Publishing: Book or Baby

I blame my ancestral feminists for giving me too many options today.

Instead of tending to survival, I spend ample time harvesting thoughts about possibilities that extend beyond laundry and scraping food off a plastic high chair. Even though--even though--I want more than anything to do housewifery in its simplest form.

Energy
Last night before bed I checked my personal inventory and found that I am starting to feel creative again. Creative in a way that Modge Podge cannot satisfy. I feel the urge to produce something from my soul, only I wonder if the direction I should be taking is of physical or spiritual means. Physical, shall I start again to prepare my body for another child? Or spiritual, shall I write a book?

Both require three things: determination, hope and patience. Both require my most intense focus. Both do not come at all easy for me. I don't reproduce like a well-oiled feminine machine, and the writing process sometimes feeds my attention deficient. However, I know when my creativity comes calling. If I don't respond, the energy goes back to the source from which it came, leaving me stagnant.

Baby
When my grandmother was thirty-two she gave birth to my mother. When my mother was thirty-two she gave birth to me. I'd like to call on the universe to help me continue this beautiful tradition of women begetting women in an equal time period. And it would take the universe, the cosmos, the favor of fate for me to continue the birthright.

So is that where I spend my thoughts? Directing them again to move my body in places where conception has a chance at success? Do I call on the powers to not only give me a baby, but a daughter? A daughter? I chill.

Book
I have essays that visit me in the late hours or early mornings. I usually converse with them from a sleepy consciousness, sometimes asking, "Oh, are you still around?" They are essays of a most personal nature and I'd ask God before I wrote them for public use.

I know this: they are not meant for my blog, or a book by some other author. They are for me to gestate and bring to the world. Not so the world can read them, but for my posterity to know that I had thoughts that endured. Which in the end, matters a lot to me.

A book was never in my wanting to do. But maybe it is in my need to do. The very process has always made me feel the kind of tired that is waking up too early to do something too big. But perhaps not now. Now I feel I set my alarm at just the right time.

Seeds
In the Book of Mormon there is a prophet named Alma who talks about planting seeds of intent. If a seed is planted in your heart it will either grow and become fruit that is good to the soul, or it won't. I have harvested my seeds to see which, if either, will bloom.

The last year of my life was refining and I feel cleansed. Though not perfect, I do feel pure. I am ready for possibilities to enter in here. One will make itself known. I will wait.

And yet I hear what my feminist ancestors are saying. They whisper to me, "Honey, you know you can do both. Right?"

Asparafeast

Well it is Monday.

I feel like writing about my spring menu. My menus go in seasonal phases. I like heavy stuff in winter and grape flavored popsicles in summer. You know what I mean.
For spring I am thinking this:

Monday
Cindy's feast

Cindy is my mum. Her favorite meal consists of a baked potato, or a baked yam with slabs of butter. Then, she adds in a plethora of seasonal vegetables like salted tomatoes or cooked broccoli. She always includes a dollop of cottage cheese or applesauce and maybe some cucumbers in vinegar. Cindy was never a grandiose cook, just a basic meal and maybe some vanilla ice cream (softened in the microwave) for dessert.

For our feast we'll have baked potatoes and steamed asparagus. Asparagus, I sing thy praises because I lovest thou until the sun-burned sands tick down the moments of my mortality. And maybe we'll add grapes. I'll skip the cottage cheese, only because what is cottage cheese?

Tuesday
Fruit and Fowl Salad

Avocados, strawberries, mandarin oranges (whatever fruit in season) and maybe some nuts of some sort. In the crockpot I'll slow bake marinated chicken for Chup. We'll experiment with a new flavor of vinaigrette. My sense are telling me pear. Pear, please, with a little fruity olive oil. And on the side, some crusty toast.

Wednesday
Massaman Curry

I have different friends for different meals. My friend Natalie happens to be my curry friend. She did some good investigative work and found the recipe to our favorite massaman. Chup and I could probably eat massaman everyday for seventeen weeks. I think we'll try once a week for ten weeks and see if we turn into cashews. Ha ha that was a funny joke.

I know how there are some people (like my grilled vegetables friend, P Flower 10) who like recipes, so here you are now:

mussaman curry

1 can coconut milk
fish sauce
2 - 3 chicken breasts, thinly sliced
1 or 2 potatoes
sugar
roasted cashews
Mussaman curry paste
rice

Peel and cube potatoes. Put them in a pot to boil. It should take
about 15 mins for them to cook. Start cooking rice. Meanwhile, Shake
coconut milk. Add almost 1/2 the can of coconut milk to a saute pan
or wok. Add curry paste (2 TB = spicy, 1 1/4 TB = mild, we used 1 1/2
TB) Slice chicken and salt well. Heat milk/paste to high and when
it's bubbling add the sliced chicken. Then add 2 tsp fish sauce, 2
tsp sugar and cook for 5 mins. Potatoes should be about done. Drain
the potatoes. Give the chicken 5 more mins or so, until it's cooked
all the way through. Add potatoes, rest of coconut milk. Add cashews
and 1 tsp fish sauce, 2 tsp sugar. Cook a few more minutes. It
should be nice and soupy and the chicken done. Serve over rice.

I never know, is it mussaman or massaman or messwiththatman?

Thursday
Bean Burgers

I can't get them off my mind. I think about them all the time. With hard-core potato chips, the anti-Ruffles variety.

SPICY BLACK BEAN BURGERS
1/2 cup flour
1 small onion diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 tsp dried oregano
1 small hot pepper minced
1 tbsp olive oil
1/2 medium red pepper diced
2 cups cooked or canned black beans, mashed
1/2 cup corn niblets
1/2 cup bread crumbs
1/4 tsp cumin
1/2 tsp salt
2 tsp chili powder
2 tbsp fresh parsley

Set flour aside for coating. Saute onion, garlic, oregano and hot pepper in oil until onions are translucent. Add peppers and saute for another 2 minutes, until pepper is tender. In a large bowl mash the beans with a fork. Stir in all the vegetables, corn, bread crumbs, cumin, salt, chili powder and parsley. Mix well. Divide and shape into patties. Coat in flour. Cook on a lightly oiled frying pan on medium high for about 5-10 minutes, or until brown.

Friday, Saturday, Sunday I take the days off. Besides, that is what Rice King is for.

I hear stirrings in the nursery. Time to go.

Thank you for taking a moment to read my spring menu. I know that we will end up eating out most evenings--as per my pricey habit--but a housewife can daydream.

Can't she?

Swell

I am planning a trip to the desert in May--a road trip with a few walks in slot canyons and days in the sun.

Some speak the language of the oceans, others converse with the mountains.

But, the desert for me.

Dry, hot and intense to the bones.

And I know when it is time to go refuel my spirits.

May will be perfect.

***Image by my fellow desert adventurer Jason Z

Photog Missing-Rethought, Reaction

I really had some good stuff to post today, but I've decided to hold off until my photog can take proper photos for my essay. My photog, where is he when I need him?

Umph. Instead, here are the details of last night when Lucy slept over:

After The Chief was all snug in his crib we watched Twilight. Here is our review: it was just like the book. And, to take it one step further, tell me what it is that I am supposed to like about Bella? The girl has no zest. She is void of interest or smiles. And she does that whole mouth stutter thing that was started from the pouty actors in Party of Five. You know, where you watch her mouth form seven different words before an actual sound is made. It's supposed to be a cute way of being overwhelmed. I don't like it.

Oh yes and we ordered out Chinese. Tofu and broccoli, tofu curry, tofu lo mein, egg rolls and vegetable fried rice. Suddenly, my world is better because I eat more Chinese and less string cheese. I can feel my sides sinking inward.

We had a blizzard last night while we were sleeping. When Lucy came down the stairs and saw my front lawn frosted with snow she started crying. Pregnancy hormones I think. I told her it made for more fragrant lilac bushes in May, but then she started eating a bowl full of Ohs and was just fine.

I think I'm going to go warm up some tofu left-overs for a post-breakfast snack. Actually, I always eat left-overs cold. You may have heard that I am suspicious of mircowaves. I think they change the chemical make-up of my food. Sodium becomes Potassium and then Mercury. That sort of thing.

My hair has lots of volume today. Is it the humidity from the storm? I'd show you a picture, but remember?

My photog is missing.


p.s. For those of you (and your Aunt Carol) who want to know where to send cards, gifts and chocolate cake for my sister Stephanie this address is for you:

c/o c jane
2250 N. University Parkway 4876
Provo, Utah, 84604
U.S.A

Post-edit:

More thoughts about Bella's non-intrigue. Maybe Edward can't read her thoughts because she doesn't have any? Think about that one.

The thought hit me that I think I judge a woman's character on the idea of being her daughter. If I'd like to be her daughter (for a day, let's say) I judge her to be a good woman. Now, if you think this is narrow-minded of me, I will say that I just sat in the tub for the last half hour and thought of women who I don't especially like but I'd still be willing to be their offspring. Both real and fictional characters. Emma Woodhouse would make a fun mom, no? As would Cruella De Vil (especially if you like both black and white). And for the sake of pop culture, how would you like to be Paula Abdul's daughter? Think about that one.

Too.

Feedback:
From Carrie via Facebook

I completely get the Bella mouth thing, too. NOT cute. You make me laugh! Have a good day with your voluminous hair!

Why thank you Carrie, I will.

(Head bouncing side to side).

In Full Disclosure

I threw up last night.

Totally reminded me of being pregnant. Just waking up to reject stomach fluids. You know, no big deal.

I am trying to trace back to the cause of such an unwelcomed middle-of-the-night ritual.

I am not pregnant.

It was a solitary happening, not a flu.

I am sure it wasn't food poisoning, because I wasn't regretting any consumption.

I think it was the new vitamins I am trying. My body doesn't love nutrients in pill form.

Or, it might be stress.

No, not stress.

Although, in college, I would have midnight purges when worrying about the next day's test.

So, okay maybe stress.

You know what? Being truthful about my state of being has always been my weakest personality trait.

It takes a lot of faith to be honest about myself. I never know what I will discover--an emotional library of problems shelved rather than sorted.

Maybe I am stressed about something.

Oh brother.

You know how much investigative work it takes to diagnose stress? The first reason is never the real reason. In college, I was stressed about my psychology exam. But it wasn't really about the psychology exam, it was about doing well so that I could get really good grades. But it wasn't really about getting good grades, it was about showing BYU that they missed out by not accepting me. See what a good student you missed out on BYU? But the real reason I wanted to go to BYU was that it was always a benchmark of how successful my life was going to be. And so on and so on and so on until I hit Freud and it was something Oedipal, a childhood rejection of some type. Which was what my psychology exam was about to begin with.

See? Too much work.

Instead I've decided to blame the vitamins.

Utterance--Rethought, Reaction

In these past few weeks I've been feeling especially sorry that I don't talk to my baby as much as I thought I would. I assumed I'd be a mother who used verbal communication to boost her baby into geniusdom. In that vein, I purchased toys that would facilitate all sorts of wonderful discourse.

But the one-sided conversation ended up making me feel lonely. What was I thinking?

We sing and dance, I say his name about twenty thousand times a day. I point out objects and animals and show him letters and numbers. But my assumption that I'd be pontificating on theologies while he empties the contents of my purse just isn't happening.

However, when I am not talking, he makes intense intonations in the only un-mastered language: baby talk. I listen to his excitable chatter as he explores the treasures hidden in accessible kitchen cupboards. He whooshes, grunts, turns his head and emphatically says "oh."

If only I could translate "golg golg naa naa." His personal statement.

As for us, I am learning that our conversation is based on body language. He knows my reaching arms mean that I want to hold him. My kisses on his often-bonked head means I want to console him. My putting him on the floor tummy up means I want to change his diaper. (Cue: back arching and screaming). I am learning that we are incessantly talking all day long.

In a language we made up together.

And I am also learning that these are the last quiet months of my life. Pretty soon there will be real dialogue. Trillions of questions I will have to answer.

Where do clouds come from? How do fish sleep? When will Dad come home? What makes a bouncy ball bouncy?

Instead I will use this simpler time to make sure I know the answers.


Post-Edit:
I've been thinking about the line,
In a language we made up together.

It reminds me of my first year of marriage with Chup. Our newlywed struggle was communication. I overly exerted adjectives with flowery (who me?) language to describe everything from experience to emotion. Chup, on the other hand was very deliberate and concise with his words. He also used them sparingly. We spent a lot of energy trying to understand each other. I wondered who was going to swallow their words and start learning the other's language. Would we forever talk in my dramatic sense or Chup's simplistic diction?

I think overtime, we made up a language derivative of our styles. It isn't a perfect language, but we can both speak it pretty well. And somehow I've learned to speak less, and he's learned to speak more.

Feedback:
This from Jason (a superior wordsmith in his own right)

Though I always enjoy reading over your varied thoughts, there was something in the way you worded your last one which spoke to me. Perhaps it was the way that the words flowed one into the other, like so many spreads of peanut-butter and honey on freshly-made toast; or maybe it came from the deeper message of communication we have with others. How there are moments in life where we need no words to understand each other.

Thanks Jason. Now I want a peanut butter and honey sandwich.

One I Made, The Other Made Me

Grandpa Popeye just sent this photo to me. I had to post it on my space on the internet, because these two are my hot pride and joy.

And very delicious to my soul.

Primavera

On the first morning of spring I was doing a daybreak battle with a feverish baby.

He was sweltering and I was sweating, trying to seek out my sensibility in a body overcome by fatigue.

The angels told me to nurse and sleep together. Keep him close to my body. Let him have what is needed.

We slept. I dreamed of Botticelli.

And now that he is mid morning napping, I am sitting. Amazed that God made my body a remedy.

In My Thoughts About Becoming

I took time this morning to simply watch out my front window. Cars, dogs, students on their way to class, ebbed and flowed. The Chief was playing "vacuum mechanic" giving our cheap contraption a five star look-over. All hoses, attachments and filters looked to be decent. Thumbs up (if he could).

Out of my window I also saw Sister Ryan--my seventy-something neighbor--who carried sacks of groceries in both hands. For weeks now I've been studying her impeccable demeanor. Reminiscent of my own sweet Nana, Sister Ryan is quiet grace. Her poised walk, hushed voice and shy acceptance of compliments made me to believe that on the spectrum of Fine Women she and I were at opposite ends. As I watched her walk across my front sidewalk I very much wanted to shift my spirit to meet hers.

Last Sunday I overheard Sister Ryan's earnest husband whisper in her ear during a busy exchange at church, "Here we have Brother and Sister Jenson who recently moved into the Minor's old home." So that as Brother and Sister Jenson approached Sister Ryan sweetly moved out her hand to say "Welcome to the neighborhood Brother and Sister Jenson. We're happy to have you." Flawless. Chup and I need to practice that sort of social succinctness.

Another time she put a soft hand on my arm, and with a low-tone asked me how Stephanie was doing. I appreciated the respect she had for our situation, and I felt safe to share my family's recent experiences.

But mostly Sister Ryan, is to me, a human missile of wisdom. She doesn't send her opinions to explode with shock and awe. Rather, she keeps them, and refines them. I don't get the feeling either, that her ideas are of a submissive woman. From her I get the sense that she knows the secret of womanhood--with all of the power associated--and chooses to live it rather than talk about it.

And here is what I am wondering: If I keep my keep my thoughts to myself, will I become my thoughts? Is this my problem? Do I too freely give away my opinions and end up feeling frequently empty? Should I instead let them harvest in my soul to become the building blocks of me? Is the living example better than the communicated word?

I have a lot going on here.

A couple weeks ago I was reading Ulrich who birthed the phrase "Well-behaved women seldom make history" which I've always loved. But today, I fell a little out of love with the notion as I watched Sister Ryan. Today I want to be well-behaved more than I want to make history.

Pinch Me I'm Not Irish-Revised

I was thinking of not celebrating St. Patrick's Day.

I'm not Irish and I'm weary of being a poseur. Why not let this day be for those with Irish blood? The rest of us can be a cheerful audience, watching with enjoyment. I mean, do I expect the Saudis to celebrate Pioneer Day?

But then I was thinking about all the hard working Irish Americans who helped build my country (which I know all about because I've seen Gangs of New York)(don't tell my mother).

So then I thought, okay maybe I will eat cabbage for dinner. In memory of them.

But then I remembered that cabbage and beef is actually not purely Irish.

I thought about wearing green as Chup put on his obligatory apple-colored golf shirt for work.

And that is when I came up with my idea.

To allow for my Irish friends to get the full effect of the holiday (and they deserve this) I will not wear green. I will not buy all the silly merchandise on the Target One Dollar Aisle. I will not sport my emerald-encrusted ring. And I won't count my technicolor, sometimes-blue-sometimes green eyes.

I am the original St. Paddy's Day martyr. My skin is offered as a sacrifice for your gaiety. Pinch me.



Post Edit:

I forgot to warn in the original post that I hate being pinched on my buttocks. Want to annoy the goodness out of me? Pinch, slap or pat (oh, the worst being a pat) my behind. I'm not kidding about this one. If I run into you and you want to pinch me, may I suggest my forearm?

Sunday on Maple

In the last of the sun, my little family took a walk last evening. The Chief navigated our course through the wide avenues and brick homes of our neighbors. Our evening activity proved unoriginal, we were greeted by those of like-minds.

"Hello Brother and Sister Borders!" I said passing a middle-aged couple. Having grown up in this very spot of residential ground, I tend to know many of the original home owners or subsequent dwellers. This leaves Chup to rely on me for first-hand knowledge of background information as it pertains to our neighborhood history.

"Brother Borders writes theories on ancient scripture and takes yearly pilgrimages to the Holy Land to do research. Sister Borders is a mother of seven (doesn't she look so young?) and a sculptor. They used to live a couple blocks over, but when he became tenured at BYU they bought a house on . . ."

Chup always listens, ear-tipped, as I talk under my breath, just in case the mountains cause an echo. I wouldn't want our passing neighbors to know that I'm inclined to spill their personal resume to those within earshot.

We passed a cozy home with a white picket fence outside.

"This is Sister Doyle's home." I pointed with my elbow (hands in my vest pocket). "She was my first art teacher. She's very sick."

"Oh no." Chup replied with a touch of genuine devastation.

We encountered houses with tangible memories spilling out the windows and front doors. Homes of immaculate facades waiting to bloom with April's offerings of pansies. We greet more neighbors who require my back-hand introductions.

"Hello Brother and Sister Young." We all nod in salutation.

"Brother and Sister Young just got back from a mission. He speaks seven languages. She taught me flower arranging . . ." My voice like a spy.

"I should ask her for a refresher course." I remembered the daffodils on my front room table, cut and released into a green vase without further manipulation.

By the fourth block, The Chief decided he needed another angle to view the world. Chup hoisted him on his shoulders and I pushed the ghost stroller home.

As we rounded the corner home, we spotted a zippy couple coming towards us. The speed in which they walked their legs was commendable--especially for their elderly appearance.

"Hello." I said.

I did not know them.

"Oh. You've got an empty baby carriage." Said the man, his voice louder as he approached. "You know what that means. . ."

I was in double shock. First, I did not know them, and I know everyone.

Second, was he implying that it was time to have another baby?

"That is Brother and Sister Kent." Chup returned the favor, matching my tone, as we headed up our sidewalk. "He is the Dean of Multiply and Replenish the Earth at BYU and she's been the Relief Society President eighteen times . . ."

"Well played." I commended my husband.

Friday the Thirteenth Presents: Tardy

Remember that movie Freaky Friday with Lindsay Lohan and Jodie Foster? That sort of soul swapping happened at midnight on this Friday the thirteenth of March. My blogging halo-ed spirit interchanged with pitchforked-ed Jana of The Meanest Mom fame (who is also up for a blogging award VOTE FOR HER here!) forcing me to post evilly things over there, while she angelically posts here. When do I get my braces off?

Warning! Don't read this post unless you think Candy Posters are as awesome as anything in on this planet. If you don't know what a Candy Poster is (or why I would capitalize such a noun) read on my friend:

Tardy
by Jana Mean Mom Matthews

Getting my three kids to school on time is my Mount Everest. I have, however, significant motivation to do the impossible: her name is Lorraine.

Lorraine is the secretary at my daughter's elementary school. She wears sweater vests adorned with three-dimensional animals, but don't let her 1980s homemaker apparel fool you: Lorraine is as friendly as a jackal.

Roughly once every three weeks, Mount Vesuvius erupts at my house at 8:50am in the form of a missing shoe, a temper tantrum, or the unexplained need to change one's clothes for the third time in one hour. On these mornings, I park my car in the school's fire lane and drag four children into the front office to do penance before St. Lorraine.

"May I sign in my daughter please?" I ask politely after waiting at the counter for what feels like a century. My three oldest children have already written their names on seventeen visitor badges and have attached them to their shirts.

After Lorraine finishes her personal phone call/applying lipstick/rearranging her collection of angel figurines on her desk, she rises from her throne, heaves a loud sigh of disapproval, and hands me a tardy slip.

Even though my kindergartner is only 2.5 minutes late for school, I'm still required to publicly confess that I don't have my act together by filling out the form, signing it, and listing a reason for her lateness. By this point in the school year, I have exhausted all of the standard excuses. Plus, Lorraine is starting to question their validity.

"You were really 'out of town' for five minutes?" she asked in February.

Lorraine's growing suspicions that I have been less than forthright with her in the past have shamed me into telling the truth. While it used to take only a few seconds to fill out the tardy slip, now it takes me several minutes--and the front and back sides of the form--to describe my morning. Usually my epistles include the phrase "I'm going to count to five" followed at some point by “You’re not going to like this” and "against their will."

"This is all avoidable," smirked Lorraine on Tuesday, "If you could get out the door five minutes earlier."

I wanted to thank Lorraine profusely for coming up with a solution to my problem that I hadn't thought of myself, but I also didn't want to hold up the line. As I exited the building, I whispered words of encouragement to the handful of nervous mothers who were waiting for their turns to meet their maker.

When I got home, I decided to do something nice for Lorraine in appreciation of the sensitivity and compassion she routinely shows parents who mornings are plagued with natural disasters and children who like power struggles. I missed the nominations for this year's faculty and staff recognition awards, so I had to settle for a candy poster.



I hope Lorraine likes my gift. The fact that I took all of the candies out of their packages--leaving only their wrappers—makes me worry that she won’t.

to c jane on Jana's blog click here.

Thousand Post

Birthday Hair a la Ashlee

On my second morning of being thirty-two I feel a bit cheerless. A little melancholy, I guess. Not that yesterday wasn't a dreamy day filled with surprises, love notes and honey wheat bread on my doorstep. It was an all encompassing birthday which ended with my finding of two bright yellow Adirondack chairs in my living room Santa Claus style. Really, a gift to my backyard for April.

Days like yesterday remind me of how much I have been given. A nurturing man, a smiley baby, a lunch table of sweet family, forgiving friends, birthday hair and Pier One for pillows. All of these for starters. My life's catalog of gifts from God is many folders thick.

So why the low-spirit? I feel undeserving. How could a devious soul like mine warrant a universe of grace? My offenses are many, my assumptions world-class and temptations rabid. My insecurities keep me from opportunities of service and my responses to phone, e-mail or other communication outlets are hardly ever returned. I've got pride in my front pocket and a smear of selfishness on my shirt. Which is why I usually wear aprons. I'm not all bad, but not all good.

I know the best way around this twist of nature is to get to work on giving back. I am going to do that, I really am. First, I am going to get my baby dressed, and then I will think of something. Yes, something will bring me back to buoyancy.

In the meantime, I have been captivated by the story of Grace, a beautiful baby girl who just passed a way from a congenital heart defect. I would like to pass on their blog in hopes that the goodness I've seen can be sent their way. God bless you Grace, and your good family.

Read about Grace here.





The Frog: For extra credit, discuss my 1000th post blogging benchmark here.

32

32 is my favorite number. It is a generous digit--divisible by two, four, eight and sixteen--numbers which also allow for dividing. Perhaps I'm programmed to think that the more a number can give away, the more beautiful it becomes.

Could it be that my life at 32 is teaching me the same? I am dividable by all sorts of factors--more than any other year before--and yet I don't seem to be losing any value. Instead, I seem to gain self-worth as I learn to divide.

Plus, my son thinks I'm a hottie.

(His words, not mine.)

Hell-O

Last night Retro House was pleased to host J. Michael Wiltbank and his team of stylists, assistants and models for a fashion shoot in our kitchen. Michael is working on a photography project about femme fatals who use decisive tactics to end the lives of no-good bums.
(You know who you are . . .)

Our scene told the story of a '50s housewife who had enough with her lousy spouse and decided to spike his Jell-O (green) with cyanide. I imagined the scenario was over the fact that he made her have carpet in her kitchen.

I see she has good reason.

Do you like random facts?
Along with The Monaco, that pink phone was written into the purchase contract of Retro House. It belonged to the lady of the house who I imagined used it to call her friend Betty about the recipe for chicken cordon bleu. It sits in company with my pink Kitchenaid and pink toaster. The phone doesn't work, but if it did I might be more inclined to talk on it. Pink, after all, is my power color.

I just made that up. Power color. But you like it, and now you are wondering, what is my power color?

Perhaps, bleu?

Mormonism Monday

One of the most frequently asked questions in my in-box is about Mormonism. How do I feel about Big Love? (Never watch it.) How is that all Mormon women are so pretty? (Strict health code.) Do you really wear magic underwear? (Yes, though it has never granted me wishes--which is what I would expect magic underwear to do.)

This past weekend Chup and I watched an interesting video featuring Rachel Esplin, a 20-year old Mormon at Harvard get grilled about her religion by journalist Sally Quin. She handles each answer with intellect and coolness surprising for someone her age. After we were done watching the clip I told Chup that he should call his Idaho contacts and see if we could get a hold of Rachel's mother. I have to ask what she fed her daughter every morning for breakfast.

Impressive.

If you'd like to learn more about our background (and a little about magic underwear) I am posting the video here.

Day of Faith: Personal Quests for a Purpose - 3. Rachel Esplin from Harvard Hillel on Vimeo.

Happy Monday!

The Frog: I just opened up a forum about Mormonism. Ask, answer, or post thoughts about Mormonism that you might have. I promise to do my best to respond. Go here.

See you there.

TAPS for My Pink Skirt

Subconsciously I knew this day was coming. But did I know that it would come so soon?

Yesterday I habitually went to my spring refresher clothes to retrieve my pink skirt. Long time readers of my blog know full well my dependence on my pink skirt. Actually, dependence might be too cool a word for what I feel for my pink skirt. Salvation, is the word.

Salvation is my pink skirt.

It fit me in thin times as well as wide. We went to Europe together on several occasions. It soothed me during a heaving pregnancy. It always forgave me, even when she sat in the laundry pile for days at a time. Looked good with anything, including my woeful brown hair. And in times of hibernation, I slowly waited for those sunny days where I could awake my favorite piece from wardrobe slumber.

Shoot, I'm gonna cry.

Because yesterday I realized, through no fault of my own, my pink skirt is dying. And there is no cure for this disease.

Undoubtedly birthed in the belly of a sweatshop in Mongolia, my pink skirt came to me through the adoption center called Target. On adoption day I knew full that my pink skirt would have a shelf life, but how was I to know how much adoration would grow in my heart over the next years of our togetherness? How was I to know, I ask!

There are greasy stains and crusty spots that even tenacious chemicals can not make disappear. The ruffles have lost their perk courtesy of the aging cotton cloth. Balls are forming due to excess drying in the tumble machine. But most of all, as I sat in the sun with Lucy yesterday I noticed that my pink skirt is now completely see-through. Which would please some, and embarrass others. And while I don't care what other people think about me, I am thinking of running for governor and currently trying to avoid scandal. (So hard, avoiding scandal. Have you tried it?)

I've thought of saving my pink skirt in the vault where my prom and wedding dresses have been laid to rest. I could also schalack my pink skirt with a touch of gold to hang upon my wall. Or put it on e-bay to raise money for my favorite charity: c jane's pennies (we clean rusted, grimy, stinky pennies, spray them with specialized coin perfume and put them back into circulation--every scent counts! (our tag line)). Be assured please, there is not pomp and circumstance too fancy for this occasion.

Anyway, RIP pinky. You know I love you. I am not trying to skirt the issue, you have been a girl's best friend. And I will see you in heaven. Until then . . .

. . .pray for me.




The Frog: Want to help me in my suffering? Go here to my forum where I have a burning question in need of your response.

Eternal Rounds

And suddenly it is spring.

I have an out of body experience where the ghost of my past--barren and anguished--is watching me watch my baby play with a pinwheel next to an open window. He is enchanted by the spinning motion of yellow cellophane petals. A wind powers the pinwheel and takes flight in my hair. The baby is divinity.

I come back to the present.

I forget sometimes that my prayer was heard. Time passes, and I forget I wanted. Forget I yearned so much that I thought my soul would disappear inside of my body. Forget that I couldn't forget.

Today I vow to remember.

Remember enough to love him enough. To teach him correct principles. To be good. To do good. To spend my passion opening up the universe for his maturing intellect. To remember it isn't enough just to have a baby, it is much more.

Pinwheels, wind. Motion.

To remember: It didn't end with a positive pregnancy test.

It began.

Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Yesterday

Yesterday I bought a package of meat for the first time in many years. I don't know what enticed me, I went to the store to buy balloons for my neighbor's daughter and ended up with shrink wrapped marbled ground beef. I don't make this stuff up.

As I was walking home from the store (with my balloons) Lucy drove by and honked. I thought she'd stop, but I watched her car turn the corner and disappear. Perplexed, I went along my merrily way with a stroller full of baby, a pouch of meat and a half dozen neon balloons. Neon balloons that looked pastel, which pleased me because anything neon assaults my better senses. You too?

When I crossed the street to travel homeward a crossing guard told me that I looked "delightful" and that I should "buy a bouquet of balloons everyday and cross the street" so that she could "watch." Isn't that interesting? Put a little bounce in my step. Tell you what.

Back at Retro House I continued sorting through piles of former clothes. There is this white cardigan that I swear I have given a way eight times to family and friends alike and yet, it always arrives back in my tub labeled "Clothes I might want someday when I can fit into them."

Later in the day Lucy arrived. Pregnant and pink turtleneck, both.

"Why is there a green balloon on your front lawn?"

"A what?" I asked.

Then I panicked thinking that perhaps the balloons left on my neighbor's doorstep became victims to the wind. Isn't there some saying like "what you let go will come back to you?" Case in point being boomerangs, carry pigeons and white cardigans.

In inspecting the green balloon on my front lawn (tied to a NO PARKING sign) I couldn't tell if the shade was neon, pastel or just normal. In all my life I never knew that one day I would care. But this day had arrived and I wanted to be present.

The best I came up with was "Maybe it is the same green balloon I bought earlier and left on my neighbor's porch, and maybe it isn't."

Lucy wasn't worried.

"Anyway, I want a hamburger." She sighed.

Her pregnancy has almost been meat-free since she decided to go sparingly on the flesh. Ric too.

"I have meat in my fridge. Let's make hamburgers for dinner tonight." I offered, realizing that all actions have meaning, even when they mean nothing at the time. Who knew my buying meat would satisfy a woman of her fragile state?

And at this point I am wondering why anyone would spend five minutes reading this post, but I am writing it anyway.

We set to task. Savored-up the meat. Pulled out mustard, mayo, ketchup. Fetched lettuce, purple onions and tomatoes off the vine. Medium sharp cheddar was sliced along with pickles and avocados. Chup delivered a package of fries to be baked until crispy. Ric, world champion Seasoner of All Foods (Lawrys) even gave us a thumbs up.

(Did that paragraph just decide for you what your going to have for lunch?)

As we were eating I told Chup about how the balloon appeared on our lawn and how I couldn't settle on its origins.

"What balloon?" He asked looking out the window.

The balloon was gone. As if (get this) it was never there to begin with.

Just before bed I was reading up on the immensity of ethical diets and found Flexitarianism "a semi-vegetarian diet focusing on vegetarian food with occasional meat consumption." Which describes me these days. You know, call me insecure, but nothing does better for my soul than a label. Puts me right where I belong.

Now, if you'll excuse me I am done writing this post.

Never Late-Revised

Hello Ms. March,

Here we are in 2009, and Darling, you've never looked more promising. I can't wait to see your attempt at this year's spring. Though the clouds are presently rumbley, I want you to know I love a day full of rain as much as (if not more than) a day full of the sunny stuff. So bring your split personality to my doorstep, March. I can dig it.

To herald your coming, here are some of my March Madness to do listings:

• Develop a greater sense of romanticism.
  
• Buy a new toothbrush
• Try my second hand at a new spring wardrobe using the techniques Reachel taught me:
  
• 
• Visit the M*A*C counter for some new spring-ish facial paint.
  
• Finish the living room painting project.
• Finish the living room mural project.
• Drink less ice water and more water without ice.
• Visit Ashlee about the dark roots that keep appearing next to my scalp.
• Change diet to incorporate less heavy and more light.
• Kitchen floor (I am so excited for my new kitchen floor!)finished in time for The Chief's first steps.
• Watch at least one Jane Austen in any variety.
• Get out petite vases, fill with buds.
• Tip the corners of my mouth more upwards, creating what some people call a "smile". Use it to harvest seeds of good intent.
• Take a daily walk with the child of my womb. Use the time to think.
• Like, think about the thoughts in this article.
  
• Look for some new wedges, just because they feel good.
  

(Rio Sandal, you are a big maybe)

Alright March, time for me to sweep.

Welcome Back.

Love,
ceej



Post-edit:

I'd also like to add:

• Get e-mail read and responded by the end of this month.

and

• Realize that most of these listings are self-indulgent. Be alright with self-indulgence, March doesn't last forever AND it is my birthmonth, so why not?