c jane enjoy it

Winged Victory of Inmyface

2009-11-21T02:54:00.000-07:00

Page, Vance, moi & Paris

Eight years ago when my sister Page was 31 and I was 24 we went to Paris together. On the plane ride over I crowded her with a map of the metropolitan area and started pointing out landmarks we'd be visiting. I think my finger was somewhere between La Défense and the Bois de Boulogne when she flopped her body limp in her seat.

"I don't want to do any of those things." She whined in my ear as I wrestled with the map.

"I am sorry. What did you just say?" I asked with squinted eyes.

"I don't want to do anything but sleep on this trip."

"We aren't going tropical here Page, we're going to Paris."

"I know. But I am tired."

"But it's Paris."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. When Page's husband Vance broke the news to his wife that he'd be in Paris for Valentines Day on business she insisted on going with him. Then she called me up and told me to pack my bags as I was chosen to navigate her around the city with my sharp Quebecois French. I assumed this meant we'd be sight seeing and crepe tasting and art viewing, but now? Sleep walking? What is this?

"I don't really care. I just want to sleep on this trip." She reiterated while adjusting her neck pillow and closing her eyes.

I dropped my head in defeat.

Granted the woman had five children, and lived an incredibly busy lifestyle. For this slight set back, I could allow her a day or two for jet lag, but by day three we needed to be up early spending the morning admiring the Winged Victory of Samothrace, followed by a brisk walk in the Tuileries over to have tea on Rue de Rivoli.

When I lifted my head to finish our conversation she was asleep.

Last week Lucy came to my house.

"What are we going to do when we go to New York?" She asked me while bouncing her baby Betsy.

The Today Show asked our sister Stephanie to fly back to the NBC studios for an interview, and we were in invited to come with our husbands and babies. When we first heard about the offer, I considered not going because I was still quite sick with my pregnancy-inducing fetus. It also sounded like a lot of work to wrangle an eighteen-month-old while keeping up with husband who travels for a living. But then I thought about eating a New York City Reuben sandwich and changed my mind.

"I don't really wanted to do anything but sleep. And eat a Reuben." I said to Lucy as I reclined on the couch.

"What?" She replied with squinty eyes.

"I am so tired." I said, "I just want to use this vacation time to rest."

"We are going to New York City. Don't you want to ride the subway?"

"I don't care, I'll take cabs."

Something about this conversation sounded familiar. Then I did some analysis in my head--because I have talent for that sort of thing--and realized that I am 32 and Lucy is 24 and I am tired and she isn't.

Granted, I am pregnant and my life has quickly gone from bare minimum to maximum in a few short weeks. For this you'd think I could be sanctioned a week of pure lazy endeavors. A week to enjoy maid service, room service and a grandpa willing to take The Chief for walks in Central Park. Just let me have mornings until noon and naptime until dinner. The Statue of Liberty will be there the next time around, besides I've already seen it.

Unfortunately, I now feel Page's weariness. No sight seeing in the nation's greatest city could compare with a morning to snuggle with sleep. It was a full circle, out of body, retro fitting empathetic moment.

But Lucy who has a world class title in eye rolling, did her best to ignore the apathy seated cozy and comfortable on my lap. Which is what I did to my older sister eight years ago when she was my age, and I was Lucy's age.

And when we were eating baguettes in the mosaic recesses of the metro station after an arousing day at the Musee d'Orsay I turned to Page and said,

"Remember when you wanted to just sleep?"

And we laughed so hard one of us lost bladder control.

(The older one, who had five babies.)

Hello New York, here I honk shoo.

p.s.

Cat Do It!

2009-11-18T22:36:00.004-07:00

Looking for opinionated people who have something to say about cats.
I explain it all here.

*photo of his daughter's cat Lovebells, by Jed Wells

More than Enough--Post Thought

2009-11-17T23:59:00.013-07:00

Last summer, while at a gallery opening I was handed a book called Mormon Women: Portraits and Conversations. It was for me to read and enjoy and maybe . . . possibly . . . if I liked it . . . mention it on my blog(?!)

When I got home, I took off my shoes and put the book in my library of books I hoped to read sometime before Armageddon. If time dripped from the sky I would catch all those minutes in a tin bucket and use them to sit and read. Until then, it will take me a quarter century to get through a book . . . if I like it. I don't read anything that doesn't flirt with me in the first paragraph.

Then I thought if I put more books in the bathroom maybe I would read faster. Bathroom breaks are priceless to a mother with a constant shadow of one-year-old proportions. I am not too embarrassed to tell Daddy I've got to take a bathroom break-- and hide away in the bathroom for twenty minutes. For all he knows I've got a pregnant system in need of patience in the restroom arena. While really I'm just relieving my bladder for thirty-nine seconds and reading for the remaining 19 minutes, twenty-one seconds.

And that is how I started reading this book.

It is a series of interviews and photographs of Mormon Women who have had remarkable lives and made incredible choices. A book about the most common women having uncommon lives. (Doesn't that explain just about everyone you know?) But it is also an answer to the question that lingers among the members of our church, as well as the non-members of our church: What is it like to be a Mormon woman?

Which was somewhat coincidental you see because I've been wrestling with this whole concept of motherhood as it pertains to being a Mormon. I had hoped to forever hide under the umbrella of being a wife and mother--two roles our church claims as next to divinity--and nothing else. I wasn't interested in being a wife, mother or friend/or a wife, mother and Primary President/or even a wife, mother and blogger (I always said I'd quit blogging when I became a mother). I didn't want anything to complicate what I could control here at home. Besides, these two roles kept be busy enough with questions and quandaries, how was I supposed to gladly add to the confusion by also taking on other relationships/causes that required attention? AND I thought, somewhere in this battle of my brain, the church would surely back me up on this idea--that wife-hood and a motherhood (or the quest to be thereof) were all that was required of a Latter Day Saint woman.*

I skipped the first interview**, then the next and the next until I found the interview of my favorite writer of all time Emma Lou Thayne. Of course so many of her thoughts expressed were translated into my heart, helping me read what I already felt. Mostly about being a wife, mother and a writer. From my interpretations of her chapter, she was saying that all three were connected. Her need to write made her a wife and a mother. Her being a wife and mother made her a writer.

She says, "I never felt like I was neglecting my family. I always said I can love you with all my heart but not with all my time, I've always felt life was a both-end thing rather than either or."

So then I was hooked.

But twenty minute installments haven't pushed me through this book nearly as fast I could hope. It takes me several days to read one interview, because I like to equally think about each life experience. The only common thread made obvious to me so far, regardless of life status--married, single, rich, poor, culture, race--is that each woman has been directed by Heavenly Father to be more. More of what they thought they could be. More of what they thought they had energy or time to be. More than what they thought life would give to them.

It is still uncomfortable for me to open up to the possibility of being more of what Heavenly Father needs me to be. My nature will always wish to live on an emotional farm, one far away from duties outside of wife and mother. (Heck, I'd also like to live on a physical farm too). But then I think about my mother who sits on the city council.
My sister in law Megan who is the PTA president.
My friend Sue who is heading up a civic board for our downtown area.
My friend Laura who runs a boutique.
My best friend Wendy who manages special education at our local middle school.
My neighbor Janna who spends part-time counseling women with severe body issues.
My aunt Judy who helps run a weekly health clinic to the uninsured.
My other sister in law Lisa who performs with a comedy troupe on weekends.

If they can do it . . .

. . . so can I?

Book: Mormon Women: Portraits & Conversations by James N. Kimball & Kent Miles
Get it: Amazon or Deseret Book
Book review: Meridian Magazine

*If you would like to hear what our church leaders have said about motherhood you are welcome to read this talk by Julie B. Beck (a talk I printed out and placed on my night stand for permanent study!)

**The first interview I skipped has been one of my favorite so far--Carol Gray from Sheffield England.

If you end up getting this book email me and let's chat?

Post-Edit:

I have really enjoyed the comments pertaining to this post. I appreciate the thoughtful discussion and despite popular opinion, I like to hear opposing views. It makes me feel like my words are at least worth feeling.

Lucy always tells me to be more bold on this blog and I have yet discovered how to be bold without losing artistic prose, but I do want to explain a little background to this post-something I should've mentioned in the drafting of it. I will try to do so boldly:

I am lazy.
(Or selfish, but let me say lazy because it sounds less depraved.)

I never, ever really believed my church would back me up on the whole being "a mother, wife only" idea because inherently we are asked to do so much more by nature of being covenant women.

Let me be more bold, we are asked to work hard as Mormon women. Hard work is hard for the lazy. I am lazy. So in my laziness, I hoped to be able to twist the ideas I was hearing from the pulpit to back up my "a mother, wife only" idea. But because this was not truth, it hounded me.

Blogging/writing for me is hard work.

I want to hide from it sometimes. I ask Heavenly Father if there is something else I can do for Him instead. He lets me know in resolute terms to keep going. Blogging/writing is my more.

Let me be more bold, I am not currently asking Heavenly Father to give me more, but to help me be open to what is already being asked. I can wish all the responsibility away, but publishing my thoughts (as uncultivated as they sometimes are) and being a wife and mother is what is being asked of my time and talents right now. Reading this book helped me to identify similar patterns in other women's lives--many of them just as skeptical as I am.

I say skeptical, but also I am lazy/selfish.

In listing the ladies in this post who are also doing more, I meant to illustrate their inspiration to me.

Let me be bold: I was not comparing myself to them, I was showing my appreciation for their willingness to heed to personal revelation. I do not endorse comparisons.

They received their calling, and I must to. So if I don't fight it, my byline looks like this:
Wife, mother and blogger/writer.
And if, on a gray day in January I pray and find out it is no longer my calling, I have to be willing to let it go.

Let me be more bold: every woman has something more to them. Even if they fight it like I do. And if they fight it like I do, they are in for a world of frustration. Like I was, before I read this book.

But I will say this, when I write posts like this and listen to other's voices and ideas. I really, really, really love blogging/writing. And it is so worth it.

So thank you.

p.s. I think Sister Beck's talk was mostly aimed at me, Mothers Who Don't Know Because They Are Lazy. If her sentiments didn't sit well with you, perhaps you are already a Mother Who Already Knows--I think that is plausible.

Writing On the Wall

2009-11-15T23:22:00.009-07:00

"Do you see what The Chief is doing?" asked Chup as we readied ourselves for church this morning.

"Yes and I love it."

"Love it?" Chup asked with the tone that reads: what is wrong with you?

With his favorite green highlighter clutched in his manic fist, while balancing on my green wooden chair, The Chief was producing installation art all over my office wall. He would extend his arm high and draw lazy lines back-and-forth then follow up with frantic scribbles reaching from my desk to the doorway. Jackson Pollock's little apprentice. I couldn't be more proud.

What is wrong with me?

When I was five years old I colored on the basement wall. I thought the white washed plastered canvas was simply void of artistic impression and so I took to the task with my set of markers. My mother however, thought otherwise and failed to applaud my project. In fact, she expressed to me in a very firm statement her disappointment and asked the question every parent has asked since the whole Adam, Eve and Cain debacle, "What were you thinking?"

With my fragile artist feelings shattered about me, I decided I could no longer live at home. Not after what was said, not after was done. So I emptied my brown-floral pillow case of my pillow, filled it instead with a couple shirts, shorts, underwear, a package of Zesta crackers, a red apple and hit the road.

I got as far down as one block away and wondered what to do next. This was my first attempt at being a runaway and I wasn't very clear about the conditions. Where was I supposed to runaway to? Where could I find materials to build a leaky shack? And how long would it take for someone to notice I was gone? I needed tears, hugging and a mother's begging apology. Those were my terms. Until then, my absence was my ransom and retaliation.

So I sat on my neighbor's lawn for awhile. Long enough to realize it would take a mealtime--or maybe even bedtime--until someone noticed I wasn't around. I was a middle child in a huge family, I was just stuffing between the eldest and the youngest. A filler, if you will. This runaway business was never going to have the effect I needed it to, and in my heart I knew it. Darn it.

Slowly I wandered back home with my pillow case heavily slung behind my shoulder. I slipped in the front door without being noticed--no one yelled "Courtney? Is that you? We've been looking all over . . . just about to call the authorities!" I put away my clothes. I ate a few crackers. I sighed. Sorry about this ending.

Then years later, when my brothers were old enough to be teenagers, they took over the basement with their indoor basketball hoops. They wasted no time using the basement walls to write blatant messages to each other about who can dunk over who and who has a better three-point shot.

No one seemed to care then? Did they?

But my five-year-old self did. She risked her life (!) for artistic freedom only to see the sports world take over like some cheap franchise. This opened the way for hundreds of visitors flocking to our basement to leave their personal mark--a tribute to themselves (or their crush) written in graffiti. My walls littered with other people's junky proclamations. To the tune of this:

Have you seen enough?

Oh no you haven't.

What is wrong with me?

I say let the child express himself.

Our Latest Family Portrait:

2009-11-13T01:52:00.005-07:00

left to right: Chup, c jane, The Chief

*via The Chief's fine selection of random stuffed stuff

Hearing the Ultra Sound

2009-11-10T23:53:00.007-07:00

Two years ago this month our dog died.

I was never a pet fanatic, never one who'd foresee myself crying over a lost animal, but when my dog died I fell apart. So did my husband. We cried for days on end. Until we moved, we never stopped anticipating seeing our Ralph waiting for us on the back porch. I could've blamed it on the spice of a hormonal pregnancy, but either way it was really sad. He was the only baby I had known, the only being to appreciate me as a mother.

Recognizing our grief patterns, my helpful cousin Katie offered to give me an early ultrasound.

"Come see your baby. It will help you feel better." She promised.

So we did.

And I had never been more nervous in my life. Not for any recital, or mission, or marriage. Not because I was anxious about the gender, or about the health of the fetus. I was nervous I had made the whole pregnancy up in my brain, just because I wanted it that bad. It was plausible to think Katie would take that wand, squeeze blue jelly all over my slightly protruding belly and find nothing but a bowl of black soup in my uterus.

But no. A baby appeared.

And she was right. When I saw that being moving and stretching and giving us a thumbs up sign my heart had found a replacement for the hole Ralphy left. A replacement that expanded until it took over my entire heart. Oh the miracle of modern technology!

I was mother to a human.

---

As I write this post, a second baby is punching around inside of me. I am almost twenty weeks. In this stage of pregnancy the going question is, "Do you know the gender?" --an inquisition added to the repertoire of pregnancy pondering in the past twenty years. Do you know the gender? Are you going to find out? What do think it is? All questions I've asked to others in my position. It is Ultrasound Season again for me.

I've been asking the Lord for some insights this time around, and I feel differently with this pregnancy. I know I have a tremendous amount of options given to me for the direct purpose of a successful pregnancy, delivery and postpartum period. From medical procedures and miraculous ultrasounds to alternative methods, I recognize them all as gifts from God. I will accept them all as good, I will be grateful for what options I choose.

But with this pregnancy I have decided to choose less options. I am learning to find the mothering instincts inside of me in a different way. The Lord is teaching my spirit in terms that my soul can understand, and the more I let go of options, the happier I feel. Happier, lighter, better. This is for me, not everyone, but yes, definitely for me.

So have I heard my baby's heart beat? Yes. But not with an instrument.

Will I get an ultrasound? Maybe, but probably not.

But it doesn't mean I haven't seen my baby.

***in keeping with photo series on the last post, this is our former dog Ralph, Utah Lake, dead of winter.

The Waffle Maker

2009-11-08T23:34:00.005-07:00

There was a tense moment tonight in our living room when Lucy asked Chup,

"What would makes you mad at Courtney?"

and before he had time to answer, I responded,

"He doesn't like it when I am snotty."

(Or when I answer questions for him, but let's focus on one thing at a time . . .)

And you know what I did then? Something really regrettable for the sake of validity, I reminded him of a time when I disliked a Christmas gift he gave me. Why did I do that? The very mention of this terrible memory introduced a horrible spirit of drudged-up issues and suddenly our comfortable living room became really uncomfortable.

Chup was living that Christmas morning all over again, I could see it in his eyes. And in an attempt to clear my good name (for the 45th time) I mercilessly argued my point, I disliked that gift because _____. When that didn't work I blamed it on genetics, all the women in my blood family have a weird streak of snobbishness. Except for Page, she isn't snobby, just bravely blunt which makes her more of Clark. This other stuff we blame on our mother's side.

Lucy was there to back me up on this second point. Thank heavens.

Putting all of that aside, do we not all know the feeling of being gifted with something we don't like? We exchange, return, re-gift all the time. What makes me such a heartless wife? Does a wedding band equal a disintegration of opinion? Besides, we kept the gift and it malfunctioned three times until finally we told the store from whence it came to KEEP IT. It had cursed our home long enough. Of course, when I brought up this point the debate went dead, like it always does. Because I am right.

In the silence following my final contention, Lucy left to talk to her husband Ric on the phone. Chup and I were husband, wife and baby in the living room. I looked over at him as he held The Chief on his lap playing some goofy barnyard game on his i-phone. I too relived that dreadful Christmas morning years ago. I remember crying because I was so conflicted, should I pretend to love it? Or should I be honest and say I didn't?

Chup interrupted my thoughts with,

"Hey. I love you."

Then again,

"I love you."

And again,

"I love you."

And me in return,

"I love you too."

And I meant it in a "I'm sorry" kind of way.

This past weekend, Chup and I quietly celebrated our anniversary of being sealed in the temple. He made me a mug of Belgian dark hot chocolate, him a cup of milk chocolate mint and we toasted to our happy--if not unfailingly flawed-- marriage.

*photo of us as newlyweds taken on Utah Lake in the dead of winter

The Problem With Being A Mother

2009-11-06T01:09:00.006-07:00

The problem with being a mother is that at first you are handed a baby. A little helpless human who wants nothing more than to wrap up inside your arms, or next to your chest and feel secure. In this state of co-dependency you feel helpful because the being is so tiny and you are so in love. All the while, the chemicals in your brain trick you into believing the entity in your arms will always be in your arms. An itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny package of perfection.

Then one cheerful morning, you hear crying in the nursery. You go to pick up your little human all snugly in his handmade quilt safely tucked in the crib only to find a bigger model has replaced your littler model. A much bigger human--who doesn't need your constant barrage of hugs and cuddles, or worse, doesn't want them either. And you are bewildered how overnight (OVERNIGHT!) those minuscule feet grew so much in just a short space of existance. All the while your brain cannot register this disconcerting reconciliation.

How did that being become this? How?

Quickly you head to the photo files containing the birth of that being. There is proof that the smaller version once existed. All mummified in receiving blankets with eyes of uncertainty that will certainly be calmed by your motherhood. Checking the newborn photos against the not-newborn baby standing before you, the bewilderment returns.

How was this being once that being?

I tell you, it has been the shock of my life. And don't tell me it gets worse.

I don't want to know how those feet get bigger.

Shhh.

*photos by Wendy of Blue Lily who has documented my son's life so far

A Little Dish on Yesterday

2009-11-04T12:48:00.007-07:00

Yesterday I wanted to buy things. I wanted new pillows, new decor, new lights, new shoes for The Chief, new clothes for myself and a pair of hot black boots.

"Why do I want to buy things?" I said to Lucy, realizing that just a day earlier I had made a promise to my sister Page I'd join her in scaling back our lives. The desire of my heart is to forsake the vicious cycle of wanting. Wanting, getting, wanting again--with no needing in sight.

But, sometimes these wanting urges have a way of being useful. A quick remedy, like comfort food, that helps me get to a better place. Meanwhile, I am hoping that someday acquisition won't be needed for self-security.

"You are nervous." Lucy explained, "I am too. But I don't want to buy things, I want to eat. I think you should shop all day and I should eat all day."

This conversation happened mid-morning after voting. My dad was running in a tight race for Provo City Mayor. There is a nervousness on election day that gives us all the shakes-- us relatives of those brave enough to run for public office.

"I am going to at least buy the boots." I told her, turning to Zappos.com to zap my nervous energy. But just as I was about to press "buy" I was called by the Deseret News for an interview about blogging. I am horrible at interviews and I couldn't possibly buy boots and answer questions about blogging at the same time. Are you crazy?

When the interview was over I returned back to my online shopping but couldn't find my credit card. I searched high and low and finally gave up. Lucy and I had lunch, shaky fingers eating fries.

During nap time I seized the opportunity to go back and buy my lucky boots. But then I got caught up in the nowhere lands of the internet and forgot all about it. In realizing this I thought maybe it was a greater indicator I wasn't supposed to buy the lucky boots after all. Three strikes, you know.

After naps The Chief and I picked up niece Lindsay and her friend Dixie for a short segment with KSL about my Provo Blog. If you think navigating media functions is a typical day for me, you are right. I mean, wrong. Did I say right? We were meeting the crew downtown for a trip to the Provo Bakery. As I pulled up to Lindsay's house, I noticed a lot of cars at my grandma's house across the street.

"Is everyone okay over there?" I asked Lindsay in the car.

"Grandpa Don died." She told me.

Our Grandma Clark (Dad's mother) had married her fourth husband, Don in 2001. They lived a very romantic senior citizen life together as gardeners and lovers of life's pleasures. Lately he had been feeling weak, and yesterday after what seemed to be a good morning, he passed away. As my family tells it, he took his last breath after conversing just moments before in the kitchen. He was in his nineties and very deserving of such a tranquil exit.

(On Halloween night he gave The Chief and me candy at the doorstep, and encouraged us to take more than our obligatory two pieces. My kind of man!)

When I got home from the taping I bought the boots. Good for me! Good for me?

As the sunset my stomach set too. The votes were about to start coming in. My parents were hosting a party at their house for friends of the campaign. I showed up early to see how things were going. The were so many energies colliding at that point, nerves for the campaign, peace for Grandpa Don, worries for Grandma, hunger for the catered dinner.

I went home and watched the results come in with Chup. In Chup's vast repetoire of emotions (I married an actor, remember?) nervousness isn't a major player. I do nervousness enough for the two of us. His coolness helped calm my chattering teeth.

It was a close one.

Dad lost.

This morning as I woke up and saw the blue sky colored between the tree branches, I felt empty. The election was over, Grandpa Don is gone and not much too look forward to . . .

. . . except those boots.

*photo taken by Patrick Smith for the Daily Herald

Where I End And Offend Begins

2009-11-02T22:36:00.010-07:00

I don't know how humans physically come out of "the woodwork" but for the past week people have been apologizing to me left and right and center court. Tons of people, from good friends to strangers, family and facebook friends all worried about hurting my tender feelings. ONLY I HAVEN'T ONCE BEEN OFFENDED.

This is befuddling. (Does it offend you when I use that word?)

After a rousing conversation about politics, religion, race and sexuality with my visiting teachers (the female equivalent to home teachers) one morning I felt invigorated. Perhaps when people love eachother there really aren't topics of conversation off limits! But then the night following, my visiting teacher showed up with a party plate full of peanut butter chocolate love bars and a practiced apology. I was almost offended that she thought I was offended, but told her I'd take the treats anyway just to ease her of her guilt--the ultimate act of charity.

Others too have called, come by or mentioned in conversation how ashamed they were for something they said. Something I might have taken wrong. Something they couldn't stop thinking about. Like my friend today who called to say she was sorry for teasing me when I said the word "peepers" during church yesterday in front of the children. I laughed at her for even dialing my number. Besides peepers is in the Bible. Look it up.

This isn't like two weeks ago when instead of apologies, people came crawling out of the woodwork sending ugly photos of me as a missionary. Isn't that uncanny? Ugly photos of yours truly were being tossed into my inbox like croutons on a Caesar salad. Ugly like Day Light Savings Time. In fact, if you are my facebook friend you can go right now and find one in my photos file.

I can't tell which experience is worse, having to look at ugly photos of myself or people thinking they have offended me when they haven't.

Anyway, before I get too derailed and start to tell you about how I sprayed myself and then Chup in the eyeballs with The Chief's lavender sleeping spray tonight, I shall gather this whole post in to some sort of sense.

I need to:

a.) figure out why people think I am so sensitive. Is it my allergies? I don't have allergies.

and

b.) figure out what offends me. Because it sure ain't what people think it is.

(It used to be my lisp. Anytime someone mentioned my lisp I'd be really hurt, but Chup came along and started calling it "cute, in a sexy sort of way" and then I didn't care what people said about my slip of my tongue. So there, high school.)

Maybe I should turn this question on the world.

Dear World, do you know what offends you?

*thanks Soeur Clark for the photo, you are welcome for the leopard print dress.

Ho! Bo!

2009-11-02T00:31:00.010-07:00

Well, I guess it is time for me to tell the rest of The Tent story.

As it turns out, we found a hobo living in our yard.

Yes, a hobo.

We caught him one evening drunk on Pirate's Booty
while rummaging through our stuff
looking for shiny things.

And to make matters worse
he wasn't wearing pants.

I chased him off our property using words like Skedaddle! and Scoot!

Oh boy did I mean those words too!

Meanwhile Chup shot photographs
for evidence of the crime.

The whole episode went by like a blur,
he picked up his knapsack

and started running . .

. . . laughing the whole way . . .

Last we saw him he was headed for the hills,

begging for candy from door-to-door as he went.

If you see him around, tell him he left his mangy tent here.

He knows where.

*costume, make up and knapsack all produced by Daddy Chup
isn't he clever?

To All My Witches!

2009-10-30T23:27:00.003-06:00

Happy Halloween.

The Tent

2009-10-28T20:55:00.007-06:00

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 could hear 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!

2009-10-28T00:55:00.007-06:00

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

2009-10-26T22:51:00.008-06:00

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!

2009-10-25T23:21:00.009-06:00

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?

2009-10-21T08:12:00.006-06:00

Sorry, this one is taken.

Thanks Blue Lily!

Hair You Go

2009-10-19T21:40:00.007-06:00

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

2009-10-19T00:22:00.006-06:00

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

2009-10-15T01:03:00.002-06:00

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

A Heavy Meal--After Thoughts

2009-10-13T21:01:00.008-06:00

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

2009-10-11T23:54:00.011-06:00

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

2009-10-08T22:09:00.005-06:00

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

2009-10-07T22:11:00.006-06:00

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

2009-10-05T21:43:00.014-06:00

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?