A Memory

Let's get something out in the open. The minute my body gets pregnant, my body wants to go into labor. Call me impatient. When I was about six months pregnant with my daughter, I went into full-blown, pre-term labor. It was scary, to say the least. I spent a couple of days in the hospital and then the next three months at home, in bed. I was only allowed out of bed to go to the bathroom. Needless to say, it was sheer torture. I was given a medicine to control the contractions, but it made me all antsy and jittery. So imagine being told to stay in bed but feeling like you need to run a marathon. Or ram your head through a wall.

Let's get something else out in the open. I'm all for eating a healthy, well-balanced diet. But I love food and pregnant or not, I get cravings for sinfully delicious things like raspberry-filled powdered donuts.

While trapped like a caged bird in my own home, I had a craving for the aforementioned donuts. Being the sweet guy my husband is, he ran to the store before work to get me my snack. He came back with glazed, lemon-filled donuts. That would have been great had I not been half out of mind, coo-coo for coco puffs-type delirious with bed-ridden insanity. So he went to work and I cried, helpless to get my own stinking donut. When my mom called to check on me, I told her my little sob story. She went on a mission to search out the correct pastry I so desperately needed. She found glazed, raspberry filled, and even went so far as to explain to the baker the situation, who happily sprinkled some powdered sugar on the glazed donuts. Close, but no cigar. I did, however, happily eat what I could get. Bed-ridden beggars can't be choosers.

Fast-forward nearly twelve years later. I was at The Store a few days ago, when what should catch my eye, but a huge display of Hostess raspberry-filled powdered donuts with a huge two-for-five-dollars sign. I probably hadn't thought about those donuts since that early spring day back in 1999. Naturally, I snatched up a box. They were so good that I went back the next day and got some more.

It only took twelve years and three moves, but my craving was finally satisfied. Life is good.

It Must Be Saturday

The sick little boy who spent all week going between the couch and my bed is back. He's got his ball cap on and runs everywhere he goes.
The house is clean, the blinds are open, and the sun is shining.
It's freezing outside, but my living room is toasty-warm.
Dad just took the kids for haircuts and shakes;
and I've got a few, peaceful afternoon moments all to myself.

I love Saturdays.

Better Than McCartney

Last summer, the big news around these parts was when Sir Paul came to town. The fabbest of the four, in my book.

Last week, a new hire at my husband's company came to town to shadow him around for a few days. We took her to dinner and drove her around Park City on the eve of Sundance. I asked her if she'd ever been to Utah before, and she said (in her very cool-sounding South African accent) "Once; I came last summer to see McCartney, but then I flew back home the next morning." She then went on for several long minutes, gushing over his performance. At the age of sixty, she has been a life-long fan.

Through the course of the week, she admitted that she had always loved listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir as a young girl in South Africa. She said it had always been a dream of hers to see them perform live. Being the great guy my hubby is, he found a way to make it happen. Though she wouldn't be here for their weekly Sunday performance, she would be here for their weekly Thursday night open rehearsal. So between work and family duties, not to mention looking in on his 93-year-old grandmother who recently took a spill, he managed to get Lynn to the tabernacle on Thursday night. He said her face lit up the second they walked in; and when they walked out, she said (in her very cool-sounding South African accent) "That was better than McCartney!"

Maybe it's because I'm a Mormon and the choir is practically in my back yard, but it makes me wonder, is there anything on my bucket list that would make someone else say, "Oh that's easy. What are you doing on Thursday?" Because if you've got any connections to anyone working on the next Star Trek movie, it just so happens that I'm free on Thursday.

The Brain of a 'Tween

Warning: celebrity gossip to follow. I really couldn't care less about celebrity gossip, but I promise this is going to be good.

So we've established that I'm a John Mayer fan. He's got the chops, but he's what I like to call a "mimbo." You know, male bimbo. His song, "Half of My Heart," to which Taylor Swift adds some harmony, is up for a grammy.

Yesterday, my sister called to ask me if I'd heard the song "Dear John" by Taylor Swift. She told me it has been rumored that the song is basically for Mr. Mayer, in retaliation for a brief relationship gone wrong.

When I got home, I asked my 11-year-old daughter to grab her Taylor Swift CD and play me the song. Let me tell you, this kid idolizes Taylor Swift. She plays her music, wears her beret, and sings her songs in the shower. So she plays me the song. Then she asks why I wanted to hear it. I tell her it's because the song is supposed to be about John Mayer.

Her reaction: "Oooooo, busted! I'd be mad if I was her too! She sang on one of his songs and she only got to sing the same six words over and over!"

Oh, the innocence. I'm locking this kid in a tower.

True Confessions

I have a confession.

I talk to myself. It's not inner monologue. I have conversations with myself. Dialogue. I say something, and then I say something back. I discovered this when I got married. I would ask Dear Hubby a question and then answer it out loud, myself. I still do. He's been conditioned to ignore the insanity and answer the questions I'm actually asking of him.

I have another confession.

I day dream. Like a lot. I can watch T.V. but really, I'm just looking at it. I'm actually off in la-la land, thinking about things like what I would wear to a 1950's era cocktail party (a pink chiffon dress, of course). When I read a book, I really have to focus because one word can send me off on some weird tangent and before I know it I am climbing a mountain at lightning speed, thinking about the vikings.

So naturally, there's a good book in there somewhere, right?

Bear Down, Tucson

Today my thoughts are with my friends in Tucson, Arizona. I love Tucson. I went to college there, and so today my heart hurts. What happened there on Saturday is a complete and utter tragedy.

But what seems to be happening in the aftermath is worse. The swiftness with which blame was thrown, fingers pointed, and violent retaliation was called for happened at near light speed. The cretin who pulled the trigger? It was his fault. Plain and simple.

Today I watched two kids walk down the hallway at school, pretending to be robots. How do we go from the innocence of pretending to be robots to the ill-mannered finger-pointers that have been on the airwaves this weekend?

I'm sick and tired of bad behavior. I'm sick and tired of bad behavior getting all the attention. It seems the louder somebody yells or the more bleeps they can produce on T.V., the more attention they're given. Enough. Enough already.

You want a little dose of reality? Reality isn't T.V. It isn't questioning the paternity of your baby while you spend $300 you didn't earn on a pair of designer jeans you don't need. It isn't calling someone a foul name because they stole your boyfriend. It isn't even sitting in a coffee shop bemoaning your wretched little life.

Reality is standing up and taking responsibility for your own actions. It's earning your keep. It's serving others and taking care of your family. It's doing what's right. All the time. Every time. It's behaving in a civil manner, even when you don't want to. When something goes wrong in your life, and you're looking for someone to blame, look in the mirror.

In Tucson's case, let's blame the guy who pulled the trigger. Let's take a stand against bad behavior. Let's not pay it any attention, except to point it out to our children and say, "don't you EVER DARE behave like that." And then if they do, love them anyway. Then pretend you're a robot and chill out.

Tucson, I love you. I stand with you. May the warmth of the desert warm your hearts and heal your wounds. Bear Down.

Letting Go

I had what I call an "ah-ha" moment today, and no, I'm not talking about the one-hit-wonder band. But now you're going to be singing "Take On Me" for the next several hours, right?

Anyway... back to my ah-ha moment. I have totally ignored my writing for the last several months. And yet, it keeps nagging me to do something. Begging me. Pleading with me. Sometimes I really wish I didn't want to write. Even when there's nothing in my head (which is quite often) I still want to write. And yet, I go on ignoring it.

So my new year's resolution and theme for 2011 is "let it go and go write." If the dishes don't get done, let it go and go write. Write every day, even if you only edit one word. Sit down with the computer. Delete one word and replace it with another. If you don't take a shower tonight, let it go and go write. Get the picture?

But then today I realized something entirely different. I'm holding onto something that really needs to be let go. My real issue is fear. I'm holding onto it for dear life. I'm afraid to finish anything. Because if I finish anything, then someone else will read it. Why would I open myself up to such vulnerability? Can I really allow other people to see what's going on inside this half-cooked brain of mine? Can I handle it? Can I really be okay with strangers spending their hard-earned cash to buy something I wrote? Can I even get to the point of having something to sell?

The answer of course, is YES.

Confidence, as it were, is not my problem. Fear, on the other hand, keeps getting in my way.

Time to let it go.

Holy Cow! It's 2011!

Ahem. Happy New Year.

What am I doing? Have you heard of P90X? I've been doing it for about six weeks now, which is more than I've worked out in the last two-and-a-half years. I'm pretty sure it's going to kill me. Or I'm going to have killer arms. One or the other. Dan and I have been getting up at 5 a.m. to do this. Last night, I was forced to go to Zumba as well, which I haven't done since September. It has been a challenge today to remain upright. The last time I did any kind of two-a-days, I was in marching band and twenty years younger.

What am I reading? I'm about 50 pages shy of finishing The Hourglass Door by Lisa Mangum. There's a sweet-talking Italian guy. Need I say more? Very fun. Very mysterious. And it definitely makes me feel twenty years younger.

What am I writing? A story about a mushroom-sized girl and her gigantic best friend.

Also, I found a pair of pinkish-purplish Converse All-Stars for ten bucks.

2011 is off to a good start.

You?