Three Truths & One Lie: Paradise Lost

You know that awesome game Three Truths and A Lie wherein players profess four statements, three being factual and one being fabricated? No? Yes? Maybe? Not applicable?

This week I thought we could play it together. I will post Monday-Thursday three true stories and one tall tale, then on Friday you can vote which story you think is the fake.

Is this fun? I can't tell.

But here it goes, Story Four:

In my third year of college I decided to blow the home joint and head to the University of Utah. I knew maybe two people on campus, besides my savvy roommate Amanda, so it really felt like a bold choice.

But lonely sometimes too.

I didn't walk around campus high five-ing people anymore, I was just a guppy in a tank. Man, that was a good sentence.

My Human Behavior class was ginormous. It was the size of two bloated movie theaters and packed to the gills. I don't even know what packed to the gills means, but if it means that people were also taking seats on the floor and stairs, it was the right terminology.

On the first day of class I walked in and lost my appetite. How was I supposed to be my flirty self in a room full of strangers? This caused a physiological blockage because my learning was always accompanied with flirting. It kept things interesting during class time, group projects and study groups. I had attributed my good grades to good chemistry with at least one person in the class (if not the student teacher).

Looking around the room, my eye was attracted to a large Hawaiian print shirt belonging to a guy with dark hair. I thought it was a good start, so I moved towards the empty seat next to him. As I sat down he acknowledged me with a slight smile. I smiled back only to notice that he may have been the most handsome male I had ever seen in my life.

It must've been is aura, because I can't explain his looks. Besides his dark hair and ensuing full beard, there was nothing overly-unique about his appearance. I just liked how he was. The guarantee had come, I was going to get an A plus in this class.

We didn't talk much on the first day, he seemed really attentive. I allowed for that to be the case, and I never flirt on the first day of class, anyway. He looked a bit older than a typical junior in college, but he had no wedding ring. Older students, as you know, are more serious. They get the concept behind tuition.

At our next class I quickly spotted him again, seated close to the stage on the left side. He was wearing a new Hawaiian print shirt for which I was grateful. Easy for the eyes to find, and blessed be, easy on the eyes to sit next to.

"Hey." I said sitting down.

"Hey." He glanced at me.

"You wear Hawaiian shirts every day?"

"I am passionate about Hawaii."

Perfect I thought. The more we talk about Hawaii, the more he will have to visualize me in Hawaii with him.

"I've never been, isn't that sad?" I sighed.

"Totally. It is magical." His dark eyes were so intense.

"You'll have to give me some recommendations for my premiere voyage."

Or take me there. On our honeymoon.

"Totally."

Good start. I called it a day.

At home that night I announced the news to Amanda. We christened my new catch, Hawaii Boy an obvious name, but code for cuteness.

Code for cuteness. Slick use of alliteration.

Over the next few weeks Hawaii Boy and I sat side-by-side learning the inner workings of the human psyche. Two people could not ask for better background noise than a professor talking about love, denial, dependence and compensation. Yes, all of the above.

But then a month had gone by and Hawaii Boy had not asked me out. Not even the time we walked to class together as he towed his beach cruiser with bottles of Orange Crush tethered to the back bench. Come to think of it, he didn't even offer me an Orange Crush either. I love that juice.

Amanda and I tried to sort it out. Gay? No. He looked at me with non-gay eyes. In a Relationship? Maybe. But he should've dumped her by now. For me. Married? No. He would've mentioned it. I concluded that he was just shy, and I needed to work harder.

So I did. I vamped up my look and took more obvious strides in displaying my interest. Sometimes I'd bring him little gifts (related to the subject at hand) or stop by the Coffee Hut for two hot chocolates. He was always thankful and sweet, but permanently aloof.

On the last day of class I admitted I had one day before admitting defeat. Soon we wouldn't have a tri-weekly reunion to keep our relationship stimulated, this had to be an hour of full court press. I took my regular seat next to Hawaii Boy, opened my notebook and assumed we'd be briefed about the final.

Our professor, Birkenstock-clad, water bottle in hand, microphone in another, announced that instead of talking about the final, today he'd like to get to know us. On the last day he wanted to get to know his flock of crowded sheep? That is entirely backward, and as I type this I am still scratching my head.

"How many of you are from Utah?"

Hawaii Boy and I raised our hands.

"How many of you are hoping to graduate from the U of U?"

Hawaii Boy and I were still up in the air.

"How many of you are married?"

My hand came down.

Hawaii Boy's did not.

I died. Totally died.

"How many of you have children?"

Hawaii Boy's hand remained elevated.

"One child?"

Hawaii Boy didn't flinch.

"Two children?"

Immovable.

"Three children?"

With an auditorium full of hands now resting, the professor looked at what remained. Just like I had on day one, the professor honed in on the guy with the light blue Hawaiian print shirt, sitting close to the stage with his hand still up.

"Hello Sir."

"Hello." Hawaii Boy said back, his body full of nervous energy.

"And how many children do you have?" The professor was now crouching above us.

"Five." Hawaii Boy responded with a shaky voice. "All boys."

"Well, "said the professor, "stand up so that we can give you an ovation."

Hawaii Boy stood and turned his body away from my mine. Everyone clapped, someone hooted, and he bowed in pretend modesty. My eyes were so unsure where to look, they focused on a piece of ripped paper on the floor below. I clapped, but I really wanted to slap his ears simultaneously with my frustrated hands.

When he sat down, Hawaii Boy turned to me and moved in closer than he had all semester long.

"I have a brother. He's single." He whispered to my face.

"I am in a relationship." I lied, keeping my head down.

This might explain my apathy for Hawaiian vacations. I still haven't been.

Three Truths & One Lie: Dancing Queens

You know that awesome game Three Truths and A Lie wherein players profess four statements, three being factual and one being fabricated? No? Yes? Maybe? Not applicable?

This week I thought we could play it together. I will post Monday-Thursday three true stories and one tall tale, then on Friday you can vote which story you think is the fake.

Is this fun? I can't tell.

But here it goes, Story Three:

image of the fateful summer taken from katyknight.com
(yours truly on the phone)

A year after my first year in college, my high school friends and I decided to move out together. We chose a dumpy apartment in Provo's South Campus district and settled into our walls. Then we started to have lots of parties because that is what you are supposed to do, correct?

One roommate came home one day with a flyer announcing a lip syncing contest. It was to be held at the dance club downtown called Omni. I was never sure if the Omni was a first-syllable take from the word omniscient, or named after a writer in the Book of Mormon. Both would be equally applicable around here.

Because it seemed like the kind of wild Mormon college girl stunt that we were up for, we signed ourselves up to do a group number. Ever since a summer trip to Sweden I'd had a penchant for ABBA, (why doesn't everyone in this world have a penchant for ABBA? Does it get any better? No, no it doesn't.) and I talked the girls into doing Dancing Queen.

You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen
Dancing queen, feel the beat from the tambourine
You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life
See that girl, watch that scene, dig in the dancing queen

Beat those lyrics. Bono.

We hunted down some bizarre costumes at our various second-hand stores. Somehow we all fell into personal themes. I had plastic fruit in my hair, another roommate wore all camouflage, and Wendy zipped up in a plastic coat the color of the blue Popsicle. We were a year before the Spice Girls, a note to our being ahead of the trend. So . . . tell me what you want. What you really, really want.

On the night of the contest, we arrived to a packed club. People like ants. Scattered, moving, picking up pieces of meat and swarming. It was so hot that the fruit in my hair started to droop. Before we were to go on stage I was in the bathroom re-pinning the strawberries. I thought for a second of just dropping the idea, but when Wendy found a can of hairspray in an empty stall, I knew it was a sign from the Dancing Queen herself.

The crowd was waiting for us, whistling and clapping. We started out in a backs-to-the-crowd formation and explosively turned around on the first note. In hoping to amaze the crowd, I gestured a little too hard with my head and the lemon next to my right ear flung into the audience. I didn't know it at the time (because it hadn't been invented yet) but that was called a wardrobe malfunction.

We danced, we mouthed the words, we were the beat. Not unlike the Dancing Queen, we were having the time of our lives. When the song ended my fruit was all over the stage. Proof that I had held nothing back.

We giggled all the way back to the bathroom. A club girl walked in and gave us the thumbs up. There were seven groups total, and we had to wait for a couple more numbers before the voting, but I was sure we were going to win. The Dancing Queen had graced us with her energy, and my heart knew it.

After the last group, we watched beefy bouncers hand out orange voting ballots to the noisy audience. I voted for our group and then found a ballot on the ground, so I voted for us again. Not that I thought we needed the padding.

Votes were tallied in a backroom somewhere and the host for the evening came back out on stage and asked for all of us to join him. We crowded around in the spotlight as he announced that there were two runner-ups and one winner. I felt butterflies and reached out to hold my roommates hand, who, coincidentally was wearing butterfly wings, if that isn't cute.

When he announced the second runner ups the crowd cheered. Confetti was thrown from a few well-placed dancers. The group pushed their way to the front of the stage and victoriously took their plastic trophy. As I clapped them on, (good for them!) I caught a glimpse of the host's index card. It was a list of the vote tallies. We were at the bottom. With ten votes. There were seven of us, I voted twice, which meant that we had garnered a fruitful two votes from the audience.

Two votes.

I couldn't believe it.

After the confetti-filled ceremony was over, we shamefully descended the stage. I wanted to leave, get a drink and sit in a place that didn't thump. Exiting the club I was hit in the back of the head with my long lost lemon. On the scale of feeling stupid I was off the charts. Into the cosmos.

At 7-11 we quietly filled up on Slurpees. One roommate tried to console our spiritless group.

"I bet we were fourth. I'm sure it was close." She nodded her head, faking cheer.

"We were fourth." I lied. "I saw the vote tallies."

"So close." Said another roommate.

"So close." I responded.

Three Truths & One Lie: Frankly Hypnotized

You know that awesome game Three Truths and A Lie wherein players profess four statements, three being factual and one being fabricated? No? Yes? Maybe? Not applicable?

This week I thought we could play it together. I will post Monday-Thursday three true stories and one tall tale, then on Friday you can vote which story you think is the fake.

Is this fun? I can't tell.

But here it goes, Story Two:

Frank was old. I mean, for a fourth year college student. He was older than my dad for certain, possibly nearing the age of my grandfather.

His silver hair always stuck out in a carton-sized classroom of college students. Frank was tall, thin and never missed a chance to wear plaid shirts tucked in to tan Dockers. This uniform was capped off by white walking shoes which clocked in the miles spent transversing campus. Always raising his hand, making connections and asking impossible questions, Frank also stood out for being emphatic amongst his somewhat apathetic peers.

In previous lifetimes, Frank worked for the Postal Service and had a large family with a kind wife. Retirement stimulated his desire to go back to school to finish his degree in the behavior sciences. Along his former pathway, paved by experience, he'd found a deep appreciation for hypnotherapy. Having a degree in the field made Frank certain that clients would be more likely to see him in his basement office.

That basement office. It was made up of a simple oak table and an elevated bed. The room was no bigger than an average bathroom in an average home. There was no other decor, white walls, white hard flooring and a blanket on the bed the color of faded green Tupperware. On the table awaited hypno tools, metal objects meant to entrance. I know because I went there.

Frank's enthusiasm for hypnotherapy caught the attention of several teachers. Though they personally refused to give it academic accolades, the solution of Frank's age mixed with his ageless energy made them curious. He was granted several audiences by the grace of their classrooms--from Psych 110 to Behavioral Neuroscience 313. All Frank needed to do to prove the power of his therapy was give demonstrations. Only, he required a subject.

I don't know what I was thinking when I agreed. He asked me after class one day, his apparent conviction stirred me to a reluctant consent. After saying I'd meet in his basement office for a hypno-tutorial (before taking our show--ahem--on the road) I felt ill. Not only was it entirely uncomfortable to be in the basement of Frank's house alone, I wasn't sure about being the subject matter for the whole campus to watch. Why couldn't Frank ask for a male patient? Why was I the one invited? More importantly, why did I accept?

We met in the basement after I had met Frank's wife and daughter. He was really professional--even for not being a professional. After a few minutes I was relaxed and we started to talk about (surprise) my childhood as Frank spoke in a low voice.

It wasn't so bad being hypnotized. I think I may have even worked out a thing or two in my psyche. When I came back to full consciousness I was pleased to see that my clothes were still on my body and my head firmly on the flat, white pillow.

Over the course of the next week Frank and I were Houdini and Houdini's sparkling assistant. Ta da! We visited small classrooms and teleconferences all over campus. The format was always the same, he'd hypnotize me to a very surface consciousness and talk to me. It wasn't anything like you see going on in nightclubs, when hypno-comedy was all the rage. I didn't do the chicken dance or roll around smelling people's shoes. Frank was gaining popularity and I felt like a dramatic performer with a stage and a captive audience.

One of our professors asked us to visit his class of fifty plus students. When we arrived I noticed that the classroom looked more like a small arena. It reminded me of the Colosseum with hungry students waiting for their crude entertainment. Suddenly I was very nervous. On the second row was a boy I knew from high school. This induced a wave of insecurity over my being and I felt completely trapped. This was not good for cause.

Frank went ahead with his demonstration, only this time I could not be hypnotized. Feeling equally embarrassed for Frank, and devastated for my pride, I went ahead and pretended to be entranced. Something must've made Frank nervous too, because instead of the professional quality he had before, he was now asking me to sit on people's laps and sing. Every command upped the ante of the demonstration and I was a circus dog. I did whatever he asked. The audience cheered and whistled. In a grand tease, he asked me if I had any inhibitions.

"No!" I lied.

This made the audience roar with anticipation. Luckily for me, time was up. Frank showed the class how he brought me out of the relax-state, until I was back to my social conscious self. I eagerly waited for this part to be over. When the bell rang I dashed out of the room with a scarlet face and a shameful heart.

"Hey" said a voice behind me.

I turned to see the boy from high school coming towards me with raised eyebrows.

"You were faking right?" he asked.

"Yep." I replied.

"I could tell." he said as he turned his head to the side, avoiding eye-to-eye contact.

"Huh." I shrugged back.

Last I heard of Frank after graduation were of his plans to pursue a Masters of psychology. When he asked if he could call me-- should his post-graduate work call for more hypnotherapy demonstrations--I let him down easy. After all, he was old.

Three Truths & One Lie: Mr. Lab Rat

You know that awesome game Three Truths and A Lie wherein players profess four statements, three being factual and one being fabricated? No? Yes? Maybe? Not applicable?

This week I thought we could play it together. I will post Monday-Thursday three true stories and one tall tale, then on Friday you can vote which story you think is the fake.

Is this fun? I can't tell.

But here it goes, Story One:

After my mission to Montreal, I sought employment with my cousin Jayne at a local elementary school. I taught reading skills to students who need the extra help. I loved that job.

When I resumed my college studies I kept working at the school in various positions. I helped develop the after school program, taught study skills and gave my best to extra-curricular activities, so help me. After I graduated from college, the visionary principal (who I loved) allowed me to set up a writing program where students who displayed interest in exploring composition could come once a day and study with me. I loved that job even more.

But before that time came I spent some dark ages in the school's computer lab teaching about computers. And typing. I was so depressed doing that work I lost a bunch of weight, which was really nice, actually. But still. I hated that job.

One day while I was teaching about the joys of hard drives, a new employee of the school came in to meet me. He was going to be the new . . . um . . . I can't really remember why he was hired. But I soon found out that his real job was to annoy the lifesource out of me. Oh gravy.

He was a bleach-tipped newly returned missionary who had penchant for calling me to repentance while reminding me of how much he hated my fashion choices. Unfortunately, his job required his time be spent in the computer lab with me. I remember one day he was assigned recess duty and I wished recess could last all day. Just like second grade.

He kept a running narration of everything I did, from picking up the spilled pencils wrong (why did I have to spill them in the first place? he wanted to know) to answering the phone with an unacceptable intonation. Every day I came home with pages of irritability written on my forehead. I unloaded on Chup and in turn he continually offered his sympathy services, but gently reminded me that I need to keep the job because he was an on again/ off again working actor.

One day when the lab was empty I dared enter into a conversation with Mr. Socks and Sandals about dating. He was single and spent a lot of time telling me about the swarms of women who wanted to date him and his white Jetta. It was during that conversation I found out that his childhood sweetheart had penned him a Dear John when he was on his mission. After that she made matters worse by marrying his best friend. In what was his most humble moment yet, he admitted that he told both of them to never contact him ever again.

The annoying dude had a seriously broken heart.

It suddenly all made sense. Having spent many semesters studying human behavior, I understood that Mr. Pompous Idiot was overcompensating. It was too easy, why had I not seen it all along? And yet, even the way he looked sad like a puppy bugged me. His droopy lip and darty eyes, ready to spring back into Mr. American Eagle made me suspicious. I just couldn't give him pity.

But I thought about him all the day long. I re-read some of my texts on suppression. I even prayed about what I could do to restore some of his esteem. As sweet as this sounds, I actually did it all for me. All because I needed to keep my job as much as I needed him to stop tempting me to gouge his eyes out with a (oops-spilled) computer lab pencil.

The next day I noticed some sixth grade girls coming down the hall. The older girls in the school loved to stop by to flirt with Mr. Righteous Indignation. And he loved the attention. Our lab was set up with a large printer which attracted people coming in and out all day. Classrooms from all over the school would send their printing to be done wirelessly in the lab. Occasionally, I would sort through all the print jobs so that when the students came to retrieve their papers they would be ready to go. Suddenly I had an idea.

Once I was alone, I typed a sappy, exclamation-riddled, love note that only a six grade girl (or someone who had once been a six grade girl) could author. It was juicy with desperation of tender feelings. Just the right amount of adoration and "I think you're totally cute"ness. I addressed it to Mr. Ate Chili For Lunch Every day and Left the Crusty Utensils in the Room (but wrote his real name) and signed it From, Your Secret Admirer. Then I set it to print.

Later that afternoon, I asked Mr. Tight Shell Necklace to check the printer for me as I was "waiting for some test scores." As he sifted through the paper rubble, he discovered the note and stopped. Reading it out loud for me to hear, I watched his countenance change. His bleach tips went from platinum to glow-in-the-dark. He was beaming. The rest of the day I taught in peace, my enemy having been completely fulfilled in the thought that someone (anyone) esteemed him higher than jeans from Old Navy.

Things seemed to get better from there on out. The school year ended, and I moved positions to a cold, dusty classroom on the abandoned stage. I've thought about him since, (but not too much) and hoped that my little lie helped him discover a truth in himself.

I Am Too Sick To Come Up With A Title

Well.

I was going to post today but now I am too sick. Too sick with a cold/allergies. How am I supposed to know if it is a cold or allergies? I mean, I know I can Google this stuff, but I am too sick to Google. All I know is that I've got itchy eyes and a burning nose from blowing. Chup says my nose gets burny because I don't wipe my nose properly. He says I need to narrow down the wipe area to just the nostrils and that piece of flesh in between. What is that piece of flesh in between the two nostrils called anyway? I'd Google that too, but maybe you've heard, I am too sick. Sick with allergies/cold.

Ouch. It really hurts my sore fingers to type (which is why I can't post today). Does anyone give finger massages out there? My thumbs and pinkies are especially smarting (whichiswhyIshouldstopusingthespacebar). Now my clavicle is twitching. This is not a good sign. I better not post today. Just to be safe.

Uh-oh. There goes my voice. One of the most important tools a blogger has is her voice. Now it is gone, maybe Tuesday will bring it back.

I just swallowed and my throat got mad at me. Every time I swallow my tonsils scream "Don't do that! Every single time you do that things get worse!" Know what? My tonsils are right. Along with NOT blogging today, I am also not going to swallow. This is just part of having a cold/allergies.

What?

Oh, I am sorry for the impairment of my ears. All auditory now sounds like we live in a world of water. Noises are like bubbles in my eardrum. What was that?

I hope you will forgive me. One time I was too busy to post and I think 75% of the people forgave me. The other 25%? Who needs them?

But today I am not too busy to post, just too sick. With a cold/allergies.

Is there something you can do for me?

I am so glad you asked.

Do you have the number for the human resources that I am supposed to call to report that I am having a sick day? It didn't come with all of information they gave me when we left the hospital with our newborn baby, The Chief. No, no. I've looked. I've spent almost a year looking. Yes, yes. I am quite sure there was no number.

No?

Well then, I am not posting for sure today. I've really got to save my energy.

By the way, which is more closest to death, a cold or allergies?

Really?

Now I know what I've got.

See you Monday.

(If you're lucky.)

What The World Needs (Earth Day Edition):

Less weeds and more of these pretty little yellow flowers.

Happy Earth Day!

Poli-texting

Hens from Page's coop

Last night when I got home from a cupcake run with Stephanie I noticed my mother, The Councilwoman, had called my phone.

You know, some people take their phones on the go, but ever since my father helped sponsor a No Texting While Driving bill here in Utah I've decided to not even tempt myself. Texting while driving? I didn't need a law to tell me about the dangers. I can't do anything and text. When I text I have to be sitting down, floor swept, dishes done, children napping, distractions zero. My brain, a phone keyboard, my fingers, it is all so clumsy. But Chup? He is always texting me while commuting. Which I find NOT safe. But, something about him disregarding his father-in-law's law to communicate with his woman does make me feel a little cheeky. In a Capulate sort of way.

When I checked my mother's message she sounded pretty insistent that I call her back.

"Courtney, this is your mother. Call me as soon as you get this message."

But it was Tuesday night which meant that more than likely she'd be passing ordinances at the city council meeting. I flipped on the telly to channel 17 and found her there with her cronies.

One passionate neighbor was at the public podium pleading for the life of his hens.

Ahh. I had forgotten. Tonight was the great Chicken Debate 2009. Provo was out in flocks asking the council to change city laws to allow them to have coops in their backyards. Animal rights are serious around here, and chickens are only allowed in certain areas of town. But with the growing popularity of having domestic coops the issue has grown intense. Just the other day Page was left with a dirty message. "Get rid of your chickens or else . . ." Because some people don't like chickens, as it turns out.

I knew it was going to be a long night for the controversy, so I decided to call and leave a message, knowing she'd get back to me when she could. As the phone rang, I was caught by surprise when I watched my mother on tv look at her phone, turn around in her high back chair away from camera and answer.

"Hello?" she answered like we were Watergate.

"Bbbut . . . you are on tv . . . and I am watching . . . you answer . . . but how can you answer . . . with the chicken . . . debate . . . avian flu . . .but . . . how?" I fumbled.

"Did you get Stephanie dinner?" she ignored my fumbling.

"Yes." I replied.

"And is she home?"

"Yes." I replied.

"Good. See you later." Click.

Then I watched her chair swivel around as if to say What phone call? I was sneezing. I always turn away from the public when I sneeze.

It felt so crafty.

I loved it.

Loved it so much, I spent the rest of the night eating cupcakes and texting my mother as I watched the fowl argument unfold. When there was a close up on her visage I reminded her to smile. I remarked how lovely she looked in pink. I made fun of some of the comments by the other Councilpeople,

"I love chickens, believe me I do. I even grew up being called the Little Chicken Whisperer. But I can't vote for this ordinance because . . ."

In turn she texted back, reminding me to floss and take the garbage out to the curb because I had forgotten to do so for the past three weeks and my can looked like the openings of a Pillsbury dough tube.

I don't even know who won, the chickens or the haters, but it was a most enjoyable way to spend my evening. I am glad that my dad's bill had nothing to do with texting while holding public meetings because that would be taking things too far. Definitely.

A Year of A Lifetime

It was a year ago I sat in a hot bath with my pounding belly like an island in the water. The baby of my body was a goldfish, swimming about in the fish tank of my flesh. As he flipped about I became in love. It was a prayer.

"Heavenly Father, I am in love."

In that instant of praying and loving I also understood. The best of souls know that falling in love is imperative to growth, and it must happen continually. Emotions that accompany affection keep our spirits alive. The hope, the fears, the perpetual vulnerability, the anxiety.

It started for me in the fourth grade (though I am sure Freud will tell me it started much earlier). The new boy in our classroom had freckles that matched my own, and I wanted more than anything for his new desk to touch corners with mine. From there it progressed from person to person, high school, college, beyond. Until I met Chup who held my interest like none other human I had met. I wanted to know everything about him, from what towel he used to dry after showering and every girl he had ever kissed.

I continue to be enraptured with my husband, he will always be a small mystery to me. There are parts of his past that I will never understand because I am out of historical context. I hope for a lifetime to discover him fully and piece together his personal puzzle. This I count as my premiere blessing.

But in that watery think tank, I was learning a new way to fall in love. An entirely unique courtship and wooing reserved for woman and child. His impending birth brought sensations to me resembling the enchantment I had felt before in past relationships. But now it was all-encompassing, along with God, I was his creator. His puzzle pieces fit inside of me.

Now, a year later I see that I am hopeless. Every day delivers a new baby who is more intelligent, more powerful and handsome than twenty four hours before. I can't keep up. I wonder how much my infatuation can inflate over the span of my lifetime. I calculate how I can rope in the best of this world to hand to him on a silver platter. I try to read his future in the palms of his little hands. I am eager to know him better.

Which is to say, that all of this keeps my soul alive. Being entirely in love with two men at the same time is my health plan. It is my exercise, my weight loss, my vitamins A, B and C. I am a small sample of polyandry, and for me it works.

There are many ways to continually fall in love. Some move from partner to partner as initial steam evaporates. Some spouses find outside interests who can create sparks for their dying fire. But I am learning that passion for a faithful spouse, infused with the creation of little humans (whether from your flesh, or one given to you) is cosmic.

I must remember this: it is worth the pain in trying to obtain. The hopeless and the hopeful moments all have meaning and purpose. No matter how many times it happens, I will never regret emotion spent on falling in love.

Copy Cats Out of the Bag

A few weeks ago there was much blogging drama. It started when a loyal reader wrote to tell me that another blogger (with a significant readership) had taken one of my posts, changed a few nouns and reposted it as her own. I sent an e-mail out to my Blog's Board of Trustees (you've got to have one these days) who in turn flooded the plagiarists comment section until the blog was entirely gone by evening's time. Don't mess with my Board of Trustees. Lesson learned.

But this weekend it happened again. An e-mail from a kind reader informed me that another blogger, with a healthy readership, copied one of my recent posts, changed spots in sentence structure and reposted. In her comment section, readers were cheering on her prose and storytelling abilities. This time I decided that flattery be damned, I was annoyed.

Chup sent the blogger a message via e-mail and demanded her to apologize to me. Which she did, claiming that she had never, ever before done such a corruptible act of internet plagiarism. I had intended to write back, symbolically waving my hand over her deed in an act of forgiveness, but that was when Azucar got involved. Azucar, my watchdog-in-waiting went ahead and started digging in the archives of this "sorry" blogger only to find more posts of mine slightly reworded for context. After Azucar posted on her own blog about this incident other alert readers got involved. As it turned out, together they found the blogger in question to have copied most of her posts from various writers across the internet. You can read about all that here and here.

I thought our outing of this blogger was a triumph until MD called to say there was another blog with lifted content. My content. A lot of my content. Pretty much my blog, my photos, my life. And then it just got incredibly eery. How many other thieves out there were thinking that my blog was just a template? Change a few names and locations and bang! A blog!

But mostly I couldn't stop thinking about readers who enthusiastically and unknowingly support these poseurs with cheerful comments and encouraging feedback. "You are so incredible!" "Your writing is so insightful!" "I wish I were more like you!" It really tore me up inside to read their genuine statements wasted on liars.

And this lead me to realize how much I love my readership. I love the readers who e-mail, who chat with me on Facebook, who leap over to my Frog forum, who stop me at Costco, who send me sweet nothings in the mail, who read. I would never want to deceive them or play with their trust for my own glory. Can you feel this heartbeat readers? This is for you. This is for you. This is for you and your little dog too.

After this insightful weekend I have a greater desire to present myself more honestly. And now I have a confession:

Last week when I posted pictures of me on my couch it appeared that I had dark hair with chunky highlights. The responses I received were all over the spectrum. Some readers loved the dark and some admitted their grief over me abandoning my inner blonde. The truth is, while I do have roots (to be touched up by Ashlee today) my hair is still quite blonde. Chup used a few filters to create a more urban feel to the photos. I wanted to look more glamorous. In real life I am not that dark, not that urban, and unfortunately, not that glamorous. That is my confession.

Wow. You can't imagine how liberating it is to fess up. My dirty secret is revealed! No more skeletons amongst cotton skirts in my closet! I can walk in ways of truth like a virtuous woman again! I am a legitimate, authentic, bona fide fake blonde! I can be honest about my imitation of those who are naturally more fair haired! My inner bumper sticker reads: I plagiarize towheads!

Coming clean feels so ethical. More people should try it.

Thank you to all the stalwart readers who helped spread the word this weekend.

If ever you come across a plagiarized post of mine please, please e-mail me.

We can win this war together.

Adoption Button

Step right up Ladies and Gentlemen to my first ever Button Week. I am celebrating the arrival of four new buttons loading up on my sidebar. Every day a new blog about a new button. It is the most exciting thing since dark chocolate Cadbury eggs. Hallelujah!



Last night over dinner Chup and I were mapping out The Chief's existence. His schooling, his friends, his philosophical beliefs. Then, in a moment of silence I retreated.

"I just want him to be happy boy." I summed up, "I just want him to be . . . Jeremy."

Jeremy is Chup's younger brother whom I refer to as MD on my blog. He is about the most decent human I know. He has a heart of honey and a drippy sense of humor (not quite dry) mixed with an encompassing intellect. In his study as a pediatrician he's earned all sorts of national awards and accolades--a stand out among his peers. But mostly, he's just happy.

"I know, me too." Chup concurred.

As much as I like Jeremy (Chup sometimes gets skeptical of how much I like his brother) I love his wife, Becki, who I call Kentucky. In the recesses of my soul I have many times thought I was meant to marry Chup for the eternal companionship of my sister in law. She is the best of people. Not overly-saintly, just a little devilish and completely enlightened. I've told her everything about me and my life, and I've never once regretted it (except one small detail) because she has a stream of respect for the human experience.

A couple years after Jeremy and Becki were married they found out they were pregnant. In the spring Beck gave birth to a little boy Ethan (Phun) who grew up to be a sweet-hearted, curious-minded genius. His expanding brain holds a library of knowledge about various subjects. My favorite is classical music. You want "Flight of the Bumblebee"? Ethan will hum it for you and graciously add that it was Nikolai Rimsky-Korsak who wrote the piece. He is a product of steady, stable, loving parenting.

The story of their family is incredible. Among romance and adventure, there is also heartbreak and victory. Here is a small slice:

Shortly after giving birth to Ethan, Becki found out she had colon cancer.

The news devastated our family. She was too young and too healthy for cancer. In the next years that followed she fought cancer three times more and fell victim to the side effects of treatments. Though ultimately she beat cancer, it was concluded that she wouldn't be able to become pregnant again.

A couple weeks ago we celebrated Jeremy's birthday with dinner and cupcakes. After we dined, Becki and I sat on the couch talking about our lives.

"I want another child." She told me.

With the celebratory news of her triumph over cancer, and her ensuing health, she knew it was time to open her mother's heart. Ethan has persistently asked for a brother or sister for years. They had tried for adoption in the past, but their time hadn't come. Now, more than ever, they are ready to welcome another soul into their nest.

I want to help them grow their family, just about more than I want anything right now. I want Ethan to have a sibling. I want to see Jeremy help shape the character of a new little person. I want to see Beck with a baby in her arms, a symbol of triumph. But mostly, I want a baby to have them. I know that if I were in a position to selflessly give up my child for something better, there would be no question where my child would go.

I might even let them have The Chief for awhile, just until he knows all the composers of the Victorian age.

But that is a conversation for another dinnertime.


Please visit Jeremy and Becki's Adoption Blog, and get contact information, plus a link to their Lds Social Services profile by going here.

I am proudly putting their button on my blog, it looks like this:

(This is the only button I've ever seen that makes me emotional. White onesie. Gets me every time.)


I am also encouraging friends and family of Jeremy and Becki (or anyone interested) to put this adoption button on their blog/ website/ Facebook page/etc. Let's spread the word all over the world. I have seen miracles come from our internet community and I know it can happen again. You can find their button code by scrolling to the bottom of the page here.



To read a clever guest post Kentucky/Becki wrote for me about cancer treatments go here. To read some of my posts about this family you can read here, here, here and for a special treat, a movie I made with Phun about crackers here (scroll to bottom). Enjoy and THANK YOU!

Button, Button I Found My Button--Revised

Step right up Ladies and Gentlemen to my first ever Button Week. I am celebrating the arrival of four new buttons loading up on my sidebar. Every day a new blog about a new button. It is the most exciting thing since Prime Time in No Time. Frank Nicotero, je t'aime.

Last night Chup took some photos of moi. At first we were just being silly, you know me posing like this or me posing like that. We even had some tunes in the background, a mixture of Chup's 80's Pop and my stripped down man-with-guitar ballads. It felt like old times.

Old times, specifically, pre baby. It has been a while since I've wanted the camera to catch me in a frame. I found that having a baby did a little reconstruction to that part of me that wanted to win Best Dressed at my inner city high school. Suddenly the world meant more than just waking up and looking cute.

Which is fine, but I still think it is important (very important for me, anyway) to want to wake up and go through the rituals of looking good. When I show my body that I am willing to take some time to take care of it, my body seems to respond in kind. I think it took me by surprise how much I miss that part of myself.

One thing that helped turn me around was Ms. Reachel Bagley's Cardigan Empire. For Christmas she sent me my very own Fashion Look Book. It outlined my best colors, styles and some desperately needed advice for my postpartum shape. As I perused through the pages, I desired to look, dress and smell better. Yes, smell.

I am moving like spring. Coming out, starting to bud again and feeling renewed. In thanking Reachel for her help, I am adding her button to my sidebar. I wish I could do more. She might have eternally saved me from cotton sweat suits.

I now humbly recognize that I can still be fabulous and be a mother.



Well . . . in a different sort of way.

Post Edit:

Yikes you know what? I only get a brief hour to compose my posts. I really don't have the time to proof read or re-read like I should. I just changed "striped down music" to "stripped down music." And "I now humble recognize" to "I now humbly recognize."

Yesterday I wrote "ballet" instead of "ballot." Cg6, my pr director, along with Chup and my mother usually let me know when I've got problems. But sometimes they have a life of their own to read. I mean, lead.

In conclusion, motherhood has also made me a bit lazy in the editing department. Does anyone offer a Grammar Look Book? Just kidding. I wouldn't read it.

Also, I cut the third picture for my FB account. It was too much for the blog. Whatever that means.

Oh and I just cut the second photo too. I'll put that only Blogger profile.

Much, better.

High School Unbuttoned

Step right up Ladies and Gentlemen to my first ever Button Week. I am celebrating the arrival of four new buttons loading up on my sidebar. Every day a new blog about a new button. It is the most exciting thing since the snipers and the pirates. Did you read about that?

When once upon a time I was in high school life was simple. I was the Girls President for the student body, which was really important and I did important things and other things that were important to me. One important thing I had to do was sponsor Girl's Week which we renamed Women's Week because at that point in my life that was taking a hard stance against something important.

The juxtaposition here is that while I thought I was going femme fatal by feminizing Girl's Week with the respect-demanding name change, I also had to go about the school get nominations for Boys Preference votes. This included such inane categories as Best Body and Most Spirit. The crowning jewel title was, of course, Most Preferred, which means that out of all the girls (women) in my inner city high school you were the best choice. I guess.

My family had a long standing tradition of being Most Preferred. But Page told me that the night she was awarded the title she felt her popularity slip out of her hands. Because once you are crowned Most Preferred, suddenly you are last night's news. So I didn't really wish for that title at all. Instead I wanted--BEST DRESSED.

After the nominations were counted I found myself on the ballot for two categories. Best Personality (boring) and--BEST DRESSED. Now, I could sit here and type through lies that I didn't care because I was too cool for high school or that it doesn't matter now because I've forgotten it, but time has taught me that no one forgets high school. Even those who say they have--especially--those who say they have. High school is life, humans, it will always be embedded on your brain. For this reason, I am always feeling ashamed for how much I flirted with my student-teachers. My face is currently blushing.

Best Dressed was more than Most Intellectual which I had no chance at anyway. It was the only real sophisticated category, it was smart, chic and vogue. To me it was more than Best Looking because your face was long decided before you left the womb. It was just dumb luck. Best Dressed however, was reward for hard work. Hard work reading Seventeen. Which I did monthly.

And I wrote the inner city high school fashion column. I gave people free advice about what to wear. This was before the tv show, too. I was an only hope for so many. So many in my inner city high school needed me. I designed my own prom dresses. The very least they could do was bestow upon me--BEST DRESSED.

The results were to be announced at the Boys Preference dance. Luckily, I was asked to go with a funny young man who also dressed a bit trendy. I endured a week of chipper boys telling me they voted for my personality. I smiled, because that is what women with lovely personalities do (on the outside) but (on the inside) I thought, You wasted my Best Dressed vote? What has puberty done to your brain man?

When the night finally arrived, I dressed up in my best. I didn't want to receive the award only to have the boys regret their decision. Then my date called to say he had diarrhea. And, he actually told me that he had diarrhea, which endeared me to him a little. But, there would be no date, and my nominated personality wasn't cool enough to go alone.

Late that night, after an evening of stewing in my bedroom, I got a call from a friend with the results. The Girls President (Women's President) won nothing. Not Best Personality, not--BEST DRESSED. My inner city school didn't care.

Now, lest you are crying with me at this moment (because you remember the treacheries of high school) I want you to know that I have since learned two important lessons about this page of my personal history:

One, why would I expect a gaggle of inner city school boys to appreciate avant garde fashion? Not getting the award was the real award. You see what I am saying?

and

Two, as cliche as it sounds, it really is an honor just to be nominated.

A couple days ago, a very kind reader sent me a heads up on being nominated for the Blogger Choice Awards. My category is BEST BLOG ABOUT STUFF. If my stuff is what you'd like to vote for you can do it here.

As a way of warning, you will have to login to vote. So if you are lazy like me, I want you to know that I take the counts that thought. I mean, the thoughts that count. But, do I really think thoughts count? I will have to ponder that today.

A new button on my sidebar reads: I've been nominated. Should I lose this one at least we all know that I am, at most--BEST DRESSED BLOGGER.

Because If I Don't Say Thanks I Will Explode

Every morning for the past several months I awake thinking about the generosity of the people who inhabit this planet. Then I think about the groups of people who make up businesses that give their clever products away to make someone's day. I was such a recipient and I have no idea how to thank everyone who sent packages, but for what it is worth, three companies continue to stand out in my mind.

Umi outfitted all the Nielson children and The Chief with happy footwear for play, church and school. I will never forget Claire hiking the Y in her dark blue Umi mary janes. I was so grateful for a quality product to last us through the months. Thank you Umi.



Ju Ju Be generously sent Lucy and me diaper bags to hold all of our stuff together. Then, to be extra sweet they sent a package of bags for the children. We love their gorgeous patterns and unbelievable design. Thank you Ju Ju Be.

Petunia Pickle Bottom sent me a personal package intended to enhance my life with spice. There was a gorgeous crimson purse for me and little duds for the little dude. Now everywhere I go people ask "Oh my! Is that a Petunia Pickle Bottom purse?" and indeed, I feel spicy when I say "Oh yes! It is!"

If I could, I'd spend days writing about the toy store owner who shipped us a coffin-sized packaged filled with toys. Or the boutique in Texas that sent a load of new spring clothes. Or the artisans who sent their wares to cheer our souls. Or anyone who ever did the slightest act of goodness on behalf of our family.

Thank you everyone. My mornings will never be the same.

More of Button Week to come later today!

Button Week: Desperate for a Despot--Revised with a New Link

Step right up Ladies and Gentlemen to my first ever Button Week. I am celebrating the arrival of four new buttons loading up on my sidebar. Every day a new blog about a new button. It is the most exciting thing since Michelle Obama's green gloves. Or were they olive?

This weekend Retro House went cold. Our white bedroom became an igloo. The green carpeted downstairs den was a frozen tundra. We defrosted the nursery with a space heater and smiles. Chup checked the furnace and found it deathly ill.

We tried calling the service number posted on the pipes, but late Saturday night was no time to be looking for serviceman. Calls were made to family asking for recommendations, but our calls rang in empty offices. Finally, after a swift look at the phone book we found a 24 hour service. On the phone they troubleshot with Chup until we had a diagnosis. There was hope for heat in our future.

Then yesterday I woke up to find a warm fridge. Warm applesauce, warm spinach leaves, tepid juice. Had this happened a few days earlier it could've been a delightful coincidence. We would've used the den's bookshelves for soy milk storage while the baby slept in the humidity-controlled vegetable drawer. Issues solved, money saved.

Instead I was left worrying about my once-chilled grapefruit Izzes. Chup had just left for work. I found him on the cell in Orem.

"I'll come home."

In an hour or so our fridge was back to work cooling our beverages and keeping our uncooked tortillas soft. By afternoon my crushed ice was back in my water cup.

The point is, I am glad for professionals. People who have skills to save the day. They know the ins and the outs of their prospect job and for them, details make all the difference.

Like my banner designer Jed Wells, The Despot.

He has given me birds, turkeys and Christmas ornaments--each coming with minuscule detailing around borders and patterns. He's matched unique colors with my template to complete the overall feel of my blog. He has been my wind beneath my wings. Literally.

Though I had begged, Jed would not meet the demand of his public. Though e-mails poured in my inbox requesting his artistry, Jed refused to design for the masses. His work became something of an enigma. Blog owners asked around wondering how they could get a genuine Jed Wells banner, but his work was too rare, too pricey. Like owning a Escher, or a Warhol--a Well's banner is the pearl of blog banners--devastatingly hard to attain.

Until now.

A slight tilt in the universe has opened the gate for the yous and mes of this internet world to work with Jed Wells, The Despot, one-on-one for personalized, artistic banners (plus more). This news is celebratory amongst the depressive state of our economic union. I wouldn't be surprised if Jed's open shop doesn't revive Wall Street for the next month (at least). Especially if he designed while wearing olive-colored gloves.

Thank you, Jed.

For examples, samples and a witty explanation go here.

Here is the button:



To get your own Despot Design button, copy and paste this:

<a href="http://despotdesigns.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i177.photobucket.com/albums/w239/wildmf/tdd.jpg" /></a>

Now, if only Chup would let me pay for a painter to finish our ceilings, a landscaper to do something with the front walk-way and the Merry Maids to do scrub down the bathrooms. And while we are leaving things up to the professionals, why not a cook?

Until next time my Button Beloveds . . .


Post-Edit:

The other slinger in my design squad--Megan from Knuckleheaders--just posted this about The Despots exciting news. She is sassy, indeed.

Little Resurrections

On Easter weekend my sister Stephanie and I decided to take the children to indoor track. It is a tactical way of letting kids run of their remaining spits of steam before bedtime. Four children, and one baby strapped in a stroller, exploded on to the track and headed for the massive pole vault pits.

Stephanie and I took our time walking within the bounds of lanes three and four. Her youngest Gigs resisted keeping up with the older kids to instead beg his mother to run with him. From yards behind, I watched her try to keep his excited pace with stiff movements. Legs rotating in circular motions, arms in angles, head slipping to the side. There was my sister, alive. Running.

The residual trauma of the past six months had not exited my system. Either had the adrenalin from our public affair. I had prayed and wished for the new normal to present itself, and I waited while waking with a tight jaw and a suspicious soul. My heart would not believe what I saw with my eyes. There was progress.

There is progress. See, said my mind to my heart. See, here she is, with her children. And you are with your healthy baby. And there isn't so much change to your sister that you can't recognize her eternal essence.

For months I had juggled worries. Thoughts of tragedy circled my head, death or devastation. A week where I felt premonitions that a great earthquake would split our home in half. Or that my husband wouldn't make it home from work one day. That my sister would never again feel hope.

For weeks I missed children in my home. I wanted to brush their little fingernails and snuggle them to sleep. Mornings were lonely without audible demands with incessant needs. Drinks of water or bathroom aid. Our threesome were left to reinvent our lives. Specifically, what to do with all the time.

For days I didn't sleep. Bed hopping from one empty room to another, I tried to get comfortable. But comfort was not found on hard mattresses in the middle of quiet nights.

I felt empty.

On the vault pit the children played werewolves. They use soft hands to tackle and claw at each other as they rolled along on the soft padding. At one point Jane needed to use the restroom. I told Steph that I would run Jane down to the facilities if she'd watch the baby.

"If he starts to cry and holds his breath, he'll most likely faint. Just let him do his thing." Steph looked worried. Trauma is still close to her. She can sense it overcoming her in certain situations. But, she's come a long way from the days when watching my baby crawl incited fear in her heart.

When the bathroom break was over I could hear my baby's cry echoing through the massive facility. I knew he'd be alright, but for my sister's sake, I didn't want her to feel the panic of watching my baby turn blue. I started running, as fast as I ever have since giving birth. I suddenly became aware of sections of my body I have since neglected. Look at me move, I thought to myself. I am moving and moving fast.

Rounding the corner I was stopped by a passerby.

"What happened to your friend?" She was a fifty-something woman with amber-colored hair, wearing a flower print skirt with running shoes. She looked concerned and licked her lips.

"My sister, actually."

"Your sister."

"She was in a small plane crash and was burned over eighty percent of her body."

"Oh how awful!" Licking lips.

"Yes, but she's alive." I said, feeling it for the first time.

I caught up with our party just in time to see that Stephanie had the baby out of his stroller. She held him on his lap, something she's never been able to do since the accident.

"He started to hold his breath, so I blew in his face." She told me nonchalantly. No sweat on her forehead, no trepidation in her voice. Is this the new normal?

I started to suggest we go, but the woman had rotated the track and was headed for Stephanie. People feel drawn to tell her their life story, their tragedy, their personal crashes. This woman talked of a husband who left her after five children and having to put herself through school. The more I listened, the more I felt that she had earned a right to wear floral skirts with running shoes and lick her lips all she wanted.

The visit ended with Gigs needing a drink of water. We headed to the doors nearby a drinking fountain. I kept ahead with the older children and turned to see Stephanie trying to manage lifting her solid two-year old up for his mouth to reach the stream of water. For a second, I thought of jogging back to help. Instead, I watched their struggle, ending with Gigs thirst being quenched.

"The thing is," my sister said as she caught up with us "every day I do something that I didn't think I could do. I didn't think I could do what I just did." I knew what she meant. Everyday a willing heart was reuniting with a feeble body to make a miracle. To a small degree, I felt it too.

For the next few days we celebrated Easter. There were cupcakes, egg hunts and bunny ears. We honored our devotion to a Lord who overcame death by reuniting his spirit with a glorified body. We expressed gratitude for our inevitable resurrection, the restoration of our souls. We know it will come to everyone who has ever lived, or who will live. It is a gift from a loving God to his children and will come at a time after this world's books are written.

But in my heart, I celebrated the symbolic resurrections. My sister also overcame death, not to a glorified body, but one that is reuniting with her renewed spirit. And perhaps I have overcome emotional death, not to a perfect spirit, but one that is learning to feel her body again. For our faith in Jesus Christ, we are learning to be raised.

Visit my Frog Forum here.

Let's Call it a Week

This morning I woke up and told The Chief the big news.

"Just you and me today, Chief-o."

I thought the announcement of a no mother-sharing, toy-snatching, nap-interrupting day would cause freedom to reverberate in his little chest. The Chief a la William Wallace, FREEDOM!

But instead he looked at me as though he wasn't sure what we were going to do all day long. As if our normal life was too mundane to go back to. As if, I (how could this be?) was a boring mother.

Around morning nap time I made the executive decision to go down as well. If motherhood's luxuries don't include napping when your monkey naps, then I don't know what else to look for in the future.

Our morning slumber was going exceptionally well, in fact we were rounding out a nice two hours, when I heard scuffling in the kitchen downstairs.

Then,

"Hello?"

I knew that voice as well as the hum of my own dishwasher. It was Ollie.

"Hello?"

It was getting closer.

Nap interrupted.

The Chief woke up to see his once-upon-a-time brother at the foot of the bed.

The Chief rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

Hot dang, we had visitors again!

Ollie came accompanied by Umi The Councilwoman, Gigs the Muscle Man and our favorite dog Nan. It was a grade-A, genuine party:













And only one of these:

(But heavens, you know it wasn't Gigs's fault. His face pleads innocence.)

This ends a hefty week of visits from little people. We are lucky to have so many around to share our afternoons. Though we like the quiet days, we welcome the noisy ones too.

And now, we're off for second naps.

Visiting time over.




(Can you tell we are spicing things up at Retro House? Tour to come soon!)

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Adventures in Babysitting Part 2

Yesterday The Chief and I hosted cousins Luke and Stella for our third consecutive day of watching my siblings children (on Monday we had the Nielson crew).

What is that saying? Building up blessings in heaven? Something like that?

Anyway, Stella insisted on keeping her backpack on the entire time, because she knows how "things get lost easily" and Luke simply wanted something to throw or something to drink in a bottle. Apparently he doesn't mind vanilla soy milk, cause that's all we got. Cow milk gives me the heebie jeebies. Did I spell that right? But really, drinking cross-species lactation? Almost as bad as eggs.

I could go on, but I won't because I am building up blessings in heaven.

As for The Chief, well, he was his normal howdy-doody self:

Did you need a babysitter? My Friday looks clear.

Just kidding. The Chief would never forgive me.

Blessings count: 2,334

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