To All My Witches!

Happy Halloween.

The Tent

The baby woke up in the middle of the night crying.

A heavy wind was knocking branches against his window pane bumping and screeching with each gust.

"Should I make him another bottle?" asked my husband in a sleepy voice.

"Thanks." I mumbled back.

I could hear trees moving in the backyard, the wind was blowing westward down from the mountains over the foothills, across our backyard wall. I picked up my phone to check the time.

Two-thirty.

The baby was crying louder in the nursery next door.

When the baby's crying subsided I knew a bottle was calming him down. In a minute--after making certain all was well--my husband would come back to bed. I fell back into a peaceful sleep.

Suddenly, I woke up to a voice.

"Do you know who is in the backyard in a tent?"

I looked over at the window. I could see a dark silhouette of my husband, his body facing the glass.

"What did you just say?"

"There is someone in our backyard in a tent."

The very thought of this moment being real life--not a dream where I wake up chilled but relieved--caused a second's paralysis to come over my being. In beats of time I fought movement while staring at the paintings of biblical saints adorning my bedroom wall. There was Mary, Elizabeth, Rebekah and Mary Magdalene all caught in time too.

No one should be in our backyard at this hour. I thought back to recent conversations, did anyone mention anything about taking up camp on our back lawn? I knew there never had been that sort of conversation. Then who was in our backyard being bullied by the wind? The frost of fear began to thaw in my blood freeing my limbs. I went over to the window.

A full moon had been stuffed by an army of angry clouds. A dull, gray light dimly lit the side of our house. The pushing and pulling of tree limbs cast strange shadows around the courtyard area. Underneath our bedroom window I saw--as plain as day--a silver tent perfectly erected and standing firm in the cycling air.

"Oh no." I said to my husband, hands clasped to my mouth.

"After I gave the baby a bottle, I came back to bed and the tent caught my eye as I passed the window." He explained peering into the dark. "I have been standing here for awhile making sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing."

"Honey," I said looking again. "is that our tent from the storage room?" It looked like the pop-up tent we've used for backyard camping trips with nieces and nephews.

"I don't know."

"But you don't think someone got into our house and took the tent out to sleep in it?" The thought scared the voice out of me, and I started to whisper. "Do you think . . .?"

"I don't know. I'm going to check it out." He sounded bravely resolute while climbing into the pants that hung heavily over the laundry hamper. As I watched him search for a flashlight in the drawer of his nightstand I felt grateful for being the woman in our relationship. Though I was just as able to go out investigating, traditionally-speaking I wasn't required.

"Be back in a second." He said kissing me.

"Careful." I kissed back.

When his presence had left the room, I was taken over by an overwhelming sense of terror and panic. I didn't know if I should go into the nursery to be with the baby or stay vigilant at the window to see to my husband's safety. Normally, I consider myself a level-headed human, one who doesn't jump to mid-night, mysterious-tent induced conclusions. But in the few seconds it took for him to walk downstairs and out into the backyard I had thought of every possible tragedy that could occur.

He'd find a wasted vagabond waiting with drunken breath to beat him bloody.

He be attacked by desperate derelict obsessed with murder and rage.

He would unzip the tent to see a reckless fugitive bound by revenge to ruin happy homebound humans.

No matter what or who was inside the tent, I felt slightly better knowing my large husband was capable of handling most average sized humans. It was mostly the feeling of being violated, trespassed and void of security. Someone was out there, on my lawn. And if they were able to beat my husband, what would come next?

In the gray light I could see the dark figure of my husband appear out in the courtyard. He took strong steps against the wind towards the tent. With flashlight in hand, I watched him crouch down and unzip the door. The yellow flashlight was transparent through the walls of the silver tent. His head disappeared in the opening.

No one was there.

The tent was empty.

Wind again knocked at the window,as I kept my husband in sight. He took a turn about our large yard, around the trees and brick fencing, following the light of the flashlight. I knew he was thinking what I was thinking, someone set up that tent in our backyard, now where were they?

I thought about my once-homeless estranged uncle who--according to my mother--would set up camp in backyards of unexpected home owners. He'd stay there until being found out. I always thought there was something ultimately creepy about that, someone living in your backyard, watching you, living side-by-side with you, without your knowledge. He had passed away recently, I couldn't even begin to hope it was his tent in our quarters.

Downstairs I heared the door open and slam shut with the help of a gust. In walked my husband, the draft being brought with his body.

"No one is out there . . . and that is not our tent." He said sitting down on the bed taking off his boots.


Should we call the police? I wondered, but fell back into bed for the better word from my husband. I waited as he pulled off his pants, unzipped his jacket and returned to bed.

"Lets just see what happens in the morning." He said, rolling on his left side, not entirely calm.

"Ok." I said knowing I wasn't going to get much sleep with pools of adrenalin still accumulating in my veins. But some time between four-thirty and five o'clock I fell asleep.

And in the morning the tent was gone.

*true story
**the tent was not ours

This Is Halloween!

I told my facebook friends I'd post a photo of the pumpkin my brother Andrew made me. It's polka dotted, see?

I like how it glows.
I'd thank him here, but he says my blog has too many words. (Meg, will you thank him for me?)

In celebration for Halloween, I am going to recount a very spooky, true-life story Chup and I recently experienced. Check back tomorrow evening when I post it for all the world to read.

That is, if you dare . . .

Feeling Life Inside

It happened there on the stairs in the den. I had gone in search of a scarf to wear in the winter closet. Chup and I were going out to the theater. Chicky--my lively, responsible niece--was there to babysit for the evening. I was slowly climbing up the stairs.

I was thinking about the carpet in the den.

It is green.

Really green.

Then: a tickle inside of me caused me to pause.

Pause. Was it a tickle, a tickle tickle?

Play. The carpet is so green and flat.

But easy to walk on . . .

Pause. Should I count this as the first movement of my pregnancy?

Play. Should I get new carpet?

Pause. I think that was a tickle.

Play. I walked up the stairs, out the door where Chup was holding the car door open for me. Just like a million-dollar-an-hour chauffeur. And I was his V.I.P.

When we arrived at the theater I went into the bathroom. I caught myself in the mirror. I looked at me.

Pause. I was thinking: I like myself tonight.

I like who I married.

I like the people I know.

I like this time of year,
I like having a trusted babysitter,
and I like being pregnant.

Through no deserving of my own, I felt my own.
Completely full.

Play. In the dark theater I sat in my seat. I sat next to the man I married. On my other side was a kind friend who sat next to the kind man she married. My brother came on the stage. I love to watch him on the stage. He has so much energy. He is so talented.

I felt another tickle.

I decided: tonight I feel blessed.

I am calling it an official tickle.

Pause. It is suddenly real.

Play.

My Answer to the Golden Home Teaching Question--Update!

After church Chup and I settled into a large bowl full of edamame. If you ask us, nothing beats an after-church snack more than edamame coated in sea salt. Just as we started in to our pinching and chewing, two men in suits came walking up our driveway.

"I forgot to tell you," I admitted to Chup, "the home teachers are coming today."

For those who might not speak LDS-ese, home teachers are two men from the ward assigned to look over, teach and bless your family. Typically, they have two or three families they visit once a month. All worthy males churchwide are home teachers, like Chup who has a couple families he looks after with his energetic red-headed companion Aaron. (Read more about home teachers here.)

Our home teachers are Jacob and Tyler. Today was Tyler's first visit, but Jacob has been coming by for over a year now. Jacob is the smartest person I have ever met, simply put. He's the guy that got bored of high school, took the GED and skipped straight to college. He has this quirky sense of humor and the very most unique way of looking at life. Mostly though, I like Jacob because he has adopted his mother's philosophy about home teaching visits, "Home teaching visits should only last fifteen minutes, or else time is being wasted" because sometimes home teachers can stay far too long . . .

We invited them in and asked them to share the edamame with us. We got to know Tyler a bit more and decided he is a young cool cat who plays street soccer and has a humble intelligence. So as far as home teachers are concerned, Chup and I are sa-tis-fied.

Today's message was about obedience. Jacob referenced several biblical stories to which Chup nodded his head. I don't know why he was nodding his head but he did and I liked it. Tyler shared with us a scripture in the Doctrine and Covenants which stimulated a lively discussion. It was great.

When fifteen minutes was up, and the edamame were gone, we had a closing prayer. As they were leaving, Tyler asked if there was anything they could do for our family. This is an unspoken home teaching ritual,

they say, "Is there anything we can do for your family?"
and you say, "Nope. Looks like we're doing just fine."
except I always answer with, "We like treats!"

Which is when Jacob said (in a helpful voice), "I've learned that this family always can use food."

At first I was embarrassed, because who wants to be known as the family who could always use food? It kind of sounds like we are food opportunists, begging off the baked goods of our home teachers.

But what if treats are a need too? I mean, some families need help raking leaves, others might need help moving heavy furniture, or assistance with a rat infestation. Our family needs delicious edibles to keep us happy. I think that makes things pretty simple. I mean, is it too far fetched to say banana bread has saved a few souls?

Just this past week when Chup was somewhere in Ohio and I was somewhere in I Am Going To Go Crazy Because I Want My Husband Home and I Don't Want To Make Dinner, But Yet I've Got To Feed A Small Child, Simy showed up with homemade breadsticks. I testify to you, those breadsticks brought salvation to my starved soul. Suddenly my lonesome self was comforted and I had the energy of seven eagles. Or was it twelve?

So, treats. Final answer.

Thanks Jacob and Tyler.

Post-Edit:

Look at what showed up on my doorstep tonight with a plate full of cookies? Who has the best home teachers huh? Who?

Provo readers, I am getting political (and pictorial) here.

Are You In The Market To Buy A Boy?

Sorry, this one is taken.

Thanks Blue Lily!

Hair You Go

I had a dream a couple nights ago about hair. I was sitting in the chair of my hair stylist Ashlee. I was telling her about my life-long desire to have hair so long it brushed the beginnings of my buttocks (if you will). Long, flowing hair so soft and luxurious, like a Pantene commercial. Then, in the next moment I had convinced myself I wanted hair extensions because I knew my real hair was incapable of giving me such pleasure. After talking this over, Ashlee started applying fake hair to my natural mane. The result was so pleasing to me it woke me up.

"I've got to get hair extensions!" I thought to myself as I blinked awake.

Not a new thought in my head, this hair extensions idea. I first wanted a hair implants in middle school when my cheer coach came to practice with yards of yellow hair that wasn't there the day before.

Overnight she had long hair. Overnight! Judging from my oft-cut, variant-on-the-bob coiffure I knew hair like hers would take my lifetime. A lifetime of battling temptations from within, not to mention a mother who did not take kindly to long hair.

"Get it off your face!" she'd remind me almost daily.

It is not that I have bad hair, just tricky hair. Having invested in a hair-coach (again, Ashlee) I now know I grow relatively thin hair strands, but with a head full of them. So I've got a thick set of thin hair. And we're wavy in some parts and straight in others. On a hot day full of humidity my head produces Shirley Temple ringlets or a nest of Medusa snake-like strands. And until I learn how to grow two other sets of arms I will never be able to straighten my hair on my own.

My mother knew all this because she has the same set of hair on her head. She'd learned in her life to just keep it short, or permed. Keep it short, or permed and nobody gets hurt. (As a result, I will always be a lover of short hair . . . though maybe not permed.)

But I have learned, in my wise aged way, that I can grow my hair long if I use the help of a professional (who? Ashlee.) Together we've gotten my hair to grow healthy (a great distinction from times past) over my shoulders and down to my blades. This is huge and scary and almost seven times I've had serious episodes of insanity ("Just cut it all off for the love of everything holy!" I'd beg). Like the time my post-natal baby hairs invaded my head making me look like the three year-old who just found the bliss of scissors.

On Saturday, at my weekly appointment I told my professional about my dream to get her opinion. Except then I remembered the time Ashlee explained that my hair dries nicely, actually. With a few tips from a curling iron I could have a wavy-beachy hair in no time at all. I realized I didn't want extensions. I just wanted my own hair. I wanted my quirky, spontaneous hair. I wanted a little more faith in the strands that were passed down to me from generations of woman who shared my same DNA. It was good enough for them, this hair, so why not me?

Ashlee said, "Hair can be your Super Power. You just have to learn how to use it."

I think I understand. Instead of using fake hair in hopes of overcoming what I thought was a physical deficiency, I needed to see the potential in what can be beautiful. Letting my weakness become a strength (you know, that sort of thing). If I want a naturally-trained, physical Super Power it will come at a price of hard work and patience. Not from money paid, not from outside sources, and definitely not overnight.

My hair may never tickle the beginnings of my hindquarters--I will leave that to divas like Crystal Gail, my neighbor Dawn and my best friend Wendy--but I am learning its secrets. I am learning that this the responsible thing to do, mostly so I can pass them on to any offspring who might inherit this tricky mop. If my mom learned to keep it short, and I found out a way to grow it a little longer, think of what the next generation will do!

Now is not the time to give up.

The Happy Post

This morning I woke up, looked over at Chup and proclaimed,

"I FEEL HAPPY!"

Which is a sentiment I haven't felt since falling prey to pregnancy's dark fog of apathetic musings from a emotional wet cave. (Did you catch all that?)

And it made me realize although I am not the sickest of the sickest pregnant women--those who are iv-injected, unable to breathe without vomiting--I do feel pathetically depressed, and that depression makes me more sick than I suppose I really feel. But who cares? Today I woke up and suddenly this planet was shining again, and I didn't wonder how I was going to make it through to nap time and from nap time to bedtime. Quick, somebody send me flowers!

I would give myself a hearty 75% with a lingering slight nausea sensation in the back of my throat, but not anything desperate. I say that in case someone reads this and thinks I am back to normal, like I could probably start answering my phone again. Just kidding sorta. I never did answer my phone.

After church Chup told me a story about taking The Chief to nursery and how one boy in the class kept calling my husband, "hey big guy" with a voice resembling sucked helium. The funny part of this story is though everyone calls him "big guy" (all six feet, five inches of him) no one has yet called him "hey big guy."

I call him "hotbottoms", just for the record.

After a gracious nap, I met up with Chup and The Chief in our front room. For some inexplicable reason, my husband crawled underneath our coffee table and stayed there for the better part of an hour. We tried to coax him free with suckers and caramels (who knew he doesn't like caramels?) but he insisted he was comfy and cozy under there (underwear?). Maybe it was like being back in embryo? The safe sensation of limited space? I don't know (can't remember) but if my fetus is as content as Hey Big Guy underneath the table today I happy to report all is well at Retro House.

What The World Needs

Less child labor in industry, more child labor at home.

A Heavy Meal--After Thoughts

On a walk this morning I ran into my neighbor Lucinda. I love Lucinda because she skips small talk and just serves the meat. This morning as we strolled by she asked me how I was feeling. After I responded, she went into a thoughtful expedition about the female journey.

"There is a point where a girl becomes a woman." She said. A point where a woman becomes a female warrior. Where her life is no longer a game, it is a genuine battle. Not to survive only, but to survive and be strong.

The thought swallowed me.

Because lately I've wondered about myself. Where has my youth gone? Suddenly, I don't feel the charms of my twenties, or even earlier thirties. Something inside of me has fundamentally changed when I didn't even know it. But I feel it.

I find myself wanting to fight. Fight for simplicity. Fight for truth. Fight for a daily thirty-minute nap/ quiet time. Because if I don't fight, things get complicated. They get confusing. I don't get a nap. Fear camouflages faith and things get really messy . . . unless I fight.

I think I must be transitioning over the threshold, because I still find myself embarrassed for what I lack. My jokes were funnier, I was clever-er, my ability to keep it all together was intact . . . back then. But now I am in that awkward stage where I am not secure in becoming WOMAN, although there She is, ready to hand me a sword to cut through crap.

Crappy ideas, crappy expectations, crappy use of time or money or resources, crappy things I want (really, really want) but certainly don't need, crappy behavior, crappy situations I put myself into, crappy doubts.

And here is the mashed potatoes to go with Lucinda's meat: when I hear women say "I used to be this or that" or "My brain has gone to mush because . . ." because they've had babies, or because they've devoted their lives to other people, or because they've crossed the line of girl to woman, I always think It won't happen to me. Please, don't let it happen to me. But I see now how it happens. Big dreams seem too distracting, physical energy turns into spiritual examination, gray hairs appear. You change, dang it, you just do.

But perhaps it is all in the wording:

My ability to be clever has turned itself into an ability to be wise.

I have trained my brain to assess the needs of others before my own.

My charm comes from not feeling pressure to be charming.

I prefer the simple life. The life I have now.

And I know I won't always have to fight. At some point it will be in my nature to be a secure, confidant woman without the battle cry. Today though, I like to feel the weapon in my hands, ready to unleash it upon all stupidity.

As for the threshold, I wonder. For me, it isn't pregnancy, or having a baby, or near-death experiences of loved ones (though I am sure they push). It has been a quiet, God-guided transition that I've underappreciated. Until today.

Thanks Lucinda.

Post-Edit:

Three thoughts.

1) Children are pretty funny and clever. Perhaps the best of us gets soaked up in them?

2) I am thinking that Heavenly Father doesn't care what we do, as long as we do it with gratitude, and gratitude might be the sword of which we use to cut crap. If I can't eat it, wear it, believe in it without gratitude--it goes.

3) I think the threshold of going from girl to woman comes from learning to love someone more than yourself.

p.s. Loved your comments, thank you.

Letting It Shine

What is a blog for if not to post about the day when your dreams came true? Right? Because on Saturday my dreams came true and I'd like to post about it.

My friend Scott Wiley is a recording another album, this time he has enlisted his favorite friends and musicians in covering hymns and old gospel tunes. I mean, these people are bone-deep talented and tight. I don't know how much I can say at this point, but I think this project is going to be pretty dang wonderful.

And speaking of pretty dang wonderful (and bone-deep talented, not to mention tight), Scott called me one night to ask if I'd like to come down to the studio and record a song or two. Because you know my voice right? You know how my voice makes heaven-elated-and-tickled-white? My belting, especially?

I told him I'd see what I could do, and then I checked my schedule and it looked clear. What is a bigger sign that heaven wants you to sing on Scott Wiley's album than having a clear schedule?

So on Saturday Chup and I left The Chief with my sixteen-year-old nephews for a morning of heavy recording. Some people wouldn't trust their baby with two sixteen-year-old nephews, but Chup and I do. We do. We say, "Just don't let him climb on the kitchen counter top, or give him the whole bag of Pirate's Booty, and you should be good. Again, no kitchen counter top, no whole bag of Booty, and good." See? So easy.

On the car ride over I practiced my scales. And gurgled a Mexican hot chocolate. It really relaxed my voice.

When I got to the studio everyone was buzzing. Musicians and singers and studio lights, and documentarians, and photographers and a table with lots of candy (which I skipped, sugar is not good for my chords).

When everyone was ready Scott said, "Go!" (or whatever he said) and a guy started banging on a suitcase, followed by a fearsome threesome on ukuleles, backed up by several guitars and singers and tambourines and a big stand-up bass and a red retro guitar and did I already mention the ukuleles--yes I did because I had to use spell check--and then . . . then there was me.

Powerful.

Would you believe that the song I recorded was "This Little Light of Mine?" Do you think I am kidding? Because I am not. Here I am, with this little light of mine (my voice) letting it SHINE. Shine, shine, shine letting it shine. So apropos.

I mean, never mind that Cherie Call, Sarah Sample and Deborah Fotheringham were singing the leads, and I was just in a mixed bag choir of husbands and wives (me, Chup, Scott and wife Sarah) and you couldn't really, really hear my voice. But I lent it anyway, my little light.

That is what we do, us people with talent.

After an exhausting couple hours, wherein I was completely enchanted and in love with everything musical and recordingness, we headed home to reunite with our baby. With our hearts full of happy, melodic hormones, we opened the front door to find this:

Kitchen counter top? Yes.

Whole bag of Priate's Booty? On the floor, check.

Where were the sixteen-year-old nephews? Playing Halo.

But, I have never seen The Chief happier in his life. Just had run of the entire place, nothing off limits. Spoons, batteries, crayons, donuts, Mom's laptop computer . . .

Sounds like two of us had dreams come true on Saturday.

(Thanks June Audio!)

A Sort Of Apologetic Post For My Behavior Today

The other day I ran into a woman in the park who is a c jane reader. She explained,
"I have a lot of children, but I am not as sweet as your mother." And I replied, "My mother is not sweet." I think that might've confused her and I wish I would've explained better.

My mother is not sweet. To me, sweet is a soft voice and cheerful eyes, a guile-less heart and a head that always tilts. My mother is fun. Gregarious and perky, witty and funny. She is thoughtful and passionate and always up for a good time. To illustrate: my seventeen-year-old nephew made her a Muse cd (alternative rock) and she fell so much in love with it she spent a twelve hour car ride listening to it on repeat. She loves Freddy Mercury and Hershey's chocolate.

My mother is kind. And today when I was perhaps at my snarkiest (or my worst, as she would agree) she spent the day ignoring my foul mood and acting as if I was enjoyable. (I was so not enjoyable.) My mother is smart. She long since learned to play off of my mood as if I was her best friend, which usually induces my change for better. In our relationship she is patient.

My mother is endearing. When I mentioned today that I wanted a baked refreshment, my mother drove me to the bakery. I didn't want to go inside so I waited in the car with The Chief while she did the shopping. When she was gone, I thought to myself, She is so good to me. She never gives up on me. She always hopes for the better part of me. And eventually she came out with a box of cookies dripping with orange frosting and insisted they were all for me.

I've written before my thoughts on her secret to motherhood and I don't think it has anything to do with being sweet, but everything to do with enjoyment. I mean, it isn't always a trip to the circus, she is a busy woman with her mind on a million things at once. When she has two seconds to sit on your couch and tell you how to arrange your pillows you feel honored. But we (her children) always feel her happiness to be with us, she enjoys our company and craves our love.

My mother is not sweet, but she always laughs at our jokes.

Tender Mercies:Ahhh-OOOooo! Edition

I don't know if it is entirely helpful to blog in my pregnant state. Or watch movies. By some act of laziness, I sat and watched Steel Magnolias last night I sobbed so hard my head hurt. I've watched that movie dozens of times before, but never did I get it until last night. Remind me to never watch that movie again. Will you?

(Oh my gosh that scene with Sally Field going to pick up her grandson after her daughter dies. Stop! Stop c jane! Stop thinking about it!)

But I shouldn't blog when I am pregnant either because it tends to lean towards self-pity. And I am sorry about that, I am praying to get over it. Like sincerely praying. Especially because I truly believe in my heart of hearts that being a happy person (wife, mother, neighbor) is the best gift you can give to the world. And I love happy people. I seek them. I dream about being just like them. And as soon as I don't feel like road kill I will join them. By golly.

But this morning I faced the world with a lockjaw and the simultaneous task to vomit. Ever vomited with a lockjaw? Anyway, Chup had this forward-thinking idea to let The Chief play with his old radio before he left for work. (Uncanny, my son's obsession with antique technology.) Anything to keep the little guy busy instead of watching me hurl--a violent scene to be sure.

So The Chief was tuning in and out of stations and I was hunched over doing my thing when suddenly the radio picks up on an oldies rock station. The Chief, squatting down like a bored monkey, let the dial rest for a minute. When the toilet noise subsided I could hear the familiar tune of Werewolves of London by the great Warren Zevon--a song I cannot refuse. I turned to see my baby dancing a subtle version of the hula. You know, rotating arms and shaking hips?

As soon as I could, I joined up with him in the hall. Together we danced the entire song and howled at all the right parts. Hot enchiladas (barf, enchiladas), for three minutes I was a happy person! Singing, dancing and shaking my hips. You should've seen it (but I am glad you didn't).

If my only pregnancy blogging purpose is to record the tender mercies of the Lord, then there you have it. Perhaps . . . maybe . . . some dj at the oldies rock station felt inspired to play that song just at that moment, which came through the dusty speakers of our antique radio by some act of a miraculously clear frequency, which in turn made a grumpy pregnant woman glad.

Mysterious ways, I love you.




Do something for me? Press play on this video and dance your heart out. Even you, in that cubicle. Just do it. You'll feel happy, I promise:

Warren Zevon - Werewolves of London
Uploaded by PigLips. - Explore more music videos.

Pretend This Is Me On Oprah's Couch, Post-Show Commentary

One day I got a message on my phone from a producer from the Oprah show. The next day he called again and I decided to answer it. You know because, how many times does the Oprah show call you?

Anyway. Turns out they wanted to do a story on my sister (you know, Nie?) and wanted my opinion. I'd like to think they wanted my opinion, but I really think they wanted my "in."

To make the story shorter, a couple weeks ago Nie went on Oprah to tape a segment. Our family was there via Skype, so we watched the whole episode. My sister rocks, and I think that's all I am contractually able to say at this point. Also, I don't mean to spoil anything but the whole audience gets flying cars. Welcome to 2009!

Zoom! That was me above your head!

(Rate that joke 1-10. Funny being a 10.)

If you'd like to watch the episode it will air on Wednesday (Oct. 7th). You can go here for more deets.

And for my terribly brief and hardly mentionable short cameo appearances on the show, I'd like to thank:

• Andrew Beesley for my yellow pearls.
• My pregnancy for having nothing to wear but sweaters from two years ago.
• Ashlee for having my hairdid.
• My shy, private brother for letting me have his face time.
  
• Producer Erin for letting me call myself her "beloved."
  
• And my sister-in-law Kentucky for putting a name to my goat voice.

Enjoy the show! I know you will!

I am off! Zoom!

(Something is not funny about that joke.)


Post-Show:

1.) When we watched the taping I was so proud of Stephanie. She didn't seem nervous or pretentious in anyway. She was just Stephanie--soft spoken and graceful. If you ever wanted to know what she is like in real life, there you have it.

2.) I am very embarrassed about my arm waving at the clock. At the time it didn't seem so obnoxious. The producers told us to look animated . . . but oh boy I went a little overboard.

So . . . what else is new?

Salty Hash Browns & The Book of Mormon

This weekend I joined the Mormon force in watching General Conference from home. This is a two day affair, starting on Saturday and ending Sunday afternoon. We listen to speakers from our church leadership, as well as music from the Mormon Tabernacle choir. I have to say, the whole weekend was really nice. Chup even made us fancy breakfast this morning consisting of eggs, hash browns, cracked wheat toast, hot chocolate, orange juice and sausage. His hash browns were really salty. So we made up a song called, "Salty Hash browns On My Plate" . . . and where am I going with this?

After Elder Holland's rousing testimony of the Book of Mormon, I felt like recording my testimony too. The Book of Mormon is one of my lifelines. In fact, I cannot go for long without reading and studying from its pages. Whenever I am gloomy of heart Chup has been trained to ask, "How long has it been since you studied?" If my mind is not elevated at least once a day to better thoughts, bigger inspirations and quiet revelations my spirit starves. I become horrid. The Book of Mormon is an important part of who I am.

To be sure, I am not a finely tuned saint. I lack in many virtues, but I know the Book of Mormon is the word of God. I know. I know. I know.

And this is how I know:
Twelve years ago I moved to Salt Lake City to attend the University of Utah. I was twenty years old. I felt like I was at a crossroads in my life, mostly because I was bored. I was self absorbed. I had no real convictions or passions. I was apathetic and probably pathetic too.

The crossing roads presented to me were testimony or doubt. Standing in this critical intersection I decided I should at least read the Book of Mormon, cover to cover, something I had never done before. I was a Mormon who had never read the Book of Mormon, this needed to change.

To save money, I started taking the bus up 13th east everyday to school. In the back of the bus I'd read my navy blue Book of Mormon. When I approached my stop I'd stick in my bookmark and pick it back up eight hours later on my way home. This is when I'd like to add, there were some scary times on that bus. Crazy people and awkward public displays. So good for me.

One day on my way home I became enraptured with a story being told in the book. I can't remember which story it was, but when I arrived at my apartment I unloaded my backpack, coat, scarf, hat, gloves, socks and boots and sunk my body into the couch, book in hand. I couldn't put it down. I read all night and the next day. The book had me captured with stories, testimonies, dreams and declarations.

That weekend I went with my family to our cabin in Wallsburg, Utah. I spent the hours nearing the end of the book. On the last morning of our stay I finished the reading. The Book of Mormon contains a promise in the last chapter, which invites the reader to know the truth of the book by praying. At that point I already knew the book contained the truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ, so instead I got on my knees and thanked my Heavenly Father for teaching me. For the whole experience. For helping me find my passion again.

Then I left school, went on a mission, and oh boy that is another post entirely.

In the Mormon spirit, I'd like to invite anyone anywhere to do the same, to read The Book of Mormon. Especially if you are down, gloomy, confused, frustrated, lonely or hopeless. If read sincerely, the words will speak to your spirit and teach you some beautiful truths--truths that transcend this sphere. For me, when I read the Book of Mormon I am reminded to replace my fears with faith (which is why I need it every day--fear loves me, has an obsession with my soul).

Gosh, I could write on and on about this subject, but those salty hash browns have given me a salty headache. (Don't tell Chup.) (Too late I already told Chup.)