Time With The Ladies

Whenever I do anything with friends, Jay refers to it as my time with the ladies. As in, "Are you skiing with the ladies today?" Or, "I won't disturb you. You're with the ladies." It's a quirk of his to completely disappear if there are ladies around, as if all our concentrated estrogen makes him uncomfortable somehow. Funny man.

But, I do enjoy my time with the ladies. On Wednesday, I skied with my fab friends Lori, Lanae and Michelle. The entire morning was spent laughing and catching some sweet air. Actually, the laughing was usually a direct result of not catching that sweet air. Watch for Michelle, aka SuperG, at the next Olympics. Probably competing in the aerials, but maybe even in her namesake. Thanks to her, I have these pictures to share:

This is where I live.  When I really think about this, it's almost inconceivable to think that I could ever be grumpy.  This is what Beautiful looks like for me.  

Lori, Lanae, me and Michelle.  

Yesterday, I hosted bookgroup at my house.   Ours is set up so that whoever hosts picks the book and provides dinner.  I served Jay's Chile Verde (NOT quick to make) Dominican beans and chipotle lime rice.  It was a nice evening.  Each month I feel more and more comfortable with these fine ladies.

Back row:  Me, Sue, Lisa
Front row:  Peggy, Janine, Laurie and Beth

Of course, Jay left with the boys for basketball practice and was comfortably gone for most of their visit, but he was asked to take this picture and was thus forced to be in the same room for a small period of time.  It's my little of way of making sure he gets time with the ladies too.

Filling in the Hours

1. I just got done swimming a mile. I don't think I've swam as a form of exercise since I was about...oh...fifteen and certifying to become a lifeguard. My side of the family is having a reunion this summer and, in January, we started a program to motivate those who desired to get in shape. Each month, besides totaling up points for minutes exercised and other good habits, there is an exercise and food challenge. My challenge for the month was to swim a mile. I cannot tell you how much I was dreading it. At the local rec center, one mile is thirty-five laps or seventy lengths. When I read that sign, I made a mental plan of how long this might take me. I figured I'd swim thirty five lengths, possibly leave the pool for nourishment (I really thought this might take a couple of hours) and hopefully finish by noon.

Well, as soon as I started, I realized that one mile wasn't going to be nearly as difficult as I initially feared. It took about an hour, and I alternated lengths doing the crawl stroke, or freestyle, and recovered on the return length doing the breast stroke. It was a good system for me and I just might work swimming in as a regular part of exercising. It was pretty fun. If I do, however, I will invest in a cap and goggles. I know it wasn't pretty when I was flailing my head around trying to get my long bangs out of my face and mouth to breathe. Hey, the lifeguards have to have someone to giggle at, right?

2. You know those paper vests they give you at the doctor's office when they need to do a breast exam? You kind of look like Aladdin for awhile but I've never had any confusion about if the opening goes in the front or in the back. Yesterday, I had such an appointment and instead of the paper vest, I got a regular old hospital gown. I was so confused because I knew the purpose, but if I wore it with the opening in the front (which I tried at first) it felt all wrong. I took a gamble and switched the gown around so the opening was in the back and my doctor didn't say anything, but did have to take my arms out of the sleeves each time she performed her examination. I asked the resident expert, Jay, later in the evening what the proper protocol was when given a gown. He reassured me that the opening belonged in the back. Phew. Just passing it onto you anyone else who may find themselves in a similar quandary.

3. Surprisingly enough, only a few hours later, I was asked to disrobe again. This time, for a brow wax and facial. I had no earthly idea why being unclothed was necessary, but as this was my first facial (I had a coupon and my brows needed help ASAP) I obeyed and took off my top.

Have you ever been in one of those back spa rooms with the table in the middle of the room? I hadn't. My spa experiences have been limited to pedicures and the only massage I've ever had took place in what was essentially a doctor's office. Bright fluorescent lights, vinyl covered table, therapist who thought giving a massage meant releasing all toxins from every nook and cranny and the more you cried, the better.

Just as the gown perplexed me earlier that morning, the table really threw me for a loop. You see, it wasn't flat. One end was sort of raised into an inverted "V". So, either I was supposed to be on my stomach and hug the V with my arms, or, I was supposed to lie on my back and place the back of my knees on the apex of the V. Considering that they would probably need to see my face for a facial and brow wax, I choose to lie on my back. They had some blankets for coverage but I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone, essentially lying upside down like you would on the sit up bench at the gym. At least it was warm.

When the spa person entered the room, I immediately asked, "Is this right?" She assured me I was in the right position and from that moment on, I felt determined to allow the soothing music to relax me. Other than the actual waxing and plucking and squeezing the junk from my pores after she had opened them, it was very relaxing. She did massage the sides of my neck and tops of my shoulders, which, I suppose she couldn't have done had I been wearing a turtle neck, but the whole taking off my clothes really did seem unnecessary. Still, I loved the facial and I hope to do it again.

4. Off to a RS presidency meeting in an hour. Tomorrow, I'm going skiing. Thursday, I'm taking a group of women to the temple. Just some of what I'm able to do now that Henry is in pre-school. If he wasn't in little Henry Heaven going to school Monday - Thursday, I'd feel more guilt. But, he loves it so who am I to complain?:)  Besides, there are plenty of days and weeks when the hours are filled with much, much more of the mundane.

Check out that smooth skin with all kinds of essential oils rubbed into it and my newly shaped brows.  The hair is a bit frizzy from all the wet towels she kept wrapping around my face.  The chlorine from my hour in the swimming pool this morning has given it quite a different feel from yesterday.  

Sunday Thoughts - Murmur No More

I confess that I am a murmurer.  I don't know if it makes it better or worse that I am not a public murmurer, as some people seem proud of their I'll-say-exactly-what's-on-my-mind-no-matter-whose-feelings-I-hurt attitude, but I usually reserve my opinions of discontent for my husband's, family's or friend's ears only.  Oh, and for my blog.  Yes, I realize that is probably enough people to be considered public but I'm a lot more comfortable with my original statement.

What this means is that even though I am a supportive-go-with-the-flow-I-can-help-with-that-yes-girl, I don't always have the kind of attitude I should have when performing service.  I can be especially murmurific when it comes to my husband performing service.

Because he is in a bishopric, he has been ordained a High Priest.  For my handful of non-LDS friends out there, this means that he gets to hang with the old guys.  O.K...so they are not all old, but, generally speaking, a man becomes a high priest later in life.  Both the young guys and the old guys have their different assignments and responsibilities, but one of the duties of the High Priests is to take care of the widows in the ward.  In the wintertime, that includes snow removal for those that still live in their own homes.

I'm a little embarrassed that I am complaining on my blog about shoveling snow again.  I don't know what it is about this pesky task that annoys me so much, but every time I see those white balls of snow coming down, I feel picked on.  Jay thinks it's because I have control issues.  I can't control the when or how much so I get mad.  Maybe.  I think it's because I know it means hours of extra work for a guy that doesn't have very many extra hours.  In other words, it cuts directly into my Jay time.

The last two days have been snow filled and yesterday was a disappointing day for me in terms of getting things done and spending time together as a family.  Both boys had basketball games at different hours of the day, Seth had another long Destination Imagination meeting with his team and Jay spent a good three hours at a widow's home, shoveling her oversized driveway and picking away at the sheets of ice that cover her walkway after falling from her roof.  This afternoon, after finally coming home after his many hours of meetings, taking care of tithing and shoveling the walks around the church, he announced he needed to head back over to the widow's home to clear off the three or four inches of snow that accumulated overnight and this morning.  Feeling compassionate because he was clearly tired, but also selfishly wanting his task to take much less time than it did the day before, I quickly bullied him into letting me go with him to help.  As much as I hate shoveling, I'd rather shovel then spend another Jay-less day at home.

Prepared for manual labor, we arrived at the widow's home and divided up the job.  Jay handled the wide garage area and I started on the long narrow driveway.   We worked quickly and efficiently while Henry watched a movie in the van and Seth and Sam pretended they were Shaun White on one of the huge piles of snow.  I've previously helped Jay with this shoveling service twice before, and even discussed this widow and her needs both with him and during our Relief Society Presidency meetings, but I had yet to actually meet her.  Although she's housebound, she still serves as Visiting Teaching Supervisor and makes all the monthly calls to get the visiting teaching statistics.  The last time we spoke on the phone, she thanked me for my husband's service and invited me to stop in and introduce myself the next time I came by.

As I shoveled, I had her invitation in the back of my mind.  I wasn't really in the mood for any sort of chit-chatting, but knew it would be rude to simply shovel and leave.  I decided to make the boys come with me for a quick "hi" and after I finished the driveway, we knocked on her door.

As soon I saw her I thought of my dear grandmother.  Then, I thought of Jay's grandmother.  Bright, wonderful women who were eventually confined to spending the day in a recliner.  I thought of women I know who might not be elderly but are lonely and seeing this woman, and her smile and her obvious delight to receive visitors melted away my earlier frustration and indifference.  We chatted about my family, her family, how she misses coming to church, how grateful she is to Jay for his faithful service and about the gospel.  She wanted to know all about who spoke in Sacrament Meeting and what their topic was and I felt impressed with President Monson's great love and care of the widow's of the church.   In the Bible, James talks about pure religion and equates it to visiting the widows in their affliction.  Today, that made perfect sense.

I have looked at this responsibility of Jay's every way but the right way.  At my best, I have thought about it in terms of fulfilling a calling, of setting a good example for our sons and for providing service for a member of our ward.  At my worst, I have considered it a major inconvenience and burden on our family.  None of those viewpoints had any effect other than placing myself, or really Jay, higher than this widow.  We were helping her.

I can't quite explain how I felt walking out of her home after our visit.  All I can say is it was significantly different than how I felt walking in.  Better.  Sweeter.  Affected.  Instead of spending an hour shoveling a widow's driveway, we had spent an hour shoveling her driveway.  And even thought I had just met her, something about her and my memories of my grandmother helped me love her.  Jay and I both felt full of love on the drive home and the feeling has carried its way into the rest of the evening.

 I hope today's experience will help me remember Christ's words when He said, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the these of these . . .ye have done it unto me."  Knowing that should be enough to keep me from complaining but feeling the effects of serving her AND Him today will hopefully keep my murmuring habit contained for awhile.

Classic #9 - The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

Part of earning some kind of achievement for a bear scout (I don't remember which one.  I am not fluent in Cub Scout-ese) is retelling a folk or tall tale that is part of our American heritage.  The examples given are Paul Bunyan, Pecos Bill etc. but Seth is on a reading whirlwind and wants to earn as many AR points (earned from taking tests about books he reads) as he can by the end of his trimester.

 I had the grand idea of him reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn with me and killing two birds with one stone (is there a less violent idiom that means the same thing?  Can't think of it right now so the brutal imagery will remain). I checked out an extra copy at the library, fully intending to give him the copy I bought for my classics challenge but after reading the first few chapters, I decided to hold off giving him the book until I finished reading.  Even early on, it seemed inappropriate for someone his age.

I understand the controversy.  I do.  Mark Twain wrote a brilliant novel considered by many to be THE Great American Novel, in its strength of characters, use of dialect in dialogue, plot, social impact and overall theme: racial injustice.  His work deserves every accolade it has received and probably every criticism.  How can you tell someone who is offended by the use of the N-word not to be offended?  Especially when Twain uses the word as frequently as he does, well over two hundred times throughout the novel.

Does it make a difference that most of the utterances are made by Huck, a boy who is racist only because he is ignorant, and not out of hatred? Does it make a difference that he uses this word because...well...it is the only noun he knows to use in regards to a black man?  Does it make a difference that he continues to use this insulting word even after he decides to help Jim, a black man, escape to freedom?  For some readers, like myself, it does make a difference.  While I find the word loathsome, I have no history that makes it personally offensive.   Others, however, see any use of the word as unacceptable regardless of the story, history or lesson. Similar to other heated debates, I doubt either side will be able to convince the other. 

The extraordinary power of Twain's novel is that he creates a protagonist, Huck, that is simultaneously extremely naive and wonderfully thoughtful.  His naivety allows most of the adventures of the story to take place.  Huck, though thirteen and more world wise than most,  believes and does what most people tell him to do:  Miss Watson and her Baptist beliefs, his mean drunk father and his litany of verbal abuse, Tom Sawyer and all of his playful foolishness, and the frauds who call themselves the Duke and the King when they force Huck to play a role in their schemes and scams.

Huck's thoughtfulness, however, is what gives The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn the moral weight which makes it so great.  When Huck decides to help Jim, a black man, gain his freedom, he does not make his decision because he thinks it's the morally right thing to do. On the contrary, Huck knows from all his upbringing that it's wrong.  He accepts what Miss Watson declares will be his fate in Hell, a fate earned by breaking the law and stealing someone's rightful property (Jim) as well as simply deciding he'd probably rather be there because it sounds like more fun, because he unwillingly and inadvertently loves Jim,  a runaway slave who over and over again risks more than his illegal freedom by sticking with Huck Finn through adventure after adventure. It is Jim who eventually teaches Huck, a young boy who has every single reason in the world to put himself first because no one else is going to, what love really means.  It is also Jim, a black man not even considered to BE a man, who shows Huck what it means to be human. 

I loved this book.  I hope Seth will read it....someday.  But not right now.  He needs time and experience in the world to have the necessary frame of reference, not to mention the patience for all of the written vernacular, Twain requires his readers to have.  Because as important and moving and fun as this book is, it is obviously not for everyone, especially my own naive and thoughtful fourth grader.    Not yet.  We'll read about Pecos Bill instead.

Winter Repeat

I woke up early this morning and found myself emotionally exhausted with winter.  I am tired of the dark and the cold and the wet and the white.  I have thoroughly enjoyed all the skiing we have been able to do, and know that the skiing still yet to come will help keep me going through the next month.  But, if I could choose, I would do a genie head bob and have it be about seventy-two degrees and all the snow gone.

Still, that feeling comes with guilt.  Because I do love winter and I want desperately to love each month for itself. I want to love March even though there is little to love.  April gets a slow start, but I'm usually satisfied by its end.  As I sat here on the couch, wishing for May,  I remembered feeling this exact way a few years back.  My memory was confirmed as I found this old post.  Just look at the date!  It seems February 17/18th might be when I reach my winter threshold.

Rather than re-writing those sentiments, I'll just paste a copy of that past post here.  It could have been written this morning.

February 17, 2008

Dear Winter,

I've always defended you against your opponents. Always said you were something I couldn't live without. With you, a cup of hot chocolate tastes sweeter. With you, a movie date on the couch with a down throw is much more romantic. With you, the mountains become playgrounds and you give the cold credibility.

But lately, you've been hovering. You're always around...always, and I can't get anything done. I wake up and there's no reason to get going. There's no where to go - no where to be. Your constant presence has started to suck the life out of me and I'm not fun or motivated anymore.

At first, you were so good with my kids. They got to build a snowman and go sledding and you even helped build a cool fort. But my boys are still little and you aren't the easiest playmate. In fact, you don't help me at all. If I try to make them to play with you, it creates that much more work for me. So, they ignore you and stay inside and make more messes and more noise. You really only make my day harder.

Please don't panic. I don't think you're horrible and still recognize the many positive qualities you possess. But I'm tired of my car being dirty and and I'm tired of wet socks and I'm really, really tired of my frizzy hair, my pale skin and sweaters that need a special cycle on the wash.

Please leave. I'm begging you. I cried three times yesterday and I think it's your fault. We need a break.

I'm not saying I want you gone forever. I know I still love you...deep down. But I think some time apart will give me the perspective I need if we are going to make this relationship last the rest of our lives.

I think we should take about nine or ten months and see how we feel about each other then? I really think we need to do this. For our future. For my sanity.

Remember, I'm asking for this because I care about you. The last thing in the world I want to have happen is for me to end up hating you. I just need a little....change.

Still yours,

Lucy

Book Review - Classic #8 - The Power of One

I've said it before and I'll say it again, I love a good title.  The Power of One may seem obvious, especially after reading the book's jacket which says, "In this magical novel, an irresistible boy tells the story of his survival and coming of age against the background of South Africa during and just after World War II."  The boy must be the One, right?

Well, of course.  He is.  Little Peekay is sensitive boy.  He gets, at an unusually young age, that some things matter and some don't and like any decent literary hero, the things that matter to him are the good things in life.  Truth.  Dignity.  Honor.  

These virtues seem to come to him naturally, because his family life is sadly lacking.  His mother is a neglegent born-again who tears him away from the only mother he's ever known - a Zulu who talks to him, unlike his own blood relatives,  and teaches him her ways.  His love for her is a theme that carries throughout the novel.

Which brings me back to the idea of the "One."  This nurse-maid also becomes a "One."  As the story follows Peekay throughout his life in a harsh South Africa, colorful characters all take their turn being powerful "one"s - or influences in Peekay's life.  Peekay is the tie that holds this goodness together, but through him and with their collective help, that one became many and the many became one.  It's a beautiful idea and masterfully told by Bryce Courtenay.

If you read it, you'll fall in love with Peekay, his boxing mentor, Hoppie, Doc, and even a chicken, Grandpa Chook.  You'll also learn a lot about boxing and the struggle between the Afrikaners and English as well as their mutal mistreatment of blacks in their country.  Most importantly, you'll discover a boy who learns that anything can be accomplished if he does it "first with his head, then with his heart."

Covering Nakedness

As soon as the hostess seated us, I cringed.  There, on the wall behind our table, hung a painting of a nude woman.  It wasn't a raunchy painting by any means.  On the contrary, it was quite...calming.  She, the nude, sat near the edge of a river on one leg with her other leg extended behind her.  Her bottom was fully exposed, but only one breast was showing, the other hidden behind her arm as she leaned over the bank.  I suppose she could have been at the river washing her clothes or, perhaps, her kitchen dishes, although her reclined position would have made any thorough scrubbing difficult.

"I should have just taken them to McDonalds!" I thought.  But, I don't like McDonalds.  And I was feeling fickle at three o'clock in the afternoon while we waited in town for Seth to finish his Destination Imagination meeting.  So I took Sam and Henry to a sit down restaurant in hopes of killing time and better food.  The dining room was closed, due to the odd hour of our repast, so we were seated in the bar area.  The Olympics were playing on the three televisions across the room and I quickly and strategically positioned my boys with their backs to the wall, crayons in hand and several games of tic-tac-toe.

Inevitably, Henry spied the painting.  With a grin on his face, he pointed to the picture and said, "Picture, Mom!"

I acted uninterested and simply replied, "Uh-huh."

"Mom," Henry insisted, "There's a bum!"

Those words drew Sam's attention to the painting.  As his eyes took in the body parts Jay and I have been conscientious to teach must be talked about appropriately and with respect, he immediately became embarrassed and covered his mouth with his hands while he looked at me with very worried eyes.  I don't want my boys to have weird hang ups about the human body so I explained, rather poorly, the various reasons why that picture was not "bad" but instead considered art.  I hemmed and hawed about the body being a beautiful creation of Heavenly Father's and how artists sometimes draw or sculpt the body in its naked form to draw attention to its beauty and wonder, but I wasn't very convincing.   Sam's response was, "Well, we can't draw anything like THAT in art.  That's a rule." Which led to more hemming and hawing about maturity and age and where and when it's appropriate.  Eventually, I just told the boys to turn around and stop looking at the picture.

I know I didn't handle it well and I've been thinking about our conversation and my discomfort ever since.  Truthfully, I didn't like the picture.  Like Sam, I was uncomfortable eating my hamburger next to it. The woman was too...well...naked.  Admittedly,  I have no formal art training to critique color or form or style, but my non-trained eye didn't like the naked part.  Who sits by a river, in that position, without any clothes on? What about twigs and dirt?  Realistically, wouldn't someone without clothes more likely be squatting?

I don't want to be that person, however.  The kind who feels uncomfortable around a nude statue.  The kind who feels that all nudity must be also be sexual.  It feels immature and petty somehow.  I want to see Michaelangelo's David and The Birth of Venus by Botticelli up close and live because even though I know very little about art, I know that those pieces are important.

And yet, I have three sons.  I am scared to death about pornography.  I think it is the scourge of modern-day society.   The cynic in me wonders when and not if they will see it and how I can help them understand that in spite of what the world thinks, it is evil.  I want them to follow President Hinckley's counsel and "Shun it."

How much more simple would it be if I could just say, "Naked people are bad!  Nakedness is bad!  Don't ever be naked or look at anyone naked!   Not ever!"  But I can't.  Because, someday, I hope they will be happily married and well-adjusted enough to love and honor their wives.  And because, maybe someday, they'll be a doctor like their dad, who sees nakedness all the time.  As much as we'd love to have all our parts and pieces clothed during our doctor visits and appointments, sometimes being naked or partially naked is a requirement.  Henry's surgery would have been impossible without exposing a private part.  And mammograms wouldn't have any benefit at all if women refused to uncover their breasts for the procedure or Jay refused to look at them.

My question:  Does nudity have a legitimate place in art?  If so (and I'm assuming it's so), where do you draw the line between art and pornography?  When, as a parent, do you cover your child's eyes?   The Supreme Court once said, "You know pornography when you see it." and I believe that.  This picture in the bar wasn't pornographic.   But, how do I teach my sons what is o.k. and what is not?  How do I ensure that they know pornography when they see it? Because I'd really, really like to skip the part where they see it.  Should I have encouraged Sam's reaction to the restaurant picture? It's exactly how I'd like him to react when he sees pornography.  I want him to be embarrassed and I want him to understand that it's not o.k.   But, I also want them to grow up understanding that our arms and legs, ears, toes, knees and, yes, breasts and bottoms are, in fact, beautiful.  And a wonder.

If you could tell me how to do this perfectly, with no awkwardness and no mistakes, I'd be much obliged.

A much less controversial piece of art by Sam 

When Abdicating Isn't An Option

During the summer of 1997, my family had a reunion at beautful Island Park, Idaho.  After spending a delightful day at Yellowstone National Park and seeing a play at the Playmill Theater in West Yellowstone, we started the several car caravan back home to the condominium.   Just outside the town limits, an accident that had obviously only recently taken place and was still without any first responders caused a long line of stalled cars to halt our progress.

Weeks before, I had completed a summer course where I earned my Emergency Medical Technician, or EMT, certificate and while I had zero experience in an actual emergency, the course's final exam, which involved actors covered in fake blood lying in fields as a result of various made-up traumas, was still fresh in my mind.  As ridiculous as it may seem, when my brand new husband urged me as an EMT to respond, I honestly felt duty bound to do so.

I got out of our car and ran alongside the parked cars to the scene of the accident.  The minute it took me to get there was spent mentally reviewing the training the course directors decided I had mastered.  I had no equipment to treat wounds or really do much of anything, but I felt confident that I could at least take a pulse and perform CPR if necessary.

Lucky for me, but especially for the poor people actually injured in the accident, there was already four or five other EMTs and a doctor there taking charge of the situation.  I made my rounds and asked if anyone needed help, but admit to feeling nothing but relief that my play-acting training wasn't required that evening.  I walked back to my car and enjoyed the back pats of my truly-impressed-that-I-at-least-went-and-tried-to-help family.

Shortly after that, Jay was accepted into medical school and my days as the blood pressure taker/ ace bandage handyman were abdicated to him.

Thirteen years later, Jay is now a full-fledged, board-certified physician and undoubtedly qualified to diagnose and treat most of our family medical conditions.  It's very convenient to have a personal physician at my beck and call.  Unless, of course, when he can't be.

Now, no mother really likes to point out any flaws particular to a child of hers, but I'm going to confess that as sweet and smart as Sam is, he can be a bit of a hypochondriac.   While I'm not inside his head so can't really tell if anything hurts as badly as he claims, the fact that a kiss or a treat can usually cure the terminal nature of his pain makes me suspicious.

When Sam first started to complain about the pain in his thumb, I looked at it, saw nothing, and assured him it would be fine.

Then next day, right after sacrament meeting was over, he complained again about how bad his thumb hurt and I noticed its tip was bright white and very sensitive to touch.  It even seemed to invade his thumb nail.   Doctor Dad came to the rescue and between him and an ER doctor who is also, conveniently, a member of our ward, they came up with a diagnosis:  a blister.

It was a very weird location for a blister and I still don't understand how it formed (Jay is convinced it has something to do with the lining in his glove and the way he was holding his ski pole the day before), but Jay found a pin, sterilized it and used it to lance the wound to relieve the fluid underneath the skin.  When the pressure bothered him again that evening, his years of training came in handy once more and Sam got the treatment he needed.

When I picked him from school the next day, the blister was back with a vengeance.  He had even spent some time in the nurse's office due to the excruciating pain (again, remember this is on Sam's threshold scale) but apparently the nurse didn't think to pop the blister.  That left Mom, with rusty thirteen year-old skills, to deal with Sam's pain.

I'm only moderately ashamed to admit that I almost made him wait until Dad got home to deal with his blister. After all, would the spouse of an accountant attempt to do the family taxes?  Does the spouse of a contractor frame a house?  No.  When someone in the home has a superior set of skills, they become the go-to person.  While I am completely confident giving a dose of Tylenol or Ibuprofen to a sick child, or making sure a bowl is nearby if a stomach bug rears its ugly head, procedures go directly to Jay.  He takes out slivers. He gives the enemas.  And when there are blisters, he pops them.

I didn't wait, however.  I hesitated, then remembered I used to be the kind of girl who ran to the scene of a car accident and drove to Walgreen's to gear up.  I found a sewing kit, rubbing alcohol, Neosporin and band-aids and went to work.  Sam was a little nervous having his novice mother come at him with a sharp needle, but soon "ooh"ed and "ahh"ed at my doctoring.  When the blister was as deflated as I could get it, and the tender skin properly protected, Sam declared, "Mom. You just saved a life."

The dramatics come with the good and the bad.  Still, it was nice to be useful.

My EMT trainers would be so proud.

Book Review - The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance

I've waited for over three months to write this review so that I can be a bit more objective about it.  After all, it's not like I know Elna Baker, author and comedienne living in New York City.  So, why would her memoir about trying to balance her doubts with her faith within her sparsely-populated Mormon world have me feeling all kinds of righteous indignation?  I can only compare it to the feelings that arise when listening to someone else complain about your own family.  Oh, no you didn't!  Only I get to rant and whine and poke fun at our flaws and imperfections.  You can sympathetically nod in understanding, but there is no speaking.  There is no voicing of your own opinions.

Honestly, even though I don't know Elna Baker, the fact that she is mormon, and I am mormon gives us a common bond stronger than most outsiders would realize.  While she made a decent effort to describe some of our positive, like the strength she receives from her parents, her family and her faith, her expose and hatchet job on some of the negative, poorly understood and sacred felt like a betrayal.  Who is this girl anyways?  How did People Magazine get wind of her book?  And why is she telling the world that she let a guy from work she didn't even like touch her boobs because of a bet?

O.K.  Those two months might not have been enough time.   On one hand, I really enjoyed this book.  Baker is funny, smart and real - all qualities I admire and appreciate.  The early chapters of the book are filled with a light, self-deprecating humor that I find appealing.  Although it's not all sunshine and roses as she describes a humiliating (but really, really funny) awkward moment with her high school crush, struggles with her weight and the feeling of loneliness when you're the one that's not quite like the others, her attitude and ability to laugh   make her a heroine any reader wants to cheer on.

On the other hand, however, there are so many things that really bugged me about this book - from its premise to ultimate purpose.  Why did Elna Baker write this book?  To make money?  To further her career in comedy? Does she really struggle with her faith, as she claims, or is that a ruse to excuse some pretty bad behavior?   I can't figure it out because by the book's end, Baker herself still seems unable to figure it out.  I'm not faulting a person for questioning her childhood faith, nor do I find the circumstances Baker finds herself in to be all that unusual (except for being propositioned by an unnamed Warren Beatty-esque celebrity in a bar.  That was weird).   Enjoying the attention that comes from being considered attractive by the worlds' standards is very natural.   Wanting to have sex with someone you are attracted to and, moreover, really like, is pretty normal.  If her point was that mormons have hormones too, then she made it.  And made it.  And made it.

I hate to punish Baker for publishing her experiences and feelings, because, like anything author, she has that right.  But, with her title and blanket statements about what we do and don't do, believe and don't believe, she managed to lump the rest of us mormons into her book as well  and I, for one, didn't hire her to be my religious ambassador.  Her apathetic attitude towards honesty annoyed me.  She "ha ha"d it by saying she likes to say, "Yes" whenever she can, but when her "yesses" land her on a cruise ship, making motivational toasts because she yessed her way up the corporate ladder, I actually call that lying.  Call me boring and no fun, but I do.  And, Elna, guess what?  You forgot to mention that mormons aren't supposed to lie.  You frequently pointed out all our other "thou shalt nots" (drink alcohol, smoke, have sex before marriage, have dances that are actually fun) but somehow, that whole "Be Honest" slipped your mind.  So did honoring your mother and father.  Really, apologizing to your parents before the book even starts for using the F-bomb seven times doesn't actually make it better.

Oh, I had so much more I wanted to say, but I'm tired and waiting for three months has blurred a lot of details.  Read it.  Don't read it.  It doesn't really matter much.

 But, if you do read it, please know that the vast majority of mormons I know, even those that are single, don't spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about becoming a God or Goddess.  We're a little weird, we make mistakes, sometimes really big ones, but most are basic, decent people who are trying to do our best to follow the commandments we believe our Heavenly Father gave us, even the super dorks who seem to find their way to dance after dance after dance.

I hope Elna finds her place.  I hope she uses her obvious light and talent for good.  And I hope that when she does eventually wear lingerie, at the right place and at the right time, that she wears it as its meant to be worn and not how she describes it in her book.    Believe me, Elna, your husband will appreciate it.

Lucky Us

Like any ward, we have some mighty talented women mingling among us.  While it's nice to simply know these adroit ladies all on their own, it's especially beneficial to my life when I can get them to share their expertise and knowledge with the rest of the women of the ward.  Not only do I get to learn something new, but I also get credit for magnifying my calling.  Pretty sneaky, eh?

Julie Beck, general Relief Society President, wants us to stop being a social society and start putting the relief back into our meetings and activities.  I really couldn't agree more. While it's tempting to nix anything that might be interpreted as "fluff", sometimes, the reasons - the inspiration really, behind the activity, isn't readily obvious.  Last night, we offered a Valentine Decorating class to our Relief Society.  Pretty fluffy, right?

Not at all.  Our teacher is new to the area, newly married and a brand new mom.  They live quite a ways out of town and I know first hand how hard a transition it can be moving to this quaint but convenience-sparse town.  Well, she also happens to be an amazing pastry chef.  Like, has worked on Food Network and for five star/four diamond restaurants after graduating from Le Cordon Bleu Culinary Institute in Scottsdale, Arizona amazing.  She graciously agreed to show us some tricks of her trade, including her recipes.  Lucky us!

She came with the cookies already baked and glazed.  The cupcakes were made and only needed to be filled and frosted.  And the lollipops - oh, the lollipops, filled with cheesecake, caramel and ganache then dipped in chocolate needed a mere lighter applied to the top so that the various sprinkles could attach.   Hours and hours of prep time so that our time could be spent decorating and eating.  Now, that's definitely relief!

We had a great time.  If you've seen my birthday cakes, you know I lack any kind of decorating gene.  However, under her tutelage and working with cakes and cookies that don't crumble upon merely being looked at, I managed to decently frost a few cookies and pipe some cupcakes.  The fillings for the cupcakes were varied and exotic.  Available for use was creme brule, a blood orange something or other (too fancy for me to remember), simple butter cream and chocolate whipped cream.  She showed us how to make them elegant with some simple techniques but, best of all, everything was pure and tasty.  This was NOT your grocery story frosting.

Less than twenty people came to make their own gourmet sweets (what is wrong with people?  Are they anti-sugar?  It's mind boggling, really) which meant we could make lots and lots of treats to take home.  My gluten-free boys got the lollipops and the rest of us get the cookies and cake.  If that's not strengthening marriages and families, than I don't know what is.  Even Dr. Laura would agree.

The cupcakes weren't my strength, but they are every bit as delicious as the prettier ones.




Decorating the cookies allowed the most variety and creativity.

You might think lollipops are for licking, but underneath is where you'll find the surprise.  It's too hard to wait.

Relief, purpose, fun, shared talents, new skills and chocolate.  Sometimes. . . my calling ain't so bad!

Swirling Thoughts

There was a time when people who made comments like, "I don't have time for blogging" annoyed me.  Or their comments annoyed me.  It felt so judgemental as if I, sloth that I am, wasn't using my time as wisely as they used theirs.  Because, of course, the people that might have happened to say something like that  filled their days with feeding the homeless and reading to the blind.  Good people aren't really annoying - just embarrassingly better than me.

Now, each day comes to a close and I feel this very thought swirling around my brain.  Blogging, a practice I enjoy and appreciate, seems constantly stuck at the top of my didn't-get-done-today-try-to-do-tomorrow ever expanding list.  How, pray tell, did writing the goings on of my family and impressions from books get lumped in with throwing away the leftovers in the refrigerator that are never going to be eaten?  Or changing all the bedding?  I finish the day, today, for instance, tired, distracted and needing to unwind.  Even if the day has been a fun one, like the days I am fortunate enough to go skiing, the evenings all seem to end the same.  Helping kids with piano practice, homework, dinner, basketball practice, church meetings, chess club, book club, DI,  scouts and trying to manage to put the Humpty Dumpty of our living spaces back together again.  It's exhausting.

Blogging has evolved since I started, and I believe for the better.  In 2006, it was mostly social.  Suddenly, I was not only allowed to be a voyeur into all sorts of women's lives, but encouraged!  I was rewarded by letting them know I was nosing into their life with a return comment as they nosed into mine.  All that nosing around was invigorating!

Lately, blogging has turned into a beloved collection of memories and chronology of thought.  Much more rewarding than a few "me too" comments following a post, I love looking into my archives every so often to remember what Henry was like at nine months old.  Or what Seth's first day of 1st grade was like.  Or how traumatized I was when Sam first needed glasses.   However, as much as I enjoy the memories, the thrill that comes from reading them is much less immediate and frequent than the thrill that came from daily comments from daily blogging.   For me, that shift in consciousness has lead to less motivation to blog which makes no sense as I now miss out on the instant feedback as well as the future joy that comes from reading past posts.  Lose- lose!

But...I just can't find that pocket of time like I used to.   It's so irritating to say that.   I am not in the soup kitchen nor training for a marathon.  Henry is in all day preschool, for crying out loud.  It makes no mathematical sense.  Sam stayed home from school today with complaints of a stomach ache, and the day was so...relaxed.  While I couldn't cancel everything on my docket, I did cancel my knitting class, and stayed home from my Weight Watchers meeting.  Just having my morning free and clear allowed me to finally get a leg up on some laundry and finish The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.  It felt, oddly enough, just like my days used to feel.

It's so interesting that this thought about a noticeable lack of personal free time is clamoring for attention alongside the thoughts I'm pondering for my upcoming Relief Society lesson on Sunday.  My topic of choice is humility, which, I have learned when defined with a gospel perspective, is constantly striving for a "not my will, but thine" attitude.

I have tried to put this very attitude into my current calling.  We meet as a presidency and seek inspiration for what the sisters of our ward need to increase personal faith and righteousness, strengthen their families and homes and to seek out and help those in need.  Crazily enough, the inspiration has come and I have been flooded with ideas!  I suggest, then plan and organize, then implement them and it all takes so much time.

But.

I have also been so very blessed.  Much like the stories you hear regarding the miracle of the Law of Tithing, although I am busier than I ever wanted to be with church stuff, I have felt my time spiritually expand.  I am not anxious or depressed or stressed out.  Some power just helps me go down my list, checking some things off and realizing others can be done another day.  Thanks to a mildly upset tummy (because it would have been an entirely different kind of post had the tummy upset been severe), today happens to be a day where my head slowed down enough to decide, "I think I'll blog."

I miss being a more active blogger.  My sleep mantra for my kids while they were infants and toddlers was "Sleep begets sleep" and I believe blogging begets blogging.  It's easier to record the funny, the infuriating and the nothing much when each isn't competing with over a week's worth of other material.  But, for now, I'll try to be content with the balance that I am striking between being a homework inspector, a piano tutor, school volunteer, potty trainer, chauffeur, cook, housekeeper, home shopper, cheerleader, nurse, beginning jogger, reader, skier, friend, wife, mother.

And blogger.

I mustn't forget blogger.