it's like their feet started dancing of their own accord. GDog's eyes got big, and ConMan made me play their version of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" over and over again. But guess which one GDog decided to sing in public the other day? "I'll bust the windows out your car." Yeah.

They may be monsters, but at least they're cute . . .

. . . and creative with their vast powers of destruction. (Dresser drawers as beds? No, my children have not been watching Seinfeld, thank you very much.)

3. One thing I'm thankful for right now: hot water. I think God gave us natural hot springs so that we would be inspired to want to bathe warmly. I say a little prayer of thanks every single time I step under the scalding stream of my shower, and another one each time I slip into the relaxing, eucalyptus and peppemint scented waters of my tub. (Origins Peace of Mind Vapor Bath, in case you're wondering. It's awesome.)

4. Chocolate is NOT all created equal. Please don't hate me for hating Hershey's Kisses. Chocolate should not be grainy like that. Chocolate should be smooth and intense and complex. It should make you swoon. My preferred delivery methods form a triad: liquid, semi-solid, and encased in pastry. Caotina (imported hot chocolate mix from Switzerland, bought every Christmas and rationed through the cold months. We finally found an importer in the US so now the shipping doesn't cost more than the product.). Chocolate lava cake (if you're lucky, I'll share the recipe one of these days). Williams-Sonoma chocolate croissants (also, our Christmas indulgence). And I have had the hedonistic gall to experience all three this weekend. And a bubble bath. Hold on, I think I'm about to have a reality check headache.

5. While we're talking about food, I think the food guide pyramid needs some revamping. My four basic food groups: Fruit. Bread. Cheese. Chocolate. With periodic supplements of a bacon.

6. While we're talking about bacon, I will share with you my greatest culinary discovery of 2009: bacon baked in the oven. Here's how you do it: Line a big rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper. Take care to make sure that the parchment paper goes up the sides a little bit of it's kind of pointless. Fill it with a single layer of bacon. It's okay if they overlap, because they shrink a lot when you cook 'em. Bake at 350 degrees for about 15 minutes, or until it's as crispy as you like it. It will all be uniformly cooked, and your cooktop will not have grease splatters and, voila! It will be done at the same time as your French toast. Which is what CPod made for breakfast yesterday. On our snow day. Which brings me to . . .

7. Generally, in this neck of the woods, you can hope for one good snow of 6 or 7 inches per winter. You can hope, but you probably won't get it. Our snowfall total so far this year? Nearly 2 feet. I'm serious. And I've discovered something about myself. When I'm an old woman, I will be A. living as a recluse back in the woods with no neighbors, or B. the one with a sign in the yard that says in very large letters, "DON'T PLAY IN MY SNOW." Because I have been totally bugged by the neighbor kids ruining the snow in our yard. I don't care if my kids mess it up, but for some reason, I don't want anyone else to do it. It's strange, because I don't care if the neighbor kids play on the grass. But the snow? It's all I can do to keep myself from yelling at them off the front porch. Luckily, CPod's been around all weekend to restrain me.

 

(This snow was so old and crusted over that when they were sledding, I was a little worried we might have an incident out of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.)

8. More on the snow. My lovely husband bought an old Jeep Cherokee early last year. He installed a lift kit and new shocks and some other stuff that caused him to put in long hours staring at the undercarriage. He loves that thing. I mean, there are more pictures of the Jeep on his phone than any of the people in his life. (Except for Miscellany. Because he is smitten.) But this fall, he had begun to question the utility of his project, and let me tell you, he is all about "utility". He's the one who told me that quilting was a great hobby because the finished product is so "useful". Well, we've got all kinds of utility going on now because in the snow, that Jeep is UNSTOPPABLE. And the crisis of finding a new project car has been averted. What a man I've got! Photographic evidence:

 

My baby-holding, vacuum-running, iPod-listening better half. No, that is not a new vacuum. Instead, we had to buy a new washer & dryer.

9. My baby is beautiful. And she sleeps -- get this -- 8 hours a night! At 3 months old! (Don't hate me. I already had twins who, for a very long while, did not sleep at the same time. Ever. I EARNED THIS ONE!) Do you need proof? Here you go:

 

Bliss.

  

(I just realized this looks like she's about to pick her cute little turned-up nose. It was bound to happen.)

Blessing day.

She laughs! She smiles! She's a person!

That's all I've got, folks. Bedtime calls, and so does the treadmill.

Crisis Management Mode

So. If you're looking for introspective, intelligent InkMom, head over to MMB. You may have read it before, but it's one of my most favorite pieces, and, I hope, worth rereading!
I am neither introspective nor intelligent today because lately I live in crisis management mode. And also, I'm a total drama queen. (The sun is definitely not the center of this universe, let me tell you.)

In my world, the world which revolves around me, crisis management mode happens when you frantically try to get the biggest, most important thing done so you can then move onto the next biggest, most important thing. And those big, important things are so many that you don't have time to adequately prepare for the next big thing because you're still stuck on getting the last one done. Does this make any sense at all?

Last night, I crossed off the most stressful item on my list: 2009 payroll tax filings for our business. an enormous weight has been lifted off of my shoulders, let me just tell you. I should be back blogging on a more regular basis, so dry your tears -- InkMom is back!

Here's a taste of what's to come:

A few posts, the deep, thinking posts I love to write, that were inspired by a single word

Some pictures of The Most Beautiful Baby in the Whole Entire World. Because she just started laughing and it's ADORABLE!

An InkMom retrospective

Some random items

And some funny stuff. I shouldn't tell you I'm going to write something funny, because then it won't be. But I'm thinking positively. Or I'm positively thinking. (Neither one really works. Oh, well.)

Ciao!

Loose Ends

Tying up loose ends, that's what I've been doing here the past couple of days. My due date is Wednesday, and while I don't expect to make any frantic midnight trips to the hospital or anything before then, I'm trying to be prepared in the unlikely event I actually go into labor unassisted. So . . . blogging loose ends, mostly about pregnancy, neatly tied up. You probably won't hear from me again until baby girl has finally made her entrance into this world.

1. I put the down comforter on our bed weeks ago. And then it got warm again. But now . . . now, I sink into the pillows and relish the weight of winter time. It is a singular pleasure to hear the rustle of a down comforter, and feel cozy, snug, safe in your warm bed. I've been waiting for this since May!

2. I believe people shorter than 5'4" should only be required to gestate for 38 weeks. Anyone with me? Because, seriously, there is NO WHERE for this baby to go . . . but out. And my body does not seem to be willing to comply. Did you know I've never gone into labor (and neither has my sister, nor did my mother or my grandmother)? With the twins, I was induced because amniotic fluid was low on baby A, and it was a necessity. With MayDay, I was induced with  foley ball (e-mail me if you want to know what that means) because after a long and painful induction with the twins, I was a little pitocin-shy. Now, at 39+ weeks, I am, to quote my doctor, "High, tight, and thick." Nice. In other words, I'm still going to be pregnant at Christmas.

3. I had forgotten that pregnancy lowers all kinds of boundaries for people. For example, I find myself talking about the state of my cervix with people who don't normally have an interest in how my reproductive organs are functioning. Even strangers ask me questions that would be totally inappropriate were it not for my obviously pregnant state. Yes, thank you, I do know where babies come from. Yes, I am also aware of what . . . action may be taken at home to possibly bring on labor. Same thing that gets you knocked up in the first place, right? No, we weren't trying to have a baby, but we just couldn't keep our hands off of each other. Too much information? Well, you're the one that brought it up! I mean, do people realize when they ask these questions that they, strangers, are really asking to know some of the most intimate details of my life? It's as though the only reason anyone would have more than two children is a lack of self control. Which brings me to . . .

4. Last week, we stopped by Verizon on the way home to take care of a cell phone problem. The boys had been cooped up all day, it was near bedtime, and we were right in the middle of what we affectionately refer to as "sleep throes" so instead of leaving CPod in the car with them, we all came inside. They ran around the store, and maybe they were a little noisy, but they did not mess with any of the display phones or destroy property.

As I neared the front of the line, CPod corralled them back to the car while I finished up our business. The woman in front of me, who five minutes before had asked me when I was due and if I knew what I was having, began to make small talk with the agent assisting her. "Don't you just love it when people bring their kids in here and just let them run wild?" she said to him. He just nodded, and she kept going. "And she's pregnant again!"

Really? Really? Oh, how I wanted to say something to her. It would have been easy to engage her in a brief but scathing conversation about parenting styles, kindness to strangers, Verizon's lack of posted policy regarding the presence of children in their store, and -- egad -- passing snap judgments on people you do not know based solely on 5 minutes of observation without interaction, and what types of judgments people might make of her based on her southern-redneck accent, smoker's voice, mullet haircut, and the Sam's Club employee ID hanging around her neck. Did I make any of those judgments? No. I know too many good, intelligent southern rednecks to assume they're all stupid, and I can't disrespect anyone who has a job -- of any legal type -- in this economy. I'm much more likely to judge her based on the duplicity I witnessed in the brief minutes of our encounter. People make me crazy.

5. We had our Trunk or Treat last night at church. It was . . . a bit much for me, I think. If we had that many people at church every Sunday, our ward would split. And they never plan for as many people as we actually get, which makes it just plain chaotic. My children, however, were adorable. (Photos to follow after real trick or treating tonight.) ConMan & GDog dressed up as Mario and Luigi, and MayDay was Toad -- all from Super Mario Bros. They've been planning this since August, and, I'm proud to say, since they gave me so much advance notice, and because Grandma so graciously crafted an adorable little vest for our little Toad, their costumes did not come pre-assembled in a bag from Target, thank you very much.

6. CPod came up with an awesome last-minute costume: The Edge. (Awesomely fantastic U2 lead guitarist, for you cave-dwellers.) He put on one of the boys' little beanie caps, drew on a goatee, and hooked a little kid rock star guitar in the carpenter loop of his jeans. Only three people at church got it. In case we weren't sure before, we now know for certain who are the three coolest people in our ward.

7.  I wore an orange t-shirt and taped jack-o-lantern face parts to my belly. Really, it was my only fitting option. And that, my friends, is the main reason why . . .

8. I'm done going to church until after the baby is born. Seriously. Because I just can't bring myself to wear my uniform of yoga pants and oversized hoodie to Sacrament meeting. It's not that I'm that huge, really -- I've only gained about 12 pounds (because the secret to healthy pregnancy weight gain is to just be fat before you get pregnant), but at this point, nothing feels good, fits right, stays where it should, or, most importantly, flatters the shape of anyone who looks like Humpty Dumpy. Who was probably a pregnant woman anyway.

Signing off until baby gets here!

My 500

A few weeks ago, I took two-thirds of our children to the grocery store with me while CPod took the other third to the dentist.

As I wound my way past the bananas and peaches, the bread and peanut butter, I kept running into this very nice woman. We made small talk through the store, and then made our simultaneous departures.

A few days later, we took our kids out for hot dogs, and the grocery store lady was sitting in the booth across from ours with her cute teenage son. Also eating hot dogs. Our town is small, but it's not that small.

This made me remember one of my roommates in college. Everywhere we went in Provo, she knew someone. One night, we made her draw a map for us, a kind of Venn diagram with her in the center -- of all the people she was related to, and how they were connected to this person we'd met on campus, and how she dated this guy in high school, whose sister's best friend's uncle was once mission companions with . . . you get the picture. I was amazed at the connections, until I began to think about the people I know, have known, in my own life, and, really, it was no different.

Then I read Neil Gaiman's Anansi Boys, which I loved. And I found this quote, near the end:

"It is a small world. You do not have to live in it particularly long to learn that for yourself. There is a theory that, in the whole world, there are only five hundred real people (the cast, as it were; all the rest of the people in the world, the theory suggests, are extras) and what is more, they all know each other. And it's true, or true as far as it goes. In reality the world is made of thousands upon thousands of groups of about five hundred people, all of whom will spend their lives bumping into each other, trying to avoid each other, and discovering each other in the same unlikely teashop in Vancouver. There is an unavoidability to this process. It's not even coincidence. It's just the way the world works, with no regard for individuals or for propriety."

I've been thinking about this for weeks now. And every time I go shopping and see the same person pushing her cart through the store who was there last time I was there, I take Neil Gaiman a little more seriously.

This happens in the blogging world, too. Have you noticed? It's a little easier to explain here, though. I mean, we leave much more visible footprints on the internet than we do in real life, and it's easy to find a blog you like, and then look at the ones that the author likes to find more that you like, and pretty soon, you're frequenting the same on-line joints and buying a round of virtual lemonades for the same group of people.

Are you one of my 500? I think you are. I think we all belong to this great, big group of amazing women (and the occasional man) who all hang out in the same blogspots. I think if we all got together in one room, we'd be amazed at the real-life overlaps: how interconnected we all are even though we are scattered across the world.

So. Thanks for being one of the 500 people I keep running into over and over again, for being connected to me in some inexorable way. Just maybe, if we're lucky, one of these days we'll end up "discovering each other in the same unlikely tea shop in Vancouver" and recognize that the virtual world bleeds through to reality with surprising regularity.

Getting to know you . . .

Are you hearing Deborah Kerr right now? Because I can't hear those words without sashaying about the room looking for Yul Brynner as the King of Siam.

Anyway. Many of you know about my penchant for listmaking. The obsession continues as I present here, for your reading pleasure, some things I love and some things I hate, in varying combinations.

Nine Things I Hate to Hate

1. Pickles. No offense intended to Elder Bednar, but I DON'T WANT TO BE A PICKLE. I would choose the crisp crunch of a fresh cucumber over a limp and sour pickle 100 times out of 100. If my husband has had pickles any time in the last 12 hours, even if he has brushed his teeth 7 times, I can still smell it on his breath. He thinks it's a magic trick. I always try to like them. I never do. I feel exactly the same way about olives, even the really expensive ones.
2. Walt Whitman. I know, I know, I'm literary. I'm supposed to LOVE him, to swoon when I hear his words. Mostly, I just wish I were reading Robert Frost or Emily Dickinson (my namesake. Oops. There goes the anonymity.) or Billy Collins or ANYONE else.
3. Canon in D, by Johann Pachelbel. No matter how highbrow you think it makes you seem, I guarantee that every time you ask for this to be played at your wedding, two things happen: all of the musicians immediately know you are not one, and the viola player instantly decides that you are in league with Satan because why else would you choose the most boring 4 measures ever written in the alto clef and require me to repeat them ad infinitum? I may even refuse to hold my instrument as anything other than a guitar, since the piece requires no bow and that much pizzicato could be performed by a monkey. A barely trained monkey. I also hate Ravel's Bolero for basically the same reasons, and I hate anything by Respighi because . . . it's just really awful.
4. Tulips. I think their foliage looks angry.
5. Country music. Yes, I know all the words to that auctioneer song that came out when I was in high school because MommyJ listened to it OVER and OVER again. (Hey, pretty lady won't you give me a sign, I'd give anything to make you mine all mine, I'll do your biddin' and be at your beck and caaaalll . . .) And I grew up listening to my grandparents singing bluegrass and old Gospel music (have you seen O Brother, Where Art Thou? You should, if you haven't. It's great. I knew all those songs before the movie came out.) And I have tried to enjoy country music. But I just can't.
6. Condiments. I don't do mayonnaise or mustard or ketchup. When I make a sandwich, it has butter on it, and maybe some cranberry chutney. My condiment of choice otherwise is the king of cheeses, Parmigiano-Regiano.
7. Legos. Please don't curse me. If my children could keep them out of the shag area rug in our living room, maybe I would stop swearing every time I step on one.
8. Summer. More specifically, any temperature above 80 degrees. Maybe I'm okay with 90 if it's dry. This is why I live in heaven: it has only topped 80 degrees a few times this summer. It's blissful. If you live in Vegas, I will only visit you in the winter.
9. Pets in the house. I know, I know! I'm horrible! I wish I could just tell you it's because I'm allergic to all things furry, but that's not the only reason. I really think that animals are built to live outside. And I am not built to deal with animal hair on my furniture. We had a Dalmatian when I was growing up (the world's dumbest dog) who could shoot her wiry white hair onto your black pants like a porcupine's quills. I don't have the patience or the time to deal with defurring everything I own, and I would be forever congested to boot. So there.

Ten Things I Love to Hate

1. Facebook. There, I said it. I hate texting and Twitter, too, and I am absolutely unapologetic about it. I tell you what -- if I were single right now and a boy interested in me didn't have the cajones to ask me out in person, his absolutely inadequate substitute of a text message would not be dignified by a response. Except for a big, fat, wet raspberry right in his face the next time we met in person.
2. Huge baby headbands. Moms, what, exactly are you trying to cover up by plastering a gerber daisy as big as your child's head right over the cutest part of her? Little bows? Fine. Even little flowers are almost okay. When you notice the child as an afterthought, there's something wrong with the accessory.
3. Unintentional asymmetry. I couldn't live in the house across the street from ours because the three dormer windows of the upper story are not centered, or evenly spaced. I've been inside the house. It wouldn't have been hard to center the middle window over the door, or to space out the other two dormers. Instead the house just looks lopsided.
4. Protocol. Really? There's a way that's always the only right way to do things? I don't think so. I understand that sometimes you have to go through the "proper" channels to get things done. But sometimes you have to completely avoid them to get anything done. That's where I come in.
5. Duke University basketball. Mike Krzyzewski is the devil. Or, at least the 'Devil's coach. I cover my children's eyes so they can't lipread his bad language during Carolina games. I graduated from BYU, but my heart belongs to the Tarheels -- I've been indoctrinated to the superiority of Carolina blue since the womb.
6. Passive aggression and manipulative behavior. What's wrong with a little plain speaking? You can be forthright and diplomatic at the same time, believe it or not. And if what you want is so subversive that you have to manipulate to get your way, maybe you should reexamine your motives.
7. Nicholas Cage. They should just call every character he plays "Nicholas Cage" because they're all basically the same person anyway.
8. Poorly-designed parking lots. I have a friend who thinks parking lots are unnecessary anyway. He's a little kooky. But they should have a clearly established traffic pattern and adequately sized parking spaces with plenty of room in the aisles. Are you listening, Target?
9. Mispronunciations and misspellings. Have you actually looked at the word "nuclear"? Because there's only one "u" in it. And it ain't after the "c". And spell check, people. Spell check is a gift from God!
10. Debt. I attack it like a pit bull. And I can't wait until it's gone.

Ten Things I Hate to Love

1. Dirty Dancing. I am compelled to stop and watch every single time I notice that it's on. It's sad, I know. I wasn't allowed to watch it when it came out, even though all of the extra dancers were from the studio where I took lessons. So, instead, I suggested that we watch it at every slumber party I went to until I graduated from high school. And now, I can quote it. And I can sing you every part of every song on the soundtrack. Sad, sad, sad.
2. American Idol. 'Nuff said.
3. The smell of coffee. And coffee ice cream.
4. Unbaked treats. Let me lick the bowl you've used to make brownie batter and I am in heaven. I might not even eat one that's been baked. Cookie dough, bread dough, cake batter . . . once in college, my roommates and I mixed up a yellow cake mix and dipped apple slices in the batter. Yum. And AWFUL for me.
5. France. I don't know why I hate to love France, but for some reason being a francophile in this country seems a little subversive. Not like in a socialist kind of way. I love the food, I've never had a problem with the people, I adore the countryside, and I speak the language. Or I used to. Haven't had much reason to use that skill lately.
6. My minivan. Respect the van, people. Respect the van. I'll drag race you any day and my Odyssey will take it to the bank.
7. Coca-Cola. I know it's bad for me. I know the carbonation leaches phosphorous from my bones or something crazy like that. I know it's bad for my teeth and contains tons of sugar. But I love it. And I'm not quitting.
8. Old Blue. CPod has this old sweatshirt he's had since he was twelve. That's 23 years and counting. It's the perfect fit for my pregnant belly, and I can't stand the sight of it, but nothing feels better.
9. 30 Rock. It's awesome in an "I just can't stop watching" kind of way. And the perfect punctuation to follow The Office.
10. Expensive clothes and shoes. (I'm not talking couture here. Just, you know, not Target. ) I know I shouldn't, but sometimes I just have to. Did you know the size of the clothes is inversely proportional to the cost of them? It helps make the purchases slightly less painful. And I swear, you pay for quality.

Twelve Things I Love to Love

1. Fresh produce. Right now, it's peaches. If I had been Eve, peaches would have been the forbidden fruit, and that serpent wouldn't have had to do much to tempt me. I love to eat fruit that is still warm from the tree, and these are "sink peaches" -- you have to eat them over the sink to catch the juice running down your arms.
2. Masterpiece Mystery. See Jane Marple solve. Fantastic.
3. Books. The words! OH, the words!
4. Excellent tools. From my cilia forceps to my Global knives to the enzyme that untangles DNA strands when they're unzipping for replication, tools with high utility give me a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction.
5. Hydrangeas. Purple ones. In a bouquet with pink calla lilies.
6. Fabric. Lovely, colorful, 100% cotton, wonderful quilting fabric.
7. Fantastic bras. See this post for more on this one.
8. Wind chimes. In a summer storm, preferably.
9. Dishes and linens. This is when I know I belong to my grandmother.
10. Paul Hindemith, Ernest Bloch and the viola supremacy composers. There aren't many, and we have to love what we've got. Bach and Dvorak aren't half bad either.
11. Food. In my perfect world, the four food groups are fruit, bread, cheese, and chocolate. And I prefer to drink my chocolate. Every Christmas, we import hot chocolate mix from Switzerland. Once you've tried it, you can never go back. Remember, I am a confessed food snob, and it's a great way to be.
12. Lovely smells. Origins Peace of Mind vapor bath. Lepi de Provence lavender hand soap and foaming bath. My beloved L'eau d'Issey. I'm nearly comatose right now just imaging the relaxation that could be going on were I to draw a hot bath for myself right now . . . sigh.

And bless you if you made it all the way through this one!

Hidden Potential

I have a rock. My kids call it my special rock. I found it in a river up in the mountains when we were on vacation a couple of summers ago. It doesn't look like much now, but in the water, clear, cool, and sparkling, it seemed to have a glow about it, a lovely green inner fire that compelled me to touch it, handle it, take it home with me.

I was convinced I had found a fist-sized emerald, raw and uncut, but fraught with potential -- for purity, for beauty, for a nice fat ring on my finger.

The rock sits on my kitchen windowsill where I see it every day. As I wash dishes and stare out the window, I think about that rock. My emerald. We have a little gem & mineral museum downtown. Gemstones are actually more common around here than you'd think, so it's not all that far-fetched for me to imagine great value in my find. Every time I drive past the museum, I think I should take my rock in to have it identified, once and for all.

But I never do it. When I can only imagine the possibilities, when its true identity is still shadowed by the mystery of conjecture, it seems more valuable to me. It might be just a rock, but as long as I don't know for sure, it might also be something extraordinary.

This got me thinking about rocks in general. Is anything just a rock? Time out for some science. I promise to go easy on you.

Rocks come in three basic types: sedimentary, metamorphic, igneous. Sedimentary rocks are formed as particles of sediment are deposited and then subjected to pressure intense enough to bring about "lithification", or rock formation. I really like that word. Sedimentary rocks have layers: think the stripes on the top of Mt. Timpanogos, the painted sandstone of Antelope Canyon, the tortured shale striations visible on the exposed rock faces of my own Appalachian mountains.

Igneous rocks are what's left over after a volcanic eruption: magma cools and solidifies, leaving us with such useful stones as obsidian, basalt, pumice, granite and tufa (out of which the ancient Etruscans carved the city of Orvieto in Italy, one of my most favorite places on the planet). Though they all vary vastly in density and mineral composition, all of these rocks have one thing in common: an explosion had to happen in order for them to happen.

Metamorphic rocks -- now these are magical. Metamorphic rocks are formed when an existing rock is changed. The metamorphosis can happen when any rock -- sedimentary, igneous, or an older metamorphic -- is subjected to extreme heat and pressure. More extreme than a volcano, which forms the igneous rocks in the first place. More extreme than years and years and years of sedimentation, which forms the sedimentary rocks. Metamorphosis gives us marble and slate, diamonds and gemstones.

We all have parts of us that have been formed by layer upon layer of sensory intake, external stimuli, and our own introspective processing of those experiences. And then we undergo something big, something explosive, something igneous, and an entirely new type of person emerges: sometimes hard and piercing, like the obsidian used anciently to make spear and arrow heads; sometimes soft and porous like the pumice we use to smooth and erode rough patches.

I'm hoping for some metamorphosis. Take my sedimentation, my sharp obsidian, my flinty shale, my pumice that won't hold water, and turn it into marble, to slate, to diamonds. To emeralds.

Rocks and stones are many in number, just like souls. But common, ordinary? Never. Not them, and not us, either.

To U2

Dear U2:

Today, I am 22 weeks pregnant. We are happily expecting our first baby girl after three rambunctious little boys. At the October 6 concert in Atlanta, I will be 8 months pregnant. Just look for the beached whale about 4 rows back.

I have never really been one of those people who wants to meet celebrities. I don't want to meet any of you guys. I think when two people meet, the impact should be mutual, and so I've never been really interested in meeting famous people who will not remember me 5 minutes later. So I do not write this with secret hopes of being pulled up on stage or invited to meet the band. Good gracious, please don't do anything that might plaster my hugely bloated and pregnant body onto the gigantic jumbo-tron. I need to see myself larger than life about like I need a hole in the head.

However, I wanted you to know how much I love your music. I listen to a great variety of music. There are many pieces of music that have touched my life in many ways: some of them classical, some of them sacred, some of them popular.

But the music that takes me back to times and places and experiences more than any other is yours: it's U2.

When I hear the first twang of guitar at the beginning of "Running to Stand Still" I am taken back first to the time my husband and I spent dating before we were married; and then, more recently, to the day we brought our twins home from the hospital. We were absolutely unprepared, in the way all parents are the first time around, for most of the challenges we faced, and the first one hit us before we were out of the hospital parking lot. As both of our precious babies started to wail and scream in the backseat, we did the only thing we could in a moving car: we turned on the CD player. It was Joshua Tree and the song up next was "Running to Stand Still". Instantly, they were calmed. Today, they're 4 years old and that song still hushes upset little boys. I hope it always will.

When I hear "Beautiful Day" I am taken back to the time we spent in Memphis, where my husband attended graduate school. I remember vividly sitting in my car on the interstate, stopped dead in home-bound rush hour traffic under a brilliant blue Memphis spring sky, windows down, listening gloriously to "Beautiful Day" blasting on the radio. In that moment, it didn't matter that I was stuck on the road and late getting home. It was truly a beautiful day.

When I hear "Miracle Drug" I remember the smallness of my first two children, who arrived together. I hear the line, "Freedom has a scent -- it's the top of a newborn baby's head" and I can smell the tiny baby smell and I look forward to welcoming another one, probably our last, into our family.

When I hear "Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses" I am again 13 years old, at summer music camp, captivated by this band, new to me, but known to many others. I am borrowing the Auchtung Baby tape from the blond and goofy Elizabeth, who's older siblings have been listening to U2 for years. I could not get enough -- still can't.

When I hear "With or Without You", followed very quickly by "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" I am in college again, lamenting the vagaries of love I thought would be permanent but wasn't.

Nearly every pivotal experience I have had in my life has had some U2 song as part of the soundtrack, and now that music is inextricably tied to my memories of those seminal moments: "All I Want Is You", "Numb", "Sunday Bloody Sunday", "Yahweh", "Desire", "Mysterious Ways", "Electrical Storm", "I Will Follow".

Thank you for living lives parallel to mine, for having your own experiences as the genesis for songs that would accompany me through life.

I will be there on October 6, barring any unforeseen early labor. Any chance you'll play me a song? I even have a few suggestions. How about a little "Miracle Drug", in honor of the new baby who will be hearing you for the first time in utero? I was disappointed when we didn't hear that one during the last tour. Or even better, how about the acoustic version of "Stuck in a Moment"? Just a voice and a guiter -- no offense intended to Adam & Larry. No matter what, I'll be reliving my own life with every song you play.

Thanks again for the music.

Sincerely--

InkMom

Side note: I also e-mailed this to U2. I'll take my camera with me to the concert just in case they're really paying attention to all of their fan mail!

Get out the soapbox . . .

. . . 'cause I've got some venting to do. Feel free to skip this gripe session if you feel so inclined. My Sitemeter may suffer, but my feelings will be none the wiser.

Saturday night, while I lounged on the couch working on a NY Times Sunday crossword puzzle (one of my favorite short-term diversions), CPod watched one of his TiVoed truck shows. I don't know which one it was -- Truckz or Gearz or some other macho spectacle that ends in Z -- because they all sound the same to me: equally annoying. Anyway, after the show was over, CPod left the TV on and went to the kitchen to do the dishes. (While I was lounging on the couch. Yay, husband! Yay!)

Now, let me first say, that I know a lot of y'all are from Utah, and that's great. I don't have anything against people from Utah, except maybe the univowel. You know the one -- pan, pen, and pin can only be differentiated by context when pronounced by a native Utahn. Come visit me in the south, my friends. We've got five vowels for a reason, and I can broaden your language pronunciation horizons in ways you never imagined. But I digress.

I half-way listened to what happened to be on (because I was too lazy to get the remote), and what happened to be on was a new reality show about newlywed couples. Suddenly, I heard the univowel. I looked up, and saw this sweet little Utah couple talking about their marriage, and it became clear that they were LDS. Turns out, there are two Mormon couples on this show.

Now, of course, as a member of the LDS church myself, my ears perk up when I see a member of my faith in the media. I always hope they will conduct themselves in a manner that does not further the misconceptions and sterotypes that seem to be so widespread in the popular culture, and will not give my non-Mormon friends fodder for interesting questions. In defense of these couples, they didn't do or say anything that might cast the church in an unfavorable light. They were dressed modestly, and it was obvious that they were very committed to their marriages.

But. In what universe does blindfolding yourself and squishing another man's butt to determine whether or not he is your husband fall under the list of things it's okay to do in ANY marriage, much less one solemnized in the temple? Now. I can't be certain that they were married in the temple. But aren't all of these couples, Mormon or not, supposed to be in a commited relationship?

In their efforts to illustrate the strength of the Mormon marriage, these couples, probably misled by Hollywood producers, have done nothing but demonstrate that they are just like everyone else: willing to lower their standards in the right circumstances.

This is a producers dream -- a salacious window into the inner workings of that most enigmatic of animals, that statistic-defying, lasts-for-eternity institution -- the LDS marriage. I resent this capitalization of the media's tendencies to sensationalize anything that has to do with our church.

And the worst part? Other Mormons will watch it. Other members of the church will welcome filth into their homes that they would not ordinarily allow, because they will want to see how "the Mormons" fare. Instead of being a beacon of goodness, they have become the catalyst for debasing a significant portion of our demographic.

I was already pretty het up at that point. And then somebody trampled on the motherland by saying they thought they wouldn't like the couple from the south, because people from the south are stupid.

What?!? WHAT?!? People from the south are stupid? And all people from the northeast are rude, and all black people are good at sports, and all redheads have a bad temper. Fine. Underestimate my intelligence. That makes it so much more fun when you are utterly stunned, surprised, and shocked at my acerbic wit and incredibly sharp mind.

My dad grew up on a tobacco farm. He scholarshipped his way through college and professional school, and he could pass for Andy Griffith when you hear him speak. He talks a bit on the slow side, but that is in no way an indication of his nimble mind, extensive knowledge of almost everything, and a capacity to grasp any subject with extreme quickness.

When I went to BYU, some of my friends thought that my admission was some sort of Mormon affirmative action (someone actually used that phrase with me) -- you know, let in some of the less privileged/less educated/less intelligent ones so they can take notes about the way the church works in the promised land and spread the word back in the "mission field". They don't give an easier version of the ACT in the south, though, and there are plenty of smart people down here with me that will tell you the same.

Go ahead, Yankee snob on the annoying TV show. Try to beat my dad at Trivial Pursuit. Or any other thing in this world that requires a brain. Because I would put his southern brain -- or mine, my husbands, my mothers, or any of my siblings, aunts, uncles or cousins -- up against yours any day of the week. And you would have another song to sing about the south at the end of that day.

My husband says I should stop now. My soapbox has become a Rameumptom. But thanks for listening anyway. I feel so much better now.

Critters

Lest you be misled, this post is not about my children. Although it could be. No, this one is actually about critters: creatures, beasties, varmints, wild thangs, animals. And I'm gonna be southern here, y'all. Because I cannot talk about my numerous critter encounters without the southern accent comin' out in all kindsa places. So if you can hear in southern, turn it on now.

Last night, I spent a pleasant evening in the company of some very nice women, at the home of one of my oldest and dearest friends. I have known her since seventh grade, and though we were not friends then, by the time we graduated from high school, we had enough shared years of sleep-overs, yummy food (I'm certain this was the beginning of my food snobbery) and viewings of Dirty Dancing to keep us BFFs. She married her high school sweetheart, and bless his heart, whenever we were both home from school for Christmas or summer or whatever, J would graciously accompany my friend over to my house for evenings of girl talk with my mom and my sister. Now, let the critter stories begin.

On one such evening, we were passing the time laughing and talking as we always did. J was sitting on a bar stool in the kitchen with a straight shot view of the fireplace in the living room. Suddenly, J, usually reticent, if not downright silent, piped up and said, in his born-and-raised-in-the-south, sweet-as-honey accent, "Do y'all have a hamster?"

Turns out, J had been quietly observing our cat, Boo-yah, as she channeled her inner cheetah and stalked some prey large enough to be seen two rooms away. A flying squirrel.

As J said, "That cat was on the move!"

Flying squirrels are not unusual in my parents' house. The old homestead is up on the mountain, surrounded by tall trees and all kinds of creature homes. Their house is cedar, and I guess the squirrels like how it smells. Nearly every year, at least one breaches the perimeter, reverse-scales the chimney, and escapes through the fireplace into the strange jungle that is a human habitat. To make matters worse, they aren't called flying squirrels for nothing, and the exposed beams and trusses of my parents' post & beam house regularly become a veritable jungle gym for the acrobatic antics of little, scared, fuzzy things. I have seen a squirrel soar from the beam at the top of the two-story living room and glide right onto my mom's shoulder, digging in with little claws to ensure a safe landing. Oh, yeah. I'm checking out that video when I get to heaven.

* * * * *

Another animal encounter: Many years ago, my family took a summer trip to the North Carolina Zoo. It's a big zoo. It's a great zoo if you're there when the animals are willing to cooperate. I've been when it's great, and I've been when the animals are so far into their impressively-sized habitats that I begin to think my ticket price was a little steep if it didn't include a helicopter ride to catch a view of something exotic and four-legged.

This particular trip, the zoo was great. The animals were close enough to see, and see them we did. In the African pavilion, we lingered at the mandrill exhibit. If you've never seen a mandrill, here's what we're talking about:

(photo courtesy of nationalgeographic.com)

I placed my hand on the glass enclosure and watched these comical primates gambol and play over the rocks and trees of their dwelling. One approached the wall. Our eyes met. He placed his hand on mine, bridging the impossible distance between us on the opposite side of the glass. We were soul mates. At least, he thought so. I was a little unnerved by the brightly colored face and, yes, I'll say it, the completely hairless, bright red butt.

I turned away from the glass, and he was visibly hurt, shoulders sagging as he slunk towards the back of the habitat. I turned again to the glass -- by this point, I was intrigued. And so was he. Because he came back. Over and over, I repeated the ritual. A crowd began to gather. I looked into those ape eyes, and I seriously saw some depth there. It was a long time before I had another guy willing to stare at me so intently for such a long time. There was a connection. I don't know if it was my effervescent smile, the blue and pink eyeshadow so popular in the early nineties, or the red shorts I was wearing. Something about me said, "Good breeding stock!" to a mandrill. Doesn't it go without saying? Definitely flattered.

* * * * *

Back to my parents' house. When Michael Crichton's book Jurassic Park was published, I was 14 years old. My mom bought the hardback, and we all took turns reading it. I think I was second. I devoured it in about 2 days, carrying it with me everywhere we went, even inducing acute carsickness just so I could find out what happened next.

One night, we got home, and I stayed in the car to keep reading. I don't know, I think I was probably just lazy. It wouldn't have been the first time. Anyway, I read until it was dark. I finished the part where Nedry catches his own entrails after being eviscerated by a velociraptor. Brutal. I opened the car door, and I could have sworn I heard one of those raptors. What, didn't you know we've revived the dinosaurs here in the mountains? It's how we keep the po-po from finding all the moonshine stills. (Which are real. The moonshine stills, I mean.) That night, I was convinced. The sound was so eerie, like a cross between a woman screaming and a baby crying, all mixed up with a dying cat, and something a little more sinister. Scariest of all, it seemed to be everywhere at once: with my grandparents land next door, there's 3 or 4 cleared acres, and that creature seemed to inhabit the entire perimeter simultaneously -- right behind me, then across the driveway by the truck, behind the house, far away, and then right behind me again. I nearly wet myself. Actually, even with the bladder integrity of someone who had not yet given birth, I think I had to change my pants when I finally mustered the courage to run the longest 50 yards of my life.

Turns out, we had the distinct pleasure of harboring a juvenile of some rare screech owl. It took my dad some serious research to find out the true identity of our velociraptor. That sound still haunts my dreams.

* * * * *

And, finally, a more tame, and more recent, critter adventure. A few summers ago, we noticed a foul, sulfurous odor around our front porch. Truth be told, it wasn't sulfur -- it was mercaptans, the compounds that make skunks stinky. I was a little worried we had one of those in residence under our porch, until I discovered the holes in the ground, and the network of tunnels circumnavigating our house.

Then, we knew it was a groundhog. I find these creatures to be fairly lovable. There is a family group of them living in the median of the interstate highway here. I once counted 16 in that median while driving a single two mile stretch. They sit up on their back legs and just watch the cars go by. I think they're charming. As long as they're not trying to share my living space.

CPod wanted to pour concrete into the cavity our little friend had dug out under the porch, but I nixed that idea. I had visions of Mafia-style entombment in concrete, and it felt pretty cruel. Plus I didn't want to smell a decomposing animal all summer.

All on his own, CPod decided to unleash his South Carolina childhood. He smuggled some M-80s and some smoke bombs across the border (Don't you know about the South Carolina special? It's peaches and fireworks, always sold in the same establishments.) and thought he'd smoke that sucker out of his hidey-hole. Our somewhat sheltered neighbors came running outside -- somebody was shooting something, and no matter how hard their mom tries to keep them from encountering . . . people like my husband, 5 little boys will not be kept from the sound of anything exploding.

Well, little ground hog went running, but he came back. Apparently the lingering odors of gun powder and smoke did little to erase the comforts of home. And he was bold. He would come up onto the porch to eat our flowers. He would look in the window to see what we were up to. We got almost near enough to pet him. But I worried about the boys.

Finally, we invested in a humane trap. But that bugger was smart. We tried baiting the trap with vanilla, and peanut butter, and leafy greens, fresh green beans, and flowers. We closed off one side of his burrow so he could only exit on the side with the trap. Finally, one day, the boys and I heard a noise. Success! Our little groundhog was trapped. We left him in little cage, carefully shoving greens through the holes, until CPod came home from work. He carted our little friend off to a happy life in an apple orchard a few miles away.

So those are a few of my long-winded tales. But this is really the tip of the iceberg, my friends. I could go on about creatures and critters on my dad's parents' farm; with family lore about exceptionally large cockroaches; and don't forget CPod, who served his mission in Australia. He's got tons of varmint tales to tell.

What about you?