Every year on c jane enjoy it (and some of my sibling's blogs) I take time to post photos of our Family Gala. This is a night where we are guests of Christopher and Lisa. We dress up, eat spectacular food, are entertained by guest artists, and take time to honor several people in our family who have made considerable contributions to our family, community and country. We look forward to this occasion all year long and last night was no disappointment.
We dined, laughed and reacted to gossip:
We had Lisa's I-can't-wait-to-have-those-again-next-year stuffed mushrooms:
We celebrated Ric's birthday (along with his beautiful wife and daughter):
Nie wore her patriotic leg bandages and Lindsay wore a bright blue skirt and my dad wore the top part of his tux:
Chup was on business leave, so my brother Matt stepped in to be my date (his wife Katy is doing due diligence at Girls Camp):
We were feeling romantic:
And that is when Mindy Gledhill came out to perform:
(who made us all cry, and thank God that we were alive to be present).
This year we had a reporter at our event, the beautiful Jaimee Rose (who is more like a dear friend than a reporter):
I guess my last post caused quite a controversy in my community and inbox. Some people thought it was embarrassing, uncomfortable, not virtuous, seductive, line-crossing, bordering into the land of "food pornography."
There was discussion about the photo I used, the idea being that the angle was suggestive.
I appreciate a thorough examination of what I am as a writer, I really do. I publish myself knowingly and subject myself to opinions and feedback--I consider all that I gather. The formula is this: if feedback hurts I've got work to do.
After reading comments and emails I found I was not hurt by any of them, but a little confused. Sometimes when my reality gets a bit whimsical, I rely on a team of advisers to pull me back into re-examination. In this instance, I became somewhat interested in knowing what those closest to me thought of my post.
One reader suggested I was not listening to my mother's advice about modesty--as made manifest in posted picture. So I called my mother.
"Did my last post go against what you are trying to teach me about modesty?"
"Huh? What was your last post about?" The Councilwoman responded, unphased.
"About eating at Rooster." I reminded.
"Um, no honey, I didn't think anything about it, other than it sounded like a nice night." She sounded a bit disinterested.
"And what about the photo I posted, did you think it was immodest?"
"What was the photo of?" I was beginning to think she hadn't really read.
"Of me with chopsticks reaching over to eat Chup's plate."
"Let me get on the computer and see for myself."
Then there was typing noises and the dog barking in the phone, all while I was waiting in line at Sonic for a Route 44. The Chief was in the back having a one-sided conversation with Chup's work name tag.
"I don't see anything wrong with the photo." My mother said in finality, as though she were sitting at her seat in the council chamber wrapping up a vote.
'Thanks Mom."
Next I took time to ask my sister-in-law Megan who happens to be one of the most normal people I know. She's never too salty or too serious, always just about right.
"What?" She responded when I told her about the feedback. I took it as a sign that she too was a little confused about the fuss.
Instead she asked me to come over to her house for dinner, which I sadly had to refuse because it was my best friend Wendy's barbecue and pool party. How do I have the time for all the fun?
Then Chup, on our date night, eating sushi:
"When you took that photo of me, were you trying to make it about my anatomy, rather than the food?" because Chup would do that, let's just make that clear.
"No. Oh gosh. No." He said as I watched him swallow a Dynamite Roll. (Don't eat Dynamite Rolls unless your ears need a good steaming. This sushi tip was brought to you by me in the middle of this post.)
As it stood, I still felt pretty good about the post. Though maybe I haven't done my job making clear what my blog is about, or what I am about. I think I may have caught some off-guard.
Allow me: I am a Latter Day Saint blogger who seeks after experiences that excite my senses and teaches me about my soul. When the Lord tells me in the Doctrine & Covenants that the fullness of the earth is for "taste and for smell, to strengthen the body and enliven the soul" to "please the eye and gladden the heart" I take it seriously. I believe that divine experiences fill our soul with love and joy--and this is how we judge our moments, from eating . . . to worshiping, did I exit that experience as a more enlightened human being? Did I gain light, knowledge and understanding? I was able to rediscover my premortal self? Do I feel charitable towards humanity? Was I taught? Did I listen? Did it make me want to testify of the love of the Lord?
With this framework I negotiate my way through life. For example, I don't rely on a movie rating system to choose which movies are appropriate for me. (I have seen many PG 13 movies with massive regret.) I do my homework, and seek out movies that will entertain the best part of me. I try to choose wisely what to feed my senses, but I do not subscribe to narrow streets with no opportunities of expansion. I believe that Christianity--with its building blocks of faith, repentance, baptism and confirmation--should be thrilling, full of waiting treasures (" even hidden treasures") and uncovering of "mysteries of God." I believe in baptizing my soul in the best of what this earthy experience has to offer, within the bounds of a wise God. I don't do hallucinogenic drugs, but I have hallucinated with joy. So did Ammon. All of this to say, if I thought my religion was strictly puritanical, I would lose interest and leave. Even still, like most saints around me, I try, I fail, I repent, I listen to council, I want to obey, I hopefully renew covenants, I pray for personal revelation.
(This long-winded explanation of my personal religious theory was also, ahem, brought to you by me.)
On Saturday night Page and I attended an evening church fireside for the adults in our area. After the meeting was over we stopped to say hello to some of our neighbors. Happily, I bumped into the admirable wife of our Stake President (see Wikipedia for what a Stake President does) .
"I just read your blog about Rooster. I must go. It sounds so good."
And I don't know, the Stake President's wife? I like that company.
(I hope I am making sense.)
*Chup and I love this April 2009 Conference Talk by Elder Allan Packer Finding Strength in Challenging Times. We strive to subscribe to what he teaches about personal revelation.
As usual Chup and I were really late. And I was nervous about that fact.
It was a balmy evening and we were out gathering needs for our upcoming trip. When we walked into the restaurant we identified many of our neighbors sitting at the brown and black tables among modern decor, talking and adding to the steam fogging up the windows.
"Sorry we are late." I said to Simy, our friend and restaurant owner.
"You are right on time. The food is just now coming out."
We took seats next to Andrew and Milli who call Accra, Ghana home, but are graciously accepting of our comparatively scaled-down town. Across from us, on the cozy communal table were Andy's parents, proud that their son and daughter-in-law were able to create a restaurant, a menu, an atmosphere and community centered around taste and flavor.
And here it was, the rehearsal dinner, one night before the grand opening.
First they brought out dumplings--vegetarian ones with slaw on the side, we sat like lobsters, our chopsticks ready to clinch. We experimented with dips, ginger, oil, pepper while talking about how we had fasted for this moment.
Then the beef dumplings--the smell of which coaxed me out of vegetarianism. By the end of the night, I had converted to a carefree carnivore. The sweet beef, the soft ribs, spicy pork in each dish ate me, instead. When the ginger chicken was delivered I partook, and could not help but partake again. Chup fed me bites as I sat in a stupor. I was drunk from flavor, conversation and swashing of tepid water.
It was warm in the restaurant. As more dishes were presented--nests of noodles, steamy rice, shrimp dumplings--the higher the inside temperature became. Our glasses dripped with wet, our words became more familiar, I felt my insecurity vanish inside of me. The food made me spellbound and I could not help but want express my adoration to everyone in the dinning room.
And I did, at least I think I did. I got up and moved from friend-to-friend telling them my inner most thoughts about how much I admired them, for their goodness and bravery. Something in the entrees made me do it, and I was glad. My soul felt soft and comfortable.
When Simy brought out her divine lava cake and whipped topping I was bordering consciousness.
"I can't do it." I leaned on Chup, sweating and tipsy.
"One bite." He coaxed me with his deep voice, he too was inebriated from the same.
But it was too much. The explosion of dark, thick chocolate inside a thin layer of cake took my spirit and carried away with it. I was no longer my own, my will was handed over to the gods of food and wine. Although, wine was not necessary, because I was buzzing without percent.
"I need to go home." I whispered to my husband, wanting to crawl in bed and dream of the evening.
But before we could go, I looked at Simy and Andy standing next to each other, watching the crowd before them grovel at their substance. All of their patrons were under their influence of love and spice. Simy was glowing and Andy was smiling. At that moment--in my borderline hallucinogenic state--I thought there were not two more beautiful people on this planet.
When I had hugged the last of friends and strangers alike ("Thanks for sitting by us, I love you, no I really love you like to infinity. And beyond!"), Chup pulled me out the door and we stumbled out to the windy night.
In bed I reclined paralyzed thinking about the effects of the evening. I was a virgin of sorts, having had my first experience with a true gastronomic intoxication. Ambiance, aroma and affection--it was all there.
I fell asleep thinking about everyone I had ever known from--birth til now--how much I loved that person, wished I could tell them.
Since I've got a treacherous relationship with modesty, Page gave me Beloved Bridegroom a book about ancient Jewish marriage customs and ceremonies. That ties in together in a way that I don't have time to explain right now, but maybe later? I don't know, book reviews are not major players in my repertoire.
So anyway repertoire is a hard word to spell.
Right click. Correct.
In the chapter explaining feasts (my favorite so section far, who knew that bread was considered sacred? me too) there is a line that explains why the Jews of antiquity were compelled to take in and feed strangers ". . . every stranger potentially carried a divine message."
Every stranger potentially carried a divine message.
The idea was an answer to my on-going (as on-going as my perplexity with modesty) quest to find a way to connect with others. Even those I don't know, or don't want to know, including those I do.
And unlike the Jews who were eager to invite a stranger in, I feel it necessary to explain why I don't feel the same. My greatest fear sometimes is having to listen to people, on the phone, on the airplane, at parties or anywhere. It's not that I don't like other's ideas because if I like to read letters and emails. The occurrence of face-to-face exchange is sometimes very uncomfortable to me. It just isn't my preferred way of communication.
(You really wouldn't like to be my next door neighbor. Just ask my next door neighbor.)
This causes an instant problem with my ability to connect with the general population. Not everyone in my life can email me the minute they need to chat. I get it. So I've sought out higher sources to provide me with the love and concern for others required to be a listening board.
This thought was timely. If I thought that God had embedded in other's minds a message and I needed to hear, I'd take more time to listen. Importantly, after reading this passage I went to Cafe Rio.
Because that is where one goes when one has a moment.
As we were waiting in line, me, Chup and our little creation, the fifty-something couple in line to order behind us started giving us parenting advice. You can imagine at first I wanted to bolt without my burrito, but I was really hungry. After five minutes we were engaging in a heart-to-heart, personal conversation about eternal truths and parenting privileges. They told me about having a child who made horrible choices and how they had to come to the realization that it wasn't their fault. They gave the child every opportunity to learn and grow, but the child simply chose not to accept the principles they taught. Their wisdom became part of me.
Obviously, it was a divine message from a stranger.
I've thought about it for a couple days now, someday I will meet the stranger with a message about modesty.
But until that day comes, my cleavage remains.
Post-Edit:
This evening The Councilwoman and I were taking a drive when she sighed and said to me,
"About the modesty thing . . ."
And suddenly I was sixteen again, lump in throat, preparing myself for an embarrassing snippet of the sex talk.
"It isn't about having cleavage. It's about what you do with your cleavage." She explained.
"You read my post." I said.
"Yes, and I want you to know that it's about your intentions. If you have unintended cleavage that is one thing, but if you have intended cleavage . . . well . . . then you've got a modesty issue."
Which is when my own mother became the "stranger with the message about modesty."
It is quite possible that March's quandary of book or baby was the portal for me starting a new blog. dear c jane has been a joy to work on, it is a simple idea and only requires a small percentage of brain capacity. I look forward to the dear c jane emails and following-up on reader tips. Companies have responded in kind (my gosh, thank you for following the links!) by giving c jane readers discounts. Oh happy hands! Clappy hands! It is 3:15 in the morning and I am typing blinded by exhaustion!
But I can't go to bed without confessing that I started another blog. I know. If I start a fourth blog it means I have become certifiably. Certifiably you know what . . . but hear me out.
My trip to London inspired my desire to appreciate the loveliness in my own neck of the wood/mountains. So I started a blog about Provo. A love letter to my town, complete with Chup's photos, my words, and invites to parties or restaurants you can't miss.
Check it out here (still way under construction, mind you.)
And last of all, and possibly most importantly, in starting these new blogs I intend to clear the air on this blog and reserve it quietly for my prose, thoughts, ideas. Promotion free, give away free, partially hydrogenated free blogging. Just me (me, home body, awkward, lisping me) and you (marvelous you) and this planet we call cyberspace.
"Happy Father's Day." I sang to my son's father when the gold light from the window reached in and pulled his eyelids open.
The beginning to the longest day of the year--Summer Solstice the First Day of Summer-- or when the sun seemingly never sets.
For an hour we stayed in bed talking about topics that spanned all the great questions of modern day living.
Should we be waxing?
Will you love your second wife (the one you marry after I pass on to Kolob) more than me?
If you knew that running three miles every day would make you deliciously healthy would you run them?
When we heard the chirping of the baby bird in his caged-crib next door we quickly summed up all perplexities with the answer "no."
The celebrated father moved to changed his son's morning pants ("the breakfast burrito" I call it) while I showered. Then, as I smeared pink blush on my cheeks, the father and son showered together. We had church in one hour.
At church the father chased his favorite escapee all over the carpet foyer and beyond. I coaxed them back with promises of organic animal crackers and a bottle full of frothy milk.
When church released us from our worship, the afternoon promised us rain. The baby slept while the skies merciless poured down rain upon our stalwart house. It was hard, repentance-reminding rain and made me hum the tune about the wise man and the foolish man.
Are we, the wise man who built his house on the rock? Or, the foolish man who built his house upon the sand?
And the rain came down, and no (thankfully) floods came up.
I watched as a schizophrenic sky moved into the next personality. Blue sky and puffy clouds. Puffy, I guessed, from all the crying.
That is when we ate tuna fish sandwiches with cheese at the dinning room table. The father asked for medium cheddar and I had Havarti. And chips. I cut the bread too thick, but the father only winked and opened his mouth as wide as he could. I loved him for that because three years ago, it wouldn't have happened.
The boy woke up and had crackers with fruit. The father shaved and showered (again). I cleaned up the boy, changed into a summer dress (welcome back, summer wardrobe).
The boy was taken to be babysat by family and a house load of cousins.
The boy's father and I went to have pictures of us taken by the temple.
We met our photographer in the parking lot. A bright sky had swallowed the previous torrential emotion. What rainfall? It asked.
Photos were taken of us by the place where we swore before God that we would take care of each other, the boy and whoever else would like to come along. While the camera flashed I thought about how well the father keeps his promises.
We looked like we were engaged. Again. Under the luminous sky, the father asking to put on his sunglasses. It was late afternoon and the longest day proved no signs of retiring.
Two young ladies strolled by and cheered to us, "Congratulations!" and our photographer responded, "Seven years ago!" Laughing. Ensued.
By the fountains we finished. The water reminded us of drinking, our bodies were droughty.
Later in the evening the father put the son to bed. Wrapped up in his birdie blankets and secured with his night cap bottle.
"Weird, putting him to bed when it is still light outside." The father said to me as we resumed our morning bed post.
Then we watched the sky outside our window and waited until for the day to give up the ghost.
"Is it dusk yet?" I asked the father when I saw bits of stars appearing.
"Yes. This is dusk. It will be dark soon." He responded.
Now listen to me blog, I don't have a lot of time for you today. Seriously. Chup A. Cabre is coming home from a two week stint in Europe and I want him to come home to a clean house.
No. You are right, not like he cares.
But I care.
And this morning when I was throwing away all of the gloopy bottles of paint from Ollie and The Chief's window art show yesterday, I was surprised to see how much paint didn't actually make it on the window.
And when I went to put the dishes in the dishwasher I found a snail from Jane's snail collection (surprise! those buggers are still alive!) squishing around the clean dishes. I also found one (I thought for sure was dry and deceased) trying to escape for his life from the garbage can.
And guess what? Snails excrete more than a silvery trail of wet, they also leave coils (coils? that word is heave-inducing) of former bowel tenants.
And there are bits of turquoise of play dough in the most random places (next to the couch? in the camping cooler? (we don't camp) (why don't we camp?) ).
And the dining room is still holding captive my travel bag--the contents of which are spilled all over the place--until I get to the part where I unpack.
And I keep meaning to write my father-in-law Popeye a thank you email for mowing the lawn so spectacularly while we were gone. Honestly, Chup does a great job, but his father made the gardens at Versailles jealous. I know, they called.
But most of all blog, I don't want you to get the idea that I am addicted to you. Your eager willingness to publish my thoughts and bizarre ideas don't fool me. I know what you want from me. You want my time, don't you blog?
In a total collision of serendipity, all of my sisters came to Retro House at the same time yesterday. As with any sort of gathering, I took the opportunity to talk about myself. Like I always advise, take advantage of a captive audience.
"So my shoulders and arms? They don't look like the same shoulders and arms I've always had. They are less round in shoulder and more round in the bicep area. It makes me uncomfortable to look at them."
And because we all share a common belief that our body obeys our spirit--any physical irritant can be healed through the soul--my declaration elicited a room full of response.
"You need to do something. Like yoga." Stephanie suggested.
"No, I think that the arm area is connected to your life's work. Are you at peace with your work?"
But before I could answer that (which is--yes, I am comfortable with my life's work) The Councilwoman appeared at the door and I moved to give her a meaningful embrace.
"You see," I said as I released the hug from my mother's neck "I think it is because I have given up on giving affection to anyone other than my husband and baby."
"You have?" my mother asked.
"Well, yes. I have had too many experiences where my hugging someone or touching arms or answering handshakes excitedly gave me negative feedback from the recipient. So I stopped because I didn't want to make people feel uncomfortable. And I didn't want to be uncomfortable either."
It is true. I've never been fully comfortable with hugs. Hugs. It is even hard for me to write the word. I don't know when to offer them, when to not offer them, when complications are at stake. When I first met my friend Sarah W her husband told me she didn't do hugging. Not even her family. It was a simple choice she had made in her life. This fact made me so endeared to her that now I can't help hugging her every time I see her--which is problematic. I apologize every time.
"People don't know what to do with touching and cleavage." Lucy offered.
True too. I have cleavage. All the time. Even when I wear turtlenecks (somehow?) And I have begun to see it as a natural attribute. I have blue eyes, freckles, and cleavage. It just comes with me--and I can't fight it without medical procedure. If you think I am bragging here you are crazy. Having consta-cleavage is often awkward. But maybe Lucy is right. My cleavage plus my hugging, is too much?
Suddenly I had two problems on tap. My unrecognizable shoulders and arms and my affection dilemma.
"When you are affectionate with people are you doing it out of love, or because you are flirt?" Page followed up.
"Because I am a flirt. But my loving is always manifested by flirting. I don't flirt with people I don't love."
Now, three problems had emerged.
Later that night after I spent sometime vacuuming and thinking about our afternoon conversation I got a text from Page "Don't ever change" it read.
This I shall ponder at the expense of my biceps.
***I came across a photo (see above) of my foreign shoulders and arm taken the night Vance came home from his successful trip to Mt. McKinley. He brought little prizes for me and The Chief from sweet Yvonne--a reader in Alaska. (How cool is that?) And just for the sake of celebration, here is what Vance looked like that night:
Last night my body was delivered to the Salt Lake airport. I am not sure where my spirit was, and to that end, I cannot not say how I got in the car and drove home--a lonely, tired passenger. But I do know my body and spirit were reunited the minute I saw my blond baby boy walking like a sailor in the den. If my recent travels did nothing for me other than provide an emotional reunion upon seeing my baby, the whole excursion was very well worth it.
Man, that kid.
This morning I felt more refreshed than my last seven days of jet lag afforded me. We went for a walk to get treats for last night's last minute babysitters, Van and Lindsay. As I approached the cashier she told me that my tag was hanging out of the back of my skirt--and where my shirt and skirt should be meeting there was an inch or so of exposed skin. If I wasn't completely sure, it was at that moment I knew for a fact I wasn't in London anymore.
Yes, back to the Puritan life for me.
As we continued our walk from the store to the Provo Temple grounds, I thought over and over about the spectrum of London vs. Provo, a comparison of Babylon and Mecca. Specifically, what am I going to do about the gap? Because in full disclosure, I walked passed a window this morning, saw my tag and skin hanging out in the reflection and decided not to do a thing about it. That was before the cashier caught me, before I was awake enough to remember I live in a town of rampant modesty.
I thought about the night Chup and I couldn't sleep and took to Oxford Circus, down Regeant to Soho at two in the morning. We followed streams of drunken revelers around pathways leading to lakes of buzzing humans. He was smoking on the curb and yelling at his buddies. She was wearing nothing but a pillowcase (I swear) and kitten heels. They were carrying a wasted friend like an Egyptian queen on their shoulders across the busy street.
We considered menus at all-night cafes in China town. We stopped at every open pasty shop for Chup's spicy chicken pie and two bottles of water (pasties will never be the same since Johnny Depp introduced me to Sweeny Todd). We swept ourselves into quiet alleyways with cobblestone streets, softly illuminated nearby pub signs. We shared a noisy bus ride home with transvestites and punks from some eastern European block.
And I loved it.
I loved the hippies on Brick Lane--those women who inspired me to wear more vintage, no matter the social cost. I loved the proportions of Leighton's Psyche, nude and lovely hanging out in the halls of the Tate Britain. I loved to smell the fruity shisha being smoked by the men on Edgware road. I love the begging gypsies on Queensway--especially the ones with the dark headed swaddled babies. I loved the couple in Hyde Park who were not ashamed to publicly pronounce their adoration of one another. I loved the overuse of spices in the menu at Tas.
Then, as always it is back to here. And never before have I been more anxious to be here, with my baby and his wobbly legs. Now I know the meaning of having literal aching arms. (I was about to steal a gypsy baby, I would've if not for the curses). On day five I was more hungry for my baby than our previous five years of infertility wrapped together.
Before leaving, along with wondering how much we'd miss our child, Chup was concerned about souvenirs, and the fact that we didn't take a camera with us. There were moments where a camera could've captured some of our best times, but in the end I didn't regret it. We were able to let moments be moments instead of photo ops. In a way, I suppose, little flashes of memories become the best of souvenirs--time capsules for the heart.
All of these thoughts powered our walk up to the temple hill this morning where we sat for a while looking at the fountains. How do I keep the excitement of Babylon and live in a place meant for the fate of the City of Enoch?
The answer came to me as we passed the golden inscription "Holiness to the Lord" on the temple's east side. All good things come to those who glorify the Lord, in the right time in the right way.
So I tucked in my skirt's tag, tugged my shirt downward, and headed home.
Today as Chup and I boarded a train in Manchester due London, I was pumping anticipation in my veins. I was going to show my husband (a London virgin--if you will) the best of a city which has long since captured my heart. A two hour train ride, through the green, wavy hillsides--where I saw the ghosts of Austen's characters run broken hearted through the heather--passed until we arrived at Eusten station.
I was sixteen when I first met London, and a few years later I came back as a student for several months. In my younger years London was able to manipulate my energy so that I became entranced. I walked through streets and squares wide-eyed and vulnerable. For me, London represented all of the world's possibilities and infused me with thoughts of a mysterious future.
Years later, after I had married I came to London several more times as a tour guide for nieces and nephews. Though the city still washed over me with wonder, my passion became fixed on monuments, memorials and churches which only further fed my strange statue fascination. A fascination that surrounds the question: How do statues look like a human but have no soul? How do they not feel the rain on their head or the pigeons picking about them? How do they seem in thought, and yet have no thoughts?
(Also this: there is a notion of jealousy. These perfectly chiseled bodies, subject to no aging, with abs of rapture and chests of virtue. And any statue worth gazing is always embodied with emotion. To spend eternity in the throes of passionate action or reaction? Who wouldn't want to be a Rodin sculpture?)
But most of all, alone in London meant that I was missing someone. And that longing to be with my Someone made London fantastically romantic. Every kissing couple in Hyde Park, every intimate dinner conversationalists, every man on the tube with flowers reminded me of my Someone. And so, up until today London was Love.
Romantic love.
The kind that pines and swoons and catches up with you at Marble Arch when you are trying to read plaques about interesting pieces of royal history. The sentiments statues (again, the statues) spend ages and ages displaying. The city enhanced emotions so that emails read more potent. I love you meant, I really want nothing more than to sit close with you and watch the paddle boats on the Serpentine.
So there was a moment today, when I marched Chup across Hyde Park to pay tribute to my favorite bench in all of England. A bench where I had spent hours as a student writing pages and pages of personal scripture. A holy spot in all of the town which represented a birth of cultural sorts for me. And when we found my bench it was devastating to see that it no longer carried the same importance it once had.
Because, suddenly I had what I wanted. Sitting on my hallowed ground next to me was the answer to my unresolved romantic yearning. And in Dorthy fashion, I found that home was him.
"You are London. You are Paris. San Fransisco." I said to Chup.
And without much explanation Chup understood.
He was the monuments, the memorials, the interesting churches with grimy facades. He was gold gilded statues taking shelter underneath Byzantine canopies. He was infinitely tastier than the Waffle House on Queensway or the Love Bar at Pret A Manger. More handsome than Wellington's Achilles, more intriguing than Kensington Palace, more whimsical than Peter Pan.
I resolved this, and said good bye to my dear bench.
We continued our parade across the park to stare at the Albert Memorial, a tribute from his devoted wife Queen Victoria. In all, the structure is massive with exotic statues and choirs of England's elite singing praises to the prince. I've loved it since the moment I first saw it protruding out of the trees in Hyde Park.
As we approached the structure I recounted the monument's back story. We took time to look at each corner piece, representing the four corners of colonization of England. Each grouping includes a woman surrounded by courtiers of ethnicity each time riding a spectacular animal (for Asia, an elephant, the Americas, a buffalo).
And once again, I was found envious of a slab of clay with perfect breasts and wavy hair. I wondered how the woman didn't have intelligence enough to know that she was being worshiped by an entourage of African men while riding a camel. How could she not know? She has eyes, how can she not see?
But my heart was beating--especially sincerely after my recent personal discovery--and hers wasn't. I would have more than an earthly immortality, more than courtiers that never touched my hands or face. In this, I beat the statue. Next to my husband as we gazed on, I declared that I would build him a monument twice as brilliant.
"But you wouldn't have to." Chup replied staring up to the top of the memorial where the gold cross steeple meets the heavens.
In a couple hours Chup and I are boarding a plane for England. We'll stop in at Manchester for tea time and train it to London thereafter. As for our posterity, The Chief, he'll be here hanging with Aunt Kentucky and co. until the weekend, then he gets to be the spoils of Grumma and Popeye. I can't decide who is more lucky.
Last night we spent the evening at home with the brilliant Jed Wells snapping photos of us. Should anything happen to his parents while he basks in the sunshine of those who love him, our son will know what we looked liked as a family. Well sorta. I used to be blonde, but when The Chief woke up from his nap yesterday he found that his mother was magically a brunette.
You should've seen him look at me. It was like all the pieces of the puzzle were there, except one.
And if by chance we don't make it home--if we are toppled by a double decker at Piccadilly or drown in the depths of the dirty Thames--I want The Chief to know that I loved my stint as his mother. And I loved my adventure as a wife. And most of all, that I confess God is good.
My neighbor was showing me how to water her garden so I can do it when they go out of town this summer. I don't know. When my neighbor goes out of town, I feel bad because I am still in town. And now, every time I water her garden it will remind me of how I am in town while she is in Lake Powell. There is nowhere I'd rather be at any given moment of my life than Lake Powell.
So that is what I was thinking about when one of my neighbor's free-range chickens started to scare my nephew Luke. And his scream was full of terror and struck me as funny because chickens really are absurd looking animals.
Then I thought about how someone in my neighborhood started a rumor that I hated chickens. And it circulated through the streets until finally, my next door neighbor heard about it and carefully approached the subject while our children played in her sandbox.
"Someone told me that you hate chickens. And you blogged about it."
First of all, I like chickens, but I won't eat chicken. So, I like live chickens, but I hate dead ones on my dinner plate. (Except for a very spiritual, orgasmic, culinary experience I had last night, but that post will come later). And second of all, is it a social status upgrade if false rumors are flying around about you? Does this mean I am my neighborhood's Jolie? Does that make Chup Brad? Am I more powerful than our neighborhood's version of Oprah?
When Luke was cool with the fowl in his face, I put him down and gazed across the fence at my property. You know, I am certified homebody. If I can get The Chief down for a nap and sit the sun for a half hour and read something stimulating I feel almost like I do when I am in Lake Powell.
Except that I started a new blog, that should give me some blog cred.
Blog cred? What am I talking about.
Here is what I am talking about:
I am in one of those phases in my life when I have, in my head, a tank of thoughts--a reservoir of reflection--but lack the tools to channel their flow.
How did you like that reservoir analogy?
No?
How about a breast feeding analogy? You are engorged, you've got to have a release, you start nursing only to drown your poor baby in impatient milk, and your baby looks at you like, "are you kidding me?"
Too much at once.
That about sums up my brain activity right now.
And I am learning that the most important word in my vocabulary
Around the same time we were fundraising for Nie Recovery last year, I posted a link to a blog about another mother who was fighting for her life. Carol Decker went in for an emergency c-section and because of complications, lost one of her arms, her legs and eyesight.
When I watch this interview with Carol I can see the same sentiments that my sister shares. Hope, frustration, the wide emotional spectrum. I see two women who held on to a fragile thread of mortality because they had a job to do here on earth. Certainly not an easy job, either.
In celebration of the year that has passed since the birth of their beautiful daughter, and Carol's triumph over tragedy, her friends have put together a three day silent auction fundraiser which starts on June 14. As the Clarks always say "put it on your cal-ender" and become acquainted with this mind-blowing, inspirational story of survival.
Last night when Retro House shared no noise (except Claire and Jane's dvd in the den) I set to answering my emails. Are you already thinking this post isn't going to be interesting?
Wait for it.
So I was answering emails, and I started to notice a very strange trend. Every third email was from a curious reader wanting to know where I got my rose earrings, or black skirt or pink shoes or where The Chief got his leg warmers or recipe for black bean burgers or . . .
. . . and it flatters me. Really makes me feel like I have style/recipes/baby clothes that are worth emailing about. But most of the cool stuff was sent to me by craftspeople who own etsy shops or little online boutiques, so I can't take much credit. Though believe me, I really want to.
Hold on, I am having a deja vu . . . (happens to me a lot when I blog) . . . and done.
I know how it goes. How many times have I emailed bloggers asking questions like "where did you get your perfect pair of maternity leggings on your post about taking your son to the park?" Reminds me of the reader who sent the email begging to know where Lucy got her green maternity dress because it was the perfect shade for a upcoming summer wedding. We've all got needs.
This morning, after my experience with my inbox last night I woke up wanting to create a product blog where I can share information with readers who--like me--enjoy finding bits of pleasure, nothing too expensive or fancy, but little somethings to wait for in the mail drop. Do you have a mail drop? I do. But please don't email me asking where you can get one, unless you can time travel back to 1950. And if you can do that, why are you wasting your time emailing me? Think of all the World's Fairs you could visit! Be off!
My product blog is called "dear c jane where did you get . . ." for obvious reasons, and it will point you to the simple joys you see in the photos on this blog. Of course, I hope you will keep my inbox alive with your inquires so I can post more products in the future. Unless you can time travel, then you will already know what I will post. This is getting confusing.
Please note: we are still under a little html construction. Things are bound to get better in the future (oh no, here we go again . . .)
*** and while we are at it, if you produce swank t-shirts for ladies (I heave a 36inch bust) I want to do business with you. Please email me, summer is not going to wait for my wardrobe and I need to get it started in here.
