My daughter is getting married next Saturday. Gah!

As such, I've been thinking about writing something to share at the wedding luncheon. I want it to be sweet, wry, and funny.

As such, I turned to the greatest inspiration I know for sweet, wry, and funny: Louise Plummer. I am remiss to say that in the busy-ness of my life, I discovered that Louise has been actively blogging these days.

Remiss that I didn't know, but happy to find this treasure trove of Louise's wit, I ended up spending half the morning in bed scrolling through her stuff. Heaven!

While I took some notes for my speech next week (are mothers even allowed to give wedding speeches? I haven't asked, and I don't care. I'm doing it anyway.) I was also inspired by her photos and her lifestyle, which got me thinking about my own life. I suppose that's also a natural inclination with children getting married.

So that led me to oatmeal. I've had back pain for a month, and this week found out it's actually my gallbladder giving me grief. My doctor (a naturopath) gave me some supplements and told me to avoid sugar, dairy, and raw foods for the next 10 days. I'll write more about that later.

I don't mind oatmeal - in the winter - when I'm dashing out the door to work and need to nuke something up real quick. But in the summer, when I have time, I make breakfast parfaits, chocolate protein smoothies, and this year, acai bowls loaded with fruit, coconut, and happiness. I can't have any of those things right now because... gallbladder.

Yesterday, I nuked the saddest bowl of oatmeal you ever saw. Clumpy, flavorless, blech. But after sifting through Louise's posts about all the pie and eclairs she loves to eat, I decided to turn my oatmeal into something better. I cooked it on the stove, people. I stirred and stirred until it turned smooth and creamy. Then I thickened it with unsweetened coconut milk. I brought up some home-canned peaches from the basement (canned peaches are not raw peaches) and stirred them in. Then, because I was feeling refined, I added a dash of cardamom and a smidge of cinnamon. Heaven.

So on this last Saturday before Jessica becomes a married woman, what started out as a speech for her, turned into a perfect bowl of oatmeal. 

Thank you, Louise!

Nanny Wanted

I have a friend who is a popular and well-respected author. On several occasions he has told me I have both the talent and the tenacity to get published. I love it when popular and well-respected authors tell me things like that.

My tenacity sent me back to school this summer. Self Publishing School, that is. Yeah. Who would have ever thought I'd be tenacious enough to publish my stuff on my terms? That's for another post, though.

Anyway, as you might guess, part of Self Publishing School was to write a book. So for the past couple of months I have been 100% completely engrossed in writing this book (which I'll talk about in another post). It has taken over my entire life and become the answer to every question.

Where have you been? I haven't seen you in a while.
I'm writing a book.

What's new?
I'm writing a book.

Why isn't there any food in this house?
I'm writing a book.

Why don't you ever call me?
I'm writing a book.

What's that smell?
I'm writing a book.

When is the last time you used a hairbrush?
I'm. Writing. A. Book.

You get the picture.

I was talking to a fellow classmate on the phone this morning. She is writing a book in the middle of moving to a new house. I can't even imagine. During our conversation, it dawned on me that I could really use a nanny - not for my kids - but for myself. Is there even such a thing? Adult nannies?

Here is the ad:

Wanted: one live-in nanny to look after grown woman who is at least 26 years old. Must be willing to cook, clean, shop, and remind approximate 26-year-old woman to eat, shower, get dressed, and to wear her glasses when staring at computer for hours on end. Must encourage her to actually follow the schedule in her planner and to be social. Attending writing conferences not considered a social activity. Daily walks are required. Trays of delicious food delivered hourly without asking is preferable. Must see to it that Peanut M&Ms are always on hand. Guacamole skills are a plus. Send resume to I'mwriting@book.


And just in case you didn't believe me about the glasses...

Cindy 4.2

Yes, it's that time when I mark another completed orbit around the sun. We celebrated a couple of weeks ago by going to a concert in Deer Valley. Big Bad Voodoo Daddy put on a fun show. I mean, who doesn't love good, trumpet-heavy swing music?

Anyway, as my birthday approaches, here's what I've been thinking about lately:

K I N D N E S S

We need more of it. We need to give people the benefit of the doubt. If we want kindness shown to us, we must first show it ourselves. The Golden Rule and all that jazz.

Also, be kind to yourself. Ease up on the negative self-talk. 

I don't really know where this blog post is going, except to say that the older I get, the greater my appreciation for kindness becomes. My desire to be kind grows stronger.

All you need is kindness.
And maybe a Ford Mustang. (Another birthday, perhaps?)

The Practice Field

Four years is a long time when you're young. I spent four years on the high school practice field, playing in the marching band. That's 2/3 of my teen years. That's a lot of time. Four years to make friends. Four years to have a crush on a certain trumpet player. Or percussionist. Or any boy who would pay attention to me. Four years to figure out who I was and who I was becoming.
Certain phrases echo at me. Eight-to-five glide step. Right face. Left Face. Forward. March. The sound of the show coming together and the sound of it falling apart. The cadence as we practiced entering the field. A well-timed rimshot when Mr. Lingwall cracked a rare joke.
There was marching in 100-degree weather. There was marching in the dark. There was marching before school and after school and even when it rained.
There was laughing and playing and drooling over Chris Montiel's '55 Chevy. There was sitting on the grass while another section got some personal attention. There was earning a solo when somebody else fully expected it to be theirs. There was sucking on lemon drops to make your lips pucker, and there were many reasons to pucker. Unfortunately, I only had one reason, and that was my size 7C mouthpiece.
The day I took the podium as Drum Major was my proudest moment on the practice field. I learned about leadership and confidence and how to get the attention of 240 people all at once. A whistle helps.
I learned a lot of things on that practice field.
I gave everything I had on that practice field.
And I was given much on that practice field.
Four years is a long time when you're young; and even though I didn't know it at the time, every step I made on that practice field taught me how to march, or glide step, if you will, through life.  

On a Darker Note

I spent the weekend at Solstice Writing Retreat, which is always a good thing. I love being around other writers - they're my tribe.

Louise Plummer was there, who quickly became one of my favorite people in all the world when I met her three years ago. She told a story about giving someone dark chocolate fortune cookies, along with, of course, dark fortunes.

She and her husband Tom, along with their son, came up with the list, which included such gems as:

• Toe fungus next Wednesday
• Don't bother counting your lucky stars
• Dead man walking

We, of course, could not contain our laughter.

As a writer, I spend lots of time inside my own head. Naturally, the last few days have found me wandering into dark fortune territory.

• Those stars you're seeing? Cataracts.
• Say goodbye to your toaster this week.
• There is a boulder in your future.
• Lucky numbers? I don't think so.
• I'd get that mole checked if I were you
• You're going to regret eating that fortune cookie
• Dinner: what goes down will come up
• Stay home Monday. And Tuesday. In fact, don't go out at all next week.

Try it. You'll be hooked. 

P.S. My son has long held on to the best fortune he ever got from a cookie (dark or otherwise):

A lit candle frightens no monkeys.

Why Miscarriage Matters

It has been ten years since my last miscarriage. Over that time, the pain of those losses has softened. I don't think about those little lives as much, mostly because they are a permanent golden thread woven into the very fabric of my existence. 

They are me.
I am them.

But every now and then, something will come up that puts them at the very forefront of my every waking thought. So much, that I can't possibly think about doing anything else. I am their mother, after all, and if I don't stand up for them, nobody will.

This is one of those moments.

I just finished reading a news story relating to the woman in Colorado. The one who stabbed a pregnant woman repeatedly and then ripped her unborn baby from her womb. The mother survived.

The baby did not.

A judge has now ruled that the woman will not be charged with murder because the state of Colorado does not recognize the fetus as a person.

Whatever emotion that stirs in you, allow me to offer my perspective. If one fetus is recognized has a human being - a person - then they all have to be recognized as such. And if they're all recognized as such, then, by that definition, abortion is murder.

When I was going through my years of miscarriage, I kept hearing terms like "spontaneous abortion" or "loss of fetal tissue."

Ugly, ugly words.

But the truth is, if those little babies, babies who had a heart beat at some point in time, babies who kicked and fluttered around inside of me, and who were most definitely wanted and loved; those babies could not be recognized as babies, humans, or people, because that would change the whole argument for abortion.

There are those who will argue that abortion has nothing to do with the case in Colorado. And that's the convenient truth, isn't it? The woman didn't commit murder. It was just a fetus. She committed abortion - it just wasn't the mother's choice this time.

Because if one is just a fetus, then they're all just fetuses.

And that's why miscarriage matters. The babies I lost were absolutely human beings in every sense of the word. Why? Because I loved them. I still love them. That love will never dissolve or fade. That bond, that love, that loss I feel... it's as real as the air you're breathing at this very moment. I don't think I could feel that way for a bunch of tissue.

Miscarriage forces everyone - no matter what side of the debate you're on - to take a step back. You can't talk about it without considering the implications it has on our "legal" definitions. And so as a society, we don't talk about it because it grays what is supposed to be a black and white argument.

People are free to make their choices. But every choice has consequences. And as someone who had eight "spontaneous abortions," I'll never understand why someone would willingly choose to do that to themselves on purpose.

Regardless, I do know this. My babies were more human than the woman in Colorado will ever be.

And I'll go toe to toe with anyone who says otherwise.

Life Changing Stuff Here

Hello, My Friends.

I need to tell you about the last month.

It. Has been. Life changing.

I made a new year's resolution to rededicate myself to my small copywriting business, The Bright Words.

I built a new website. I got professional pictures taken. I started looking for new clients. I attended a business conference. That's the life changing part. The speakers and presenters were phenomenal. It was the first time I've ever experienced true synergy - and I figured out what I'm supposed to do with my life!

Long story short - two of the speakers there are now mentoring me and helping me along. I'm learning a lot and I'm exhausted - but in the good way. And now it's time for me to do some major hustling.

So here it is:

 I Need A Small Army to Help Market My Business

I’m crazy. But you know that.

And I need the support of a small army of people who are even crazier than I am.

I’m putting together an Influencers Group to help me create a groundswell surrounding the launch of my business: The Bright Words. It’s already out there, and I’ve been in business for a while, but I want to take it to the next level. I’m in search of a dream team of authentic, dedicated, positive and proactive wave makers to help me spread the word over the next few weeks - in fact - my goal is to get 100 influencers to join this group in just 10 days.

It won’t be allllll fun and games (just mostly). I’m going to need a lot of help. It’s going to be work. There may be blood, sweat and tears. (Joke. Okay, half joke.). But, I promise you’ll get a glimpse into my brand of crazy, which is better than say, Kim Kardashian’s brand of crazy.

Here’s what I promise you if you join the Influencers Group:

        I will spread information about you, your business, product, or service far and wide - leveraging my unique strengths and avenues of influence.

       Access to me (and the other influencers in the group) in an exclusive Facebook group. This group may just turn out to create mutually beneficial relationships that could last a lifetime. You never know.

Here’s what you promise me you’ll do if you join the Influencers Group:

    Share information about The Bright Words far and wide—leveraging your unique strengths and avenues of influence.
    Join the Influencers Group on Facebook, and be an active participant and collaborator: sharing ideas together to help each other more effectively spread the word.
    Find other people - influencers - who you think would love to be part of this dynamic group.

Here’s the link: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1688969331329988/

That’s it!
Are you in? It may just help you out, as well.
Love ya.
Mean it.
For real.

An Anniversary or Two, of Sorts

Today is February 17, which is the date my future husband proposed to me way back in 1996. That got me thinking about February 16, many years before.

What, you may ask, is the significance of February 16?

I attended Saguaro Elementary School in Casa Grande, AZ. The school had a discipline plan which looked like this: If you acted up, the teacher wrote your name on the board as a warning. If you kept it up, you would get a series of check marks next to your name, and each check mark had a consequence -- leading all the way up to getting a swat from the principal.

Being the good girl/people pleaser/teacher's pet that I was, I prided myself on never getting my name written on the board. Until the fifth grade on February 16, that is.

Because my last name began with an A, I was always seated on the front row. It seemed all my teachers were sticklers about seating us in alphabetical order in those days. The girl sitting to my right (I can't remember her name, but it must have also begun with an A) told me to pass a note to Albert Enriquez, who sat across the aisle, and one row back from me on my left. Mr. Jones was busy writing things on the board, so I had to time my hand-off just right.

Now, in my defense, I did not have a lot of note-passing experience, and I didn't want to get caught, so I very discreetly took the note, which my friend had folded into a small triangle, and placed it...
on the toe of my shoe. I kicked it in Albert's direction, just in time for Mr. Jones to turn around and see the note land nowhere near my intended target.

I still remember watching Mr. Jones' bony, wrinkled fingers slowly unfolding the little triangle. He read the note, glared at me through his horn-rimmed glasses, then slowly and deliberately wrote my name on the chalk board.

The humiliation was unbearable. I started to wonder if I should transfer to another school where nobody knew I was the kid who got my name written on the board. At the very least, I was afraid to go to school again the next day.

Fortunately, I stayed at Saguaro Elementary, where I remained in Mr. Jones' class for the remainder of the year. I am also happy to say my reputation did not follow me to Mrs. Mazur's class in the 6th grade.

Also, I don't recommend kicking as a method of note-passing.

Bullies

There was once a girl; a beefy, brawny, kind-of-hairy girl, with big teeth and sausage-like fingers. I was the scrawny, skinny, short girl, whose ears poked out from my thin, stringy hair; so naturally, I was her favorite target. She beat me up and pushed me around from the third grade until the tenth grade. She hated me because she thought I was Mexican but refused to speak Spanish. I tried explaining that I was Indonesian and spoke Dutch. That concept is hard enough for most rational people to understand, so explaining it to an over-grown 10-year-old was impossible.

One time, she rammed my head into a metal beam in the school library. If only we'd had today's safety codes in 1983. Another time, she shoved me up against a wall and told me never to sing La Bamba. Ever. I narrowly missed being thrown against a giant Saguaro cactus. Another poor girl was not so lucky, and I helped her pull the cactus spines out of her red T-Shirt. I don't know if I'm remembering the red because that's what color her shirt was or if that was just the blood.

The greatest day of my life was in the tenth grade, when Beef Girl got pregnant and left school. I don't condone teen pregnancy in any way, but in this case, it REALLY worked out to my benefit.

So I finished growing up without anymore pummeling and went on with my life. I never really think much about it, except of course, Every Single Time Anyone Mentions Bullying. Which is more often than you'd think.

And now I'm discovering that my son is being bullied and I want to find the kid doing it and ram his head into a metal beam.

Here's the thing. I'm a (mostly) rational, non-confrontational type of person. So are my kids, if you can imagine such a thing. I have always taught them that there will be people you won't get along with or even like. And that's okay. It's human nature. HOWEVER, you DO have to be nice to everyone. It's important to take the high road. To be the bigger person. To not react when someone is trying to rile you.

It builds character.
It teaches them how to handle difficult situations.
It equips them with the ability to rise above.

This Higher Road stuff is so much harder as a mom.

Shut Up, Frank!

We all have that inner voice inside of us. You know the one. It says you're ugly. You're stupid. Why do you even bother? This is never going to work. This is a dumb idea. You should just quit now.

You're.
Not.
Good.
Enough.

Last summer, literary agent John Cusick gave a speech and he talked about that inner voice of doubt. He suggested giving that voice a name so that you can tell it to shut up. His inner voice's name was Debra. I decided to name my voice Frank.

Frank has been talking his head off lately. He's a manipulative son-of-a-gun, too.

See, the thing is, I live in Utah, where we seemingly have a large number of published and successful authors. They're a very welcoming and generous community, willing to teach and guide and mentor the rest of us along our path. I go to workshops and conferences, and there they are: James Dashner, Brandon Mull, Shannon Hale, Ally Condie, and a host of others. They're full of energy and happiness and I always come away having learned something or feeling good about the track I'm on.

Then Frank shows up. And he says, You can't even get a book published, let alone made into a major motion picture. Shannon Hale has an MFA. You'll never be as good as her. You're wasting your time.

So I take a week and wallow in self pity and eat my way through a bag or two of candy corn. Then I meet up with another great author like Ken Baker who says to me, "Yeah, it's a tough business. You have to love writing. But you can do it. Don't give up."

So you know what? Frank can just shut the **&%* up. He doesn't know what he's talking about,  anyway. He's a miserable wretch of a thing who is only satisfied when I'm unhappy. I'm not giving him the satisfaction. At least not today.

After John's speech, I thanked him for the inspiration and told him Frank says hello to Debra.

His reply: "And they can both go to hell."

My Inner Eight-Year-Old

Dan and I recently returned from a Mediterranean cruise with the Larsens and the Emerys. It was magical, you guys; amazing sites, perfect weather, delicious European food, and funny, funny friends.

Remember getting the Weekly Reader at school? That was always one of my favorite days -- it was right up there with Tostada Day in the cafeteria. I learned all kinds of cool stuff in the Weekly Reader. When I was in third grade, I read about the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I loved the picture of its many arches. I loved that it leaned. The article said that one day, the tower would fall. I decided right then and there that I needed to see it before it came crumbling down. Fortunately, I recently learned that the ground beneath the tower had been reinforced, so that it would continue to lean for generations of third graders yet to come.

Last Thursday, on our way back to the ship from Florence, our guide detoured us over to Pisa. You'll be happy to know the tower is located around the corner from Ikea, if you're ever in the area.

The adult me took a bunch of pictures:

The eight-year-old me ran up and touched the wall. Then she bought this statue for 2 Euros.

Back To School (Waaaay Back)

I don't think anything marks the passing of time quite like the first day of school. New grade, new teacher, new clothes... and new lunchboxes.

When I was a kid, this was my lunchbox:

I mean, how cool is that? When I did an image search for it, I found out that this baby is worth about $150 bucks on ebay. Coulda woulda shoulda.

And now the theme song is playing in your head, right? Go ahead. Admit it.

Anyway...when I was in the second grade, there was this boy in my class named Jamie. Kind of like The Boy Named Sue, he was mean. He teased me and called me names. So one day, I'm walking home, carrying my METAL Happy Days lunch box in my right hand because it was too big to fit in my red book bag. Jamie is following me down the street, saying horrible things to me (as horrible as a 7-year-old can be). I told him to leave me alone, but he kept pestering me. Finally, I swung around with my lunch box and decked him a good one. Gave him a bloody nose and everything.

Jamie put his cupped hands to his nose, ran home crying, and yelled, "I'M GONNA CALL THE COPS ON YOU!"

I ran home and kept an eye out the window, waiting for a patrol car to show up. Of course, it never did, and Jamie never bothered me after that.

And that's how THE FONZ saved me from a bully.

The Blue Angels

My 11-year-old has been telling me for years that he would love to go see the Blue Angels in person. "It's something I've wanted to do my entire life," he told me.

We've spent a lot of time watching videos of them on YouTube.

Well, they finally made it to a town near us, so we spent my birthday checking off an item from J's bucket list. The look on his face when they made their first Mach 1 pass was the best birthday present I could have received. The feeling in my chest as they roared by was a close second.

I've said before that I believe in hefty amounts of horsepower. Our day with the Blue Angels cranked that up a notch. Or twelve. My words fall painfully short to describe the feeling I had as they streaked across the billowy sky that day, but J now has my permission to join the Navy if he so chooses.

 

 

 

Mission Accomplished.

Cindy 4.1

As my birthday approaches this week, I figure it's a good time to write down my beliefs and philosophies as I see the world.

Cindy 4.1:

I believe life is good. It's complex and difficult and beautiful. I believe each of us is here for a reason; otherwise, why would life be so complex and difficult and beautiful?

I believe in kindness. Small acts or grand gestures -- the result is the same. I believe most of society's ills could be smoothed over with even a small measure of kindness, performed by people who go about quietly, unnoticed by cameras or reporters or bloggers or anyone else, for that matter.

I believe there is great power in silence. It helps me recharge and find solace from an otherwise noisy world. I believe it is powerful to be silent when others expect me to shout and react with fire.

I believe in laughter. It's the most important part of a rigorous health plan.

I believe in God. I believe I am his child. I believe He loves me. I believe in developing a relationship with Him.

I believe in having fun. I believe in hefty amounts of horsepower and driving really fast. I believe everyone should ride in a sailboat at least once in their lives.

I believe that chapstick and sunglasses are among life's essentials.

If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, then I believe the way to a woman's heart is through the kitchen. Clean that place up!

I believe there will be food in Heaven.

I believe in working hard for what you want, and even for things that don't seem as important. They might be important to somebody else.

I believe in daydreaming and having dreams and working to make those dreams come true. I believe The Secret Life of Walter Mitty is like looking at the inside of my own brain.

I believe it's important to continually learn new things. Fuel your curiosity. Take things apart. Read books on every subject and observe the world around you. Then, take what you learn and use it to make your corner of the world a better place; especially if it's right within the walls of your own home.

Yes, I believe life is good; but I also believe it is up to me to make it so.

Odd Jobs, Odd Memories

Babysitter
Paper Girl
Peer Tutor
Jewelry Store Clerk
JC Penney Clerk
Waitress
Truck Stop Attendant
Preschool Teacher
NASA Intern
Elementary School Teacher
Floral Designer
Automotive Journalist
Freelance Writer


Once, while interning with NASA, I got to have lunch with David Levy, who was half of the team that discovered the Levy-Schumaker comet, which crashed into Jupiter. We ate hot dogs.

Once, while working at a truck stop, I met THE Tony Roma.

Once, when I was a paper girl, a guy in a Jeep clipped the rear tire of my bicycle and I went flying over the handlebars and crash-landed right into my dad's insurance agent's mailbox.

Once, while on assignment as a freelance writer, I got to meet LaVell Edwards, who called me "Cutie" and winked at me. He asked me if I was any good at golf and I asked him if he was any good at football.

Once, as an automotive journalist, I got to go off-roading in a Toyota FJ Cruiser along the San Andreas Fault.

Once, when I worked at JC Penney, there was this guy who always talked about going to Med School. It took me several weeks to figure out he was actually talking about Mexico.

Once, while waiting tables at our local Sizzler, a guy tried to set me up with his son. The son was also sitting at the table and turned four shades of crimson.

Isn't gainful employment awesome?

Swimming

Oh. Hi there. After a long break from blogging, I've decided it's time to get back at it.

It's summertime, and summertime makes me think of swimming.

When I was a kid, our back yard swimming pool made me feel rich. We were poor as dirt, but hey, it was Arizona, so pools were pretty common. Especially when I was younger, say 8 or 9, I lived in my little TG&Y swimsuit. I stayed out in the pool long after everybody else was too tired or hot from the 110+ degree weather. In fact, this was my favorite time in the pool because I was transformed into a movie star. I would perform magical, musical water revues in the style of Esther Williams. I barely had the ability to do a front flip off of our stiff little diving board, but I was a bathing beauty. I would twirl beneath the surface, enveloped in millions of tiny, sparkly bubbles. When I surfaced, I would kick my legs high into the air and smile at my adoring fans, which were nothing more than the slats in our wooden fence. I glided across the water like a graceful mermaid and splashed little droplets of water so they glittered like diamonds.

Yeah. I was so cool.

And Now the Holidays Are Here

Hey. I've learned an important life lesson here recently, so listen up! There is nothing, and I mean nothing like spending 6 weeks in and out of doctors' offices, medical clinics, and hospitals to make you feel like a wretched, horrible, incompetent excuse for a mother.

I speak from experience.

I really love dislike hate sitting in that tiny little room on a hard chair, that you KNOW is covered in germs and upon which some kid probably puked at some point, while your under-sized, malnourished child sits on butcher paper in an exam gown. The best part is when the doctor asks you questions, to which you can only stare blankly because you have no idea what the answer is. I mean, YOU'RE the doctor. Why do you think we're here? If I could answer these questions myself, I would be down at Menchie's having frozen yogurt. 

What are his bowel habits? (Side note: doctors love to talk about poop).
How would I know? I haven't looked at his poop since I potty trained this kid.

Does he use his inhalers every day?
He needs inhalers? And he needs more than one?

Did you know he has extreme tenderness at all the insertion points of his tendons and ligaments?
Actually, I did know that, thanks to our AT-HOME MRI scanner.

He needs to eat more.
Duh.

As of today, we have made it almost an entire week without any illness whatsoever from the 10-year-old. THIS is a major milestone, because it's been about two months since he first got sick. The list of ailments, -itises, and -osises is long. And he has a mild case of asthma. Who knew? Certainly not THIS mother.

The good news is, after every medical visit, we walked away with a stack of papers telling us how to whip this kid back into shape. So, you know, I finally have an owner's manual.

Beyond spending practically every minute either taking care of a sick child, juggling doctor's appointments, or fighting strep throat myself, I have also had clients to juggle, articles to write, a conference to plan, the rest of my family to take care of, and a house to maintain; most of which happened while my husband was out of town. Doesn't that remind you of the line from The Princess Bride? "I've got my country's 500th anniversary to plan, my wedding to prepare for, my wife to murder, and Gilder to blame for it. I'm swamped."

And then Count Rueger says, "Get some rest. If you haven't got your health, you haven't got anything."

I love that movie. Needless to say, I'm swamped. There is something to be said for stress. At the beginning of November, I bought tickets to take my daughter to a performance of The Forgotten Carols. I remembered that fact the morning after we were supposed to go. So yes, my batteries are drained. So if you haven't heard from me in a while, it's because I'm recharging. The holidays are here and I have to be want to be pleasant. So I'm going to get some rest now, because if I I haven't got my health, I haven't got anything.

Tuesday With Malcolm

On FaceBook, I've been participating in the 30 Days of Thanks. It's kind of fun for me to think of something I'm grateful for each day and then share it with my friends. I should probably do it more often.

Last night, I got a much-needed night out. Dan and I took a drive down the canyon to Salt Lake City, where we met up with Chris and Kim. Just as I was backing the car into the parking stall, I looked over and noticed some friends of ours also parking their car. We all had tickets to go listen to Malcolm Gladwell speak at Abravanel Hall. So the six of us went out for some delicious authentic Italian pizza. If I could remember the name of the place, I would tell you. But it was so good that I will definitely be going back and I'll remember the name of the place then. My pizza had kalamata olives, artichoke hearts, and prosciutto on it. THAT I remember.

After dinner, we all walked over to Abravanel. Fortunately for us, we were able to cut through the convention center and stay warm! We went to pick up our tickets at Will Call, and while we waited in line, Ann Romney and her son got in line next to us. She looked right at me and smiled. How cool is that?

Malcolm Gladwell is one of my favorite non-fiction authors. I think he's on that list for a lot of people. It was so intriguing to listen to him speak. He told the story of larger-than-life (though only 4'11") Alva Vanderbilt, a wealthy New York socialite who ended up being a major figure in the women's suffrage movement. He used words like opulent and festooned and dictatorial and goldenrod. Don't you just love words? Gladwell is the best at weaving a true story into something of grandeur. 

At the end, he talked a little about his new book, and mentioned that the last two chapters are about faith. "The miracle for me," he said, "was that in writing this book, I found my faith again." He went on: "I was raised in a Christian home, and I strayed from it. And in writing this book, I realized I was missing out on something." There was a palpable silence in the hall. He mentioned the story of a woman who was able to forgive a man who raped and murdered her daughter. "I think faith allows people to do extraordinary things they would otherwise not be capable of."

And so today, I am thankful for faith. Yes, it allows me, an ordinary person, to do things I would not otherwise be capable of. It allows me to look and see and feel and stretch and reach beyond myself. It guides many of my decisions; especially the important ones in life. It comforts me when I'm feeling lost and confused. It offers me reassurance that there is something bigger, more knowledgeable, more powerful than I can begin to imagine, guiding me along, ensuring that the right people and blessings cross my path just when I need it. And something I've learned: faith is like a muscle. The more you exercise it, the stronger it gets.

Malcolm Gladwell said that at Alva Vanderbilt's funeral, her casket was carried by 20 female pall bearers. Three songs were sung, the last of which was written by Alva, herself. I don't remember the exact words, but being a feminist, they spoke of how no man, not St. Peter himself, would have a say as to whether or not she got into Heaven. Instead, the angels would herald her arrival by shouting, "Here comes a Daughter of The King."

Faith tells me I am a daughter of The King. And THAT is extraodinary.

I Am a Grumpy Old Man

My dear friend Martha e-mailed me the other day and said she is entering her curmudgeon years. She is taking the anti-drug slogan from our childhood and just saying "no" to anyone in her path. I think it has less to do with being a curmudgeon and more to do with being a bit wiser than we were twenty years ago.

I, on the other hand, am a grumpy old man. I have a sick kid - sick without answers - and it is making me grumpy. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make him all better. Instead, I boil beneath the surface when the doctor says everything is normal. You can take one look at him and see that he is most definitely NOT normal.

Also, the wind has been howling since last night and I want to howl right back. Instead, I stare out the window with a hot cup of tea and mourn the loss of each red leaf as it shakes and then falls from the pear tree out front. Everyone keeps talking about this beautiful fall weather we're having. If you have to wear socks, the weather ain't beautiful.

I think I am going to take a cue from Martha and just say "no." No to winter. No to sickness. No to doctors.

Hawaii, anyone?

Who Says Customer Service is Dead?

Yesterday, the husband and I stopped by our local hardware store for some weatherstripping. This place is pretty cool. It's really old rustic inside and they sell just about everything you can imagine. It's like a modern-day general store. If you're lucky and show up at the right time, one of the owners will spew a wealth of knowledge about whatever it is you're looking for. If you're not so lucky, one of the high school kids will help you.

We got one of the high school kids.

He took us to the weatherstripping aisle, where as you might guess, you can find every type of weatherstripping known to man. I picked up a package that looked like it might fit our needs. We discussed it for a minute and then Dan asked our "helper" a question. After a long pause, he said, "What? Sorry, I zoned out there for a minute."

Perhaps we'll have better luck next time.