The Munster Family

Rain, Rain Go Away

2009-06-16T13:33:00.000-07:00

It's raining. Again. And the forecast is for rain all week. Is it just me, or is this the wettest, rainiest summer ever? Blurg.

Photographic Interference

2009-06-12T14:01:00.000-07:00

Is it bad that I just wanted a picture of Annie last Sunday morning? Apparently Henry thought so, because he was fighting tooth and nail to be in every picture I took:

Trying...

... still trying...

...getting closer...

Success!

Wily Coyote

2009-05-26T12:00:00.000-07:00

Conversation at Dinner:

Henry: I want Sprite.

Me: You have to eat everything on your plate first. (For the record, the contents of said plate included 4 pieces of shredded cheese and 3 chocolate teddy grahams).

Henry (whining): But I want Sprite.

Me: You may have Sprite when your plate is empty.

(Henry picks up his plate and heads for the garbage can)

Me: No, Henry, that food has to be eaten.

Henry (looking pleadingly at Bubba): Do you want to eat this?

Bubba: No, Henry. You have to eat it.

Henry: I want Sprite!

Bubba: You can have Sprite when your plate is empty.

(Henry dumps the contents of the plate on to the floor).

Bubba: Henry, pick up that food.

Henry: No!

Bubba: I don't want to see that food on the floor.

(Henry picks up his blanket and covers the food with it.)

Henry (innocently): Can I have Sprite now?

Seriously so blessed....

2009-05-12T09:48:00.000-07:00

We were lucky to have Annie baby's blessing while we were in Utah. Pictured are the men who stood in the circle: my brother Scott (aka mic-holder), my Dad, Bubs, my father-in-law Lyle, and brother-in-law Geoffrey. Bubba gave a beautiful blessing. Annie wore the same blessing dress that I and all of my sisters and my niece Cara were blessed in. Ohh.....

We work hard for our money

2009-04-21T08:23:00.000-07:00

Don't lie to me. You've all had this conversation with your spouse before. You know the one, the one that attempts to determine which of you has the harder job. On Sunday morning as we were preparing for church, Bubba and I had this conversation for the umpteenth time. I had bathed myself, Henry, and Annie, had done the breakfast dishes (which included the remains of the tuna fish sandwich Henry requested), prepared the diaper bag for church, and was nursing Annie when Bubba came home from his morning meeting and wondered why we weren't ready to go. A perfect scenario for another round of the "who has it worse off" game. Bubba said something interesting this time - I kid you not - he actually suggested that we sit down and try to quantify which of us actually works more hours each week.

So, in preparation for this meeting, I've been trying to determine how, exactly, to convert our respective tasks into a common unit for comparison. Would changing 5 dirty diapers be the equivalent of writing 1 brief? Does controlling a temper tantrum in public equal the taking of one deposition? What about loading 2 children into car seats, then into the grocery store, then maintaining possession of said children whilst frantically filling cart with foodstuffs, then loading kids back in the car (this time with 47 bags of groceries), then carrying the whole lot up a flight of stairs? What unit of work, my dear Bubba, is that equal to?

Of course, it's not really possible to determine who has the hardest job, because there are so many unquantifiable aspects to each of our roles. And even if we could determine which role is more difficult, what really would be the point? I suppose this conversation arises because we both want to feel validated, we both want our efforts to be recognized, we each want the other to acknowledge that we both do difficult and trying things each day.

I think that constantly bemoaning all the hard things I do as a mother is the wrong way to go about parenthood. When I look back on my childhood, I don't remember my mom complaining about how hard her lot was. I remember her pretending to be a beautician when she curled my hair in the morning, and making rice krispie treats and chocolate chip cookies for my sack lunch, and cheerfully working in the garden.

It reminds me of a quote I love from The Painted Veil: "Remember that it is nothing to do your duty, that it is demanded of you and is no more meritorious than to wash your hands when they are dirty; the only thing that counts is the love of duty; when love and duty are one, then grace is in you and you will enjoy a happiness which passes all understanding."

So next Sunday when Henry requests a tuna fish sandwich for breakfast and I struggle to find a skirt that I can fit into, I hope instead of tallying up the hours of work I will just smile and love it.

Life with Annie

2009-04-05T10:13:00.000-07:00

Anne Lauren Karras was born March 1. She weighed 7lbs 2 oz and was 19 1/2 inches long. She is the sweetest little baby imaginable. She has made the transition from 1 to 2 children very easy for me. Even still, having a new-born is definitely draining! I feel like my mind is running very slowly... I am still negotiating life with 2 and trying to figure out what my new "normal" will be. More pictures of the babe:

1 Day Old
1 Week Old

2 Weeks Old

4 Weeks Old

Pretty in Pink

2009-03-28T09:18:00.001-07:00

I know... it's been awhile. Blogging has been a low priority... But, here is a picture I took of Annie today. The dress she is wearing was a hand-made gift from my Aunt Ione. Annie is such a sweet baby and is doing well. More to follow...

Henry Said

2009-02-27T14:45:00.000-08:00

Men and women have different styles of conversing, to be sure, but

toddlers take the difference to a whole other level. Henry has said some funny things this week. Among them:

-Bubba and I were talking about potty training. Henry was listening, and said eagerly, "I want to go on the potty train!"

-Henry has been a little obsessed with the movie Wall-E. So I guess it wasn't surprising that, when we dropped Bubba off at work and Bubba told Henry to "Be nice to mommy," Henry responded with ,"Be nice to Wall-E."

-Yesterday Henry volunteered to say the blessing for breakfast. It was hard to make out exactly what he was praying for, although I did hear the phrases "astronauts in space" and "Lightening McQueen on the road."

He said, She said

2009-02-25T09:19:00.000-08:00

From The Dangerous Book for Boys comes some apt advice for boys in regards to talking to girls: "Remember that girls are as nervous around you as you are around them, if you can imagine such a thing. They think and act rather differently to you, but without them life would be one long football locker room."

Bubba and I got over conversational nervousness a long time ago - but we still do think and act rather differently from each other. And sometimes, I think that Bubba forgets that when talking to me, he's not in the locker room, and I forget that I'm not in the midst of playing "Girl Talk" with my friends. Take, for example, our recent exchanges:

He says: I read a really interesting Paul Krugman article today.

She says: The baby has been kicking like crazy.

He says: I'd like to learn more about Keynsian economics.

She says: I wonder if we should buy a new bouncy chair for the baby.

He says: I'm curious to see how effective the economic stimulus plan will be.

She says: I'm hungry.

He says: I can't believe you don't care about the economic crisis!

She says: I can't believe you don't care about the baby!

For me, my pregnancy is the most important, pressing issue in my life right now, and so naturally it's what I want to talk about. For Bubba, the state of the economy is the most important, pressing issue in the whole world right now, and so naturally it's what he wants to talk about. And I know it's a generalization, but it does seem that women want to talk about internal, personal issues and men want to talk about external, impersonal issues. And that's not all bad. In fact, it's probably a good thing. We can help balance each other out, so instead of being stuck on opposite ends of the internal/external spectrum, we both end up somewhere closer to the middle.

Still, sometimes it's hard to get the conversational teeter-totter to balance. Take, for example, the game of 20 questions Bubba and I played on a trip to Des Moines. Neither one of us were able to guess the correct answer in 20 questions - even though we both hinted that it was something "really easy and obvious." And in hindsight, both answers were. And what were these really easy and obvious answers? Bubba's - the stimulus bill. Mine - an umbilical cord.

I don't know what is located between the football locker room and a rousing game of "Girl Talk," but if you do, let us know. I think if Bubba and I could meet there, we could have a really good conversation.

If only...

2009-02-13T06:44:00.001-08:00

Driving Bubba to work yesterday, I passed this White Castle, and suddenly, I knew exactly what I want to do for Valentines Day. Is White Castle classy? You bet. Romantic? Not a doubt. I just hope they still have a table left...

Sorry, Geoff, hope this doesn't make you jealous. I guess this year you and Traci will just have to settle for Woody's again.

Motherhood Induced Schizophrenia

2009-02-04T07:40:00.000-08:00

In the form of novelist Stephenie Meyer, about two things I am absolutely certain: I desperately don't want to be pregnant anymore. And I'm absolutely terrified to have another baby. I'm starting to find that motherhood is producing these diametrically opposed feelings more and more often. One moment I am blissfully dreaming about how sweet it will be to have a little baby girl, and the next I am panicked about how I will balance Henry's demands to play cars, the baby's demands to be fed, and my demands to shower and sleep. (Note: Bubba's demands are definitely an afterthought).

Motherhood may be unique in its ability to fracture a seemingly normal woman into Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I've definitely experienced ups and downs in other realms of my life - but the ups and downs of marriage or work are nothing compared to the rollercoaster ride of motherhood. I can go from entirely loving motherhood (watching Henry's pure joy in pushing a shopping cart), to completely loathing it (watching in pure terror as Henry knocks down a grocery store display), and back to entirely loving it again (watching Henry's sweet face as he apologizes) - all in the course of one shopping trip. Similar scenarios are played and replayed several times a day.

I suppose one reason for the conflicting feelings that motherhood produces is that motherhood itself has inherent contrasts. I am at once a guardian of a child of God and a janitor responsible for dirty diapers, clothes, and bodies. I am at once the vessel of a new life and lumbering, large, and awkward. I endure both temper tantrums and endless hugs; I experience both drudgery and boundless wonder; I feel the greatest frustration and the deepest love.

I am hoping that my pregnancy has amplified my swinging moods. Henry has definitely noticed my strange behaviour and, seeking a barometer of my moods, will often tentatively ask, "Mommy happy?" He asked this the other day when, in an attempt to take a much needed rest, I foolishly supplied him with a cookie sheet full of flour for him to use to play with his toy diggers. I congratulated myself on my ingenuity as I lay down on the bed, and Henry was busily distracted for nearly half an hour. When I went to check on him in the kitchen, I found that it is certainly not a wise idea to leave a 2 year old alone with a small mountain of flour. Henry noticed my crestfallen face as I observed the disaster in the kitchen and asked, quietly, "Mommy happy?"

My answer to that question now is certainly different then it was at the time, but as I think of my little Henry, his incredibly beautiful face and his boundless curiosity and energy, I'd have to say that yes, Henry, Mommy's happy. A little crazy, but happy.

Book Report

2009-01-29T12:27:00.000-08:00

I am always looking for a good book to read. My friend Stacy and I were talking about this the other night, and promised to share our recommendations with each other. So Stacy, this post was inspired by you. Here are some books I've really enjoyed reading:

The Good Earth by Pearl Buck

A wonderful classic that I sadly hadn't heard of until it made it on Oprah's book club. Thanks, Oprah. The tale of Wang Lung and O-lan trying to make a life in pre-industrial China was so engaging and so moving.

Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton

Okay, is this another Oprah book? Maybe. A beautiful story of forgiveness and redemption. If you didn't have to read it in high school, read it now.

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer

An unusual, powerful story about a boy learning to cope after he loses his father in the 9-11 attacks.

The World is Flat by Thomas Friedman

Non-fiction. I struggle with non-fiction, but I found this discussion about how technology is making the world smaller very interesting.

Wild Swans by Jung Chang

More non-fiction. But one of those books that proves that real life is stranger (and more horrific) than fiction. An autobiography of sorts of 3 generations of women living in China.

In the Time of the Butterflies by Julia Alvarez

A historical fiction based on the lives of the Mirabel sisters who participated in an underground plot to overthrow the Dominican Republic's dictator.

The Street by Ann Petry

A powerful, engaging but ultimately tragic story about a single black woman raising a son during the 1940s. I heard about this book on NPR, and I think it is one of the best books I have ever read. The story is compelling, heart-wrenching, powerful.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith

This book is a nice contrast to The Street - it is also about an impoverished family trying to survive, but is more hopeful and optimistic.

Life of Pi by Yann Matel

A story about a boy stranded on a life-boat with a tiger, and also a story about faith, God, and religion.

My Antonia by Willa Cather

The story of several immigrant families who move to rural Nebraska to start new lives for themselves. Kind of like Little House on the Prairie for grown-ups.

Okay, that's my list. What's yours?

Then and Now

2009-01-24T13:13:00.000-08:00

Me, approx. 10 weeks pregnant

Me, today, approx 35 weeks pregnant

What a difference 25 weeks can make!

Bird Imitations and Other Non-Sequiturs

2009-01-18T13:36:00.000-08:00

Every now and then, my dad will respond to something by saying, "That's it? Bird Imitations?" For a long time this response completely bewildered me, but, not wanting to be rude, I would just smile and nod. Finally, I learned that this baffling response was actually the punch line to a joke my dad knows, and that, in the context of the joke, it is used to express an underwhelmed attitude toward something rather extraordinary.

My dad is not alone in making references to outside material in everyday conversation. I've noticed that I do it a lot. Most of these references are to movie or television lines, and it is always delightful when an opportunity to fit one of these lines into conversation arises. Bubba and I have several lines we frequently use. Among our favorites: "That's why he's the judge and I'm the law talking guy", "You'll make a fine little helper, what's your name?", "It's already won the Pulitzer Prize, and it hasn't even been pooblished", "That just happened", "60 percent of the time, it works everytime", "Your mom goes to college", "Milk was a bad choice", "He's proud of his town."

If you recognize any of these lines, I bet you're smiling right now. If you don't recognize these lines, you're probably bored out of your mind. And that's the danger in incorporating an outside reference in everyday conversation - context is important. If your audience doesn't understand the context of the line you're quoting, confusion is inevitable.

This is why, on a trip to the grocery store with my in-laws, it wasn't wise of me to use the tag line from a Tostitos commercial when we were discussing where to meet up. For whatever reason, the situation prompted me to throw out the slogan "Meet you at the Tostitos," even though I had no intention of converging in the chip aisle. When Bubba suggested we head to the chip aisle after we had purchased our groceries, I knew I had violated a cardinal rule of quoting a line in a conversation.

The moral of this post: quote carefully, and know your audience.

That being said, what are some of your favorite lines?

Beyond Elementary

2009-01-11T15:04:00.000-08:00

Who would have thought that having a college degree could come in handy as a stay-at-home mom? This week I've been grateful to have some knowledge of subjects way beyond an elementary school level. For example...

CIVICS - This subject helped me identify Henry's incorrect response to the question :"What will you do when your baby sister comes?" Among his answers were: A) Kiss her , B) Hold her, C) Push her down . Obviously, "C" was the incorrect answer. Now if only I can convince Henry of that...

NUTRITION AND FOOD SCIENCE - This subject helped me prepare a diet for Henry that resembles the Food Pyramid formerly found on the back of cereal boxes. Lets see... I think all of the groups are covered - Crunch Berries, Wheat Thins, and Ritz Bits. Finish it all off with an Oreo Cookie and Henry's good health is basically guaranteed.

LITERARY THEORY - This subject allowed me to save minutes of time when Henry selected a very wordy book from the library. My impressive knowledge of literary structure and form allowed me to reduce 3 paragraphs to a mere one sentence without compromising the content of the text.

Reasoning and Rational Decision Making - This subject allowed me to extricate Henry from the toy aisle of Target by reasonably explaining to him that we did not need to add another toy to the mountain he received at Christmas. This reasoning clearly worked, as we were able to exit the store that day. Unfortunately, said exit was preceded by a wild chase down the aisles, severe crying, and me balancing Henry precariously on my pregnant belly while also navigating the shopping cart.

GEOMETRY - This subject came in handy when, after a quick trip to the basement to do the laundry, I arrived at our apartment door to find that Henry had decided to lock the deadbolt. My re entrance to our apartment was much aided by repeated requests for Henry to look for the "top circle" and to turn the "line." After several minutes of these geometric commands, the line was finally turned and Henry and I enjoyed a sweet reunion. Just for the record, it was found that hysterical yelling and kicking of the door were ineffective methods for re entrance.

I don't know. After this week, I'm beginning to think I may need an advanced degree.

On second thought....

2009-01-09T12:04:00.001-08:00

Now that my blog is private, I was really, really tempted to post a picture of Bubba that is a little scandalous... but my conscience got the best of me. And no, Chelsea, Bubba is not a never-nude. But I wouldn't mind seeing him in a pair of really short jean cut-offs, like these:

Privitizing

2009-01-06T13:11:00.000-08:00

So...we all knew this day would come. Or not. But, I have decided to make my blog private. This decision was reached primarily for 2 reasons: 1) I have mild concerns about on-line predators. Although, if I do have an on-line lurker, s/he probably accounts for 1 of the 3 readers of this blog. 2) I really, really want to post more pictures like this, expect with less clothing:

So... if I have your email, expect an invitation. If I don't have your email address and you'd like an invitation, please email me at kimkarras@hotmail.com or leave your email in the comments. Thanks!

Imagination ran away with a spoon

2009-01-03T06:41:00.000-08:00

This morning Henry, who has recently taken occupancy in our bed at night, woke us up by excitedly asking, "What's that spoon doing?". Bleary eyed, I asked him, "What spoon?" "That funny spoon," he said, "lets catch him." Further questioning brought forth even more bizarre comments from Henry, such as "spoon has legs and feet" and "spoon going out the window." I think he knew we were beginning to understand him when we asked about the dish and the cow jumping over the moon. "Lets get that cow," he said. We opted for reading him nursery rhymes from "My First Mother Goose" instead.

The Best Part of Waking Up...

2008-12-09T12:40:00.000-08:00

... was getting to drive through Gary to drop Bubba off at a continuing education seminar. If you haven't visited the city lately, you must put it on your list of things to do soon. It's quite lovely this time of year. It's not everyday you get to drive through the birthplace of Michael Jackson, admiring the abandoned buildings, and desperately hoping your car doesn't break down. I can't wait to do it again this afternoon. Fingers crossed, we make it home without incident or bodily harm...

Henry's Rendition of a Holiday Classic

2008-12-05T20:15:00.000-08:00

Thank-full

2008-11-27T06:08:00.000-08:00

One Thanksgiving morning my cousins and I engaged in a debate over the importance of eating breakfast. I had slept over at my cousin Connie's house, and, as our central preoccupation involved the quantity of food we would be able to consume at the afternoon feast, we were concerned with how eating breakfast would impact our ability to gorge ourselves later. It was determined that, contrary to our gut feeling, eating breakfast would actually enable us to eat more of our Thanksgiving dinner, because the morning meal would stretch our stomachs. Fasting would only hinder our gestational goals.

Remembering this debate, I am struck by how, as children, we approached Thanksgiving with the sole goal of becoming full. How we approached the day with the will and desire to feast on the things that were offered us. As an adult, my approach to Thanksgiving has changed. Achieving fullness takes a back seat to food preparation, calorie counting, and making polite conversation with company.

I'm glad that Thanksgiving is more than just a day to consume vast quantities of food. But still, I wonder if there aren't lessons to learn from my childhood approach to the day. Lessons like deprivation only promotes deprivation. Lessons like viewing the table set before you as abundant and enough to satisfy. Lessons like the only way to achieve fullness is to partake of the things that are offered to you here, now, today.

The difference between feast and famine is so often perception. The bounty of our table is so easily diminished when we focus our gaze on our neighbor's spread or await in vain the more elegant entrees that will be served next year. The difference between living an empty or a full life depends less on what our life contains and more on our attitude toward and about those things.

My table is so full. And I hope to approach it in the same eager way my childhood self approached the Thanksgiving table. So I'll loosen my belt, take an extra helping of mashed potatoes, and squeeze in that third piece of pumpkin pie. But first, I've got to eat breakfast...

Happy Thanksgiving!

Week in Review

2008-11-08T19:17:00.000-08:00

On Halloween, Henry absolutely refused to wear his costume. This was about the closest we got to having him wear it - and he cried and screamed for the whole 30 seconds it was on. He didn't let not donning a costume stop him from trick-or-treating though. The basic concept of receiving free candy from complete strangers really appealed to Henry.

After trick-or-treating, we headed over to an Obama rally held at a nearby park (sorry, Dad). Although you can't tell, the man at the podium next to the white rectangular teleprompter really is Obama.

This is Henry and I at the rally. Henry is definitely not looking too excited to be there. In fact, as we were driving to the park, we told Henry we were going to see Barack Obama and he said, "No, John McCain!"

This is how I found Henry at 6 a.m. this morning. I could hear him dragging the chair around and knew he was up to something. This is a new move he's figured out - I've had to start hiding the candy and Oreos on the top shelf of our pantry.

This is where I found Henry at 11 am this morning. I think the time change has really thrown him off, because he has refused to nap all week. I think the lack of sleep must have finally caught up with him - I don't think he moved from this position for over 2 hours.

One of these things is not like the other (?) (!)

2008-11-05T20:32:00.000-08:00

Recently I heard a poem on NPR written by Elizabeth Bishop that I really liked. I checked out her anthology at the library and had Bubba read the poem as well, convinced that he too would like it. To my dismay, he not only disliked it, he strongly disliked it. He thought it was the most depressing, awful thing he had ever read. This awful poem, titled "Breakfast Song", reads:

My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue.
I kiss your funny face,
your coffee-flavored mouth.
Last night I slept with you.
Today I love you so
how can I bear to go
(as soon I must, I know)
to bed with ugly death
in that cold, filthy place,
to sleep there without you,
without the easy breath
and nightlong, limblong warmth
I've grown accustomed to?
—Nobody wants to die;
tell me it is a lie!
But no, I know it's true.
It's just the common case;
there's nothing one can do.
My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue
early and instant blue.

Okay. I'll give him that it may be depressing. But the funny thing is, he recently purchased a song on iTunes that seems strangely similar in tone to this poem. The lyrics, in part, are:

She says "If I leave before you, darling
Don't you waste me in the ground"
I lay smiling like our sleeping children
One of us will die inside these arms
Eyes wide open, naked as we came
One will spread our ashes round the yard

My question is: is there a material difference between these two? Is it reasonable for Bubba to despise one and cling to the other?

And, more importantly, who do you think is right?

Our Halloween Costumes

2008-10-26T14:41:00.000-07:00

More things that make you go hmmm....

2008-10-23T14:01:00.000-07:00

Riding on cars with boys - Yesterday after I dropped Bubba off at work, I was driving down Hohman Avenue (a fairly busy thoroughfare), and noticed that there was a woman sitting on the hood of the car driving next to me! The sight of a woman nonchalantly perched upon the hood of a moving car made my think, "what the?," and then I immediately called Bubba to have someone to share my incredulity with.

Goose on the Loose - I don't know if geese lawn ornaments are endemic to Northwest Indiana, but I certainly don't recall ever seeing so many of these lovely home accents anywhere else. My favorite part is that people actually dress these ceramic geese when the weather turns cold - take, for example, this specimen decked out in witch hat and cape. I'll know I'm really turning into a Hoosier when I purchase one of these geese for our own doorstep.

Free? Credit Report.com - Who would have guessed that checking your credit report on freecreditreport.com isn't really free? Okay, probably most people. Maybe the company's catchy jingle lulled me into stupidity and forced me to skip over the small print, but I swear when I checked both mine and Bubba's credit reports on the site I didn't see anything about enrolling in a $14.99 per month credit protection program. So, our free credit reports ended up costing $30 and a very annoying phone call to cancel our membership in the program. Stupid misleading jingle.

Mixed-up Marquee - The message on the marquee for Munster Christian Reformed church has me all confused. It reads: "Christ will turn you life "upside down" - displayed upside down. Does this baffle anyone else? I do not think the sign means what they think it means. To me, the phrase "upside down" connotes catastrophe - as in, "our finances are upside down," or "the divorce turned her life upside down." I think the better phrase to use here would be "rightside up." Unless, of course, I'm missing something. Maybe I'll have to attend the service to find out...

Let me see your toilet roll - Why is Henry completely fascinated with throwing things into the toilet? The other day I went in the bathroom to find this - a brand new roll of toilet paper soaking in the toilet. I swear the thing weighed 10 pounds and had absorbed about 2/3s of the the water. It wasn't as bad as the day I went in to see him dipping Bubba's toothbrush into the bowl and then brushing his teeth. Yuck! Now that's something that really makes me go hmmm.....

2008-10-19T06:14:00.000-07:00

It's a girl!

Fast, Furious, and Frustrated

2008-10-14T13:12:00.000-07:00

If the question "Play cars?" doesn't fill you with a sense of impending dread, then you've probably never been the parent of a two-year old boy. Like many boys before him, Henry has recently developed an obsession of sorts with playing cars. I categorize his affinity for the activity as an obsession because his requests to play cars are insistent, persistent, and resistant to the suggestion of any other activity. I have been awaken in the morning more times than I care to count by Henry thrusting a matchbox car into my hand and pleading "play cars?"

So, how does one "play cars", you ask? The activity sounds harmless enough. Normally all it involves is sitting next to Henry, holding the car he selects for you, and scooting the car around the ground. Henry is quite deft in detecting the difference between when I am just sitting there and when I am indeed moving the car around. If I disengage for only a moment, he'll instantly notice and demand "play cars!"

For me, playing cars is like watching a sporting event: I enter a sort of time-warp where the minutes pass slower than I thought humanly possible. I tell myself, "yes, I can play cars for 20 minutes with Henry," and after engaging in the activity for what seems like hours, I look at the clock and only 5 minutes have passed.

Despite how boring I find playing cars, I really think it is good for Henry. It seems to be an activity that exercises his imaginative and verbal skills. He talks a lot when we're playing cars. He'll say funny things like "Hey car, what you doing?", or exclaim "Oh no, my wheels hurt!" when a car turns over. Playing cars is definitely better for Henry than just sitting on the couch watching the tube all day.

If only I could convince myself it's good for me, too.

If it sounds too good to be true...

2008-10-08T16:20:00.001-07:00

I just received a call from a very polite gentleman informing me that I'd won a $1000 gift card.
He informed me that I was eligible for the prize because I have either a Mastercard, Visa, Discover, or American Express card. All I had to do was confirm which of the cards I carry and verify the card number....

I have a feeling I'm really going to enjoy spending that $1000....

The Art of Complaining

2008-09-17T07:25:00.000-07:00

If practice makes perfect, then I should be a near perfect complainer. I do a lot of complaining. This occurred to me when I ended yet another call to my sister Traci with the now tired expression, "Next time I won't complain the whole time." Poor Traci hears a lot of my complaints; including, but not limited to, complaints about the laundry, dishes, grocery shopping, meal preparation, making the bed, vacuuming, dusting, cleaning the toilet, dusting, the price of gas, the price of milk, dirty diapers, health insurance, dental insurance, everything Bubba does that annoys me, everything Henry does that annoys me, everything that I do that annoys myself, acne, bad hair days, pregnancy symptoms, wardrobe issues, needing new towels and dishes and everything, student loan debt, credit card debt, church callings, carpool duties, working from home, the weather. I could go on. And I have.

Poor Traci bears the brunt of most of this ceaseless complaining. And it's not just the fact that she is a blood relative and keeps answering my calls that makes her the poor recipient of my tirades. It's the fact that Traci is a good complainer, too. Correct that. Traci is a good enabler for a complainer. When it comes to complaining, she knows the rules of engagement.

When I complain to Traci, she knows to avoid the following:

Inequitable complaints - Example: I complain about my tight budget, and you in turn complain about how money is so tight you can only afford to remodel your kitchen and buy a new car, but can't afford the winter cruise to the Caribbean.

Failure to reciprocate - Example: I complain about how my husband never helps out around the house, and you in turn praise your husband who does all the laundry, cooks the meals, and cleans the bathrooms.

Disproportionate display of pity - Example: I complain about how hard life is, and you in turn pile heaps of sympathy on me for leading such a downer of a life.

Traci is great at commiserating - she listens to me and complains too, reminding me that life sometimes is just hard for everyone, and I always feel better after I talk to her. But still, I really should try to cut back on the complaints. After all, I have so much more to not complain about. And those complaints that I have probably won't be helped much by continually harping on them. As Jeffrey Holland said, "No misfortune is so bad that whining about it won't make it worse."

But until I can stop complaining, I'm afraid Traci will still have to hear most of it. It's her fault for being such a great listener.

In Orwell's 1984, Winston Smith concludes that "Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood."

Luckily with Traci, I get both.

Yachats

2008-09-04T14:18:00.000-07:00

This Labor Day weekend we enjoyed a little slice of heaven in Yachats, Oregon. Bubba's mom discovered the place several years ago, and they have been vacationing there ever since. From the pictures below, you can see why. It is absolutely breathtaking!

Bubba and Henry in front of the mighty Pacific.

Marilyn, Bubba, and Henry on board a ship

Henry telling the beach what's what

Beautiful

Heceta Head Lighthouse

Views from a tidal pool

Signs of Life

2008-08-24T18:22:00.000-07:00

My stomach felt firm today. It felt almost the way a pregnant abdomen should - tight and round and swollen. It's not the way my stomach has felt for weeks - soft and squishy, like the Pillsbury Doughboy's. It seems I noticed the softening almost immediately - the pregnancy test came back positive, and then my stomach went soft. I guess you could say that was the first sign of life.

The difficult thing about the first trimester of pregnancy is the absence of signs of life. The uncertainty that, yes, you are harboring a life within you. Sure, I've had food aversions and nausea and extreme fatigue. I've experienced the bouts of absent mindedness they say accompany pregnancy - I locked myself out of the apartment and left my wallet at Target on the same day. Surely these are signs of something, but life? They seem more to be indicators of my imminent and sure demise.

Nausea and fatigue and food aversions aren't enough. I want more certainty. And so at my pre-natal appointment, as the doctor runs the monitor across my abdomen, I silently, urgently plead: "detect a heartbeat, detect a heartbeat." And for a moment there is nothing, and the doctor mumbles something about sometimes not detecting a heartbeat until the 12th week, and then, there it is, the rhythmic whooshing of the Doppler, providing audible waves of relief. "It's a good, strong heartbeat," the doctor declares, and I like the sound of it so much I repeat it in my mind. A good strong heartbeat. There's an almost certainty in the detection of a good, strong heartbeat.

As a pregnancy progresses, the signs of life increase. I've already begun my nightly treks to the bathroom. At night I am surprisingly alert, and I find myself remembering my first pregnancy - living in a studio apartment in London, padding and then later lumbering down the glaringly bright hall to the community toilet. The toilet was in a room no bigger than a small closet - and the window was always open, leaving the seat cold against my thighs. And then back to our room, with the blue drapes that covered the window at the head of the bed, drapes that provided surprising insulation from the cold London nights and the ceaseless drone of ambulance sirens. I, with hands on the insulated incubator that was my stomach, would wait patiently for a sign of life, and then...

Movement. Such a curious, alien, wonderful sensation, to feel your baby move inside you. Such a certain, positive sign of life.

And so I wait now for those next signs of life, accepting my expanding waistline as assurance that the life within me is indeed still there. Even still, every now and then I find myself drumming my fingers against the tabletop, ta-tum, ta-tum, ta-tum, mimicking the rhythm detected by the Doppler, hoping that that heartbeat remains as constant and steady as my own.

The Secret to My Success

2008-08-15T13:02:00.001-07:00

A friend passed on a good cleaning tip, and I've decided to pass it on to all of you because it is AMAZING. To remove carpet stains, dilute 2-3 tablespoons of liquid Tide laundry detergent in warm water, and scrub. I tried this today in our living room, and it worked so well I ended up scrubbing almost the whole carpet. The room looks so much better. It's such an economical, effective cleaning tool - it makes me happy. Try it.

To Have Read

2008-08-11T18:31:00.001-07:00

I didn't want to like it. I don't know why, exactly, but I considered myself immune to its appeal. I was one sucker who wouldn't be sucked in by a teen-vampire romance. But, the truth is, I finally read Twilight, and I liked it. A lot.

My sister Traci described Twilight as literary junk food, and I think she's right. You know how it is when you pop the lid to the Pringles canister or tear into a package of Oreos - you can't stop eating them, those empty-calorie, high-sodium, trans-fantaculous, utterly irresistible treats. That's what reading Twilight was like - once I cracked open the spine of the paperback book, I couldn't put it down. I brushed aside the book I was currently reading - The Post-American World - a real meat and potatoes kind of book - and feasted my eyes on something far less nourishing but infinitely more enjoyable.

I think I've been too hard on Stephenie Meyer. The truth is, Twilight won't win the Pulitzer Prize, but still, it takes a lot of talent to create a compelling story. In fact, it's been a long time since I've read a book that I didn't want to put down. It's been a week since I finished Twilight, and I'm only on page 105 of the aforementioned Post-American World. I think I was on page 75 when my task was interrupted by Twilight. Sorry, Fareed Zakaria. The decline of America's dominance as a superpower just isn't as compelling as Bella and Edward's love life.

I may not finish The Post-American World. I've heard there are a few more chronicles in this vampire series, and you know how it is with junk food: once you pop, you can't stop.

Summer Storm

2008-08-07T14:34:00.001-07:00

Monday night the greater Chicago area (that includes little old Munster) was hit by a severe wind and thunder storm. Having grown up in the deserts of Utah, I have been impressed by the sheer amount of water a Midwest storm can produce. This storm was particularly damaging. Fortunately, the only damage we sustained was almost 3 days without Internet, cable, or telephone service. As you can see from the pictures below, others in our neighborhood weren't so lucky:

Mixed Signals

2008-07-08T17:42:00.000-07:00

The front left blinker on our car isn't working. I don't know how long it's been broken, but I suspect it occurred around the time the rodents attacked our electrical wires. Because the day I picked up our car from the mechanic and turned the blinker to signal left, the clicking sound was going double time.

I realized the blinker wasn't working last week when I was turning left at a four way stop. My blinker was clicking at double time, and it was my turn to go, but the woman in the car across from me gave me a nasty look when I turned. So I inspected the blinker and, sure enough, it's not blinking.

Since I've discovered this defect, I've become a paranoid left-hand turner. Sometimes I try to compensate for the defect by rolling down my window and signaling my intention to turn by hand, like this:

Only, when I signal by hand, I'm not on a bike, and my arm is not so straight and direct. Actually, I'm pretty embarrassed about signaling by hand, an embarrassment which leads me to only roll the window half way down, and to weakly thrust my arm out of the window. This sorry attempt at signaling left doesn't seem to be working.

It's funny, because before, when I didn't know that my left front blinker was broken, I had a lot more confidence when turning. I was blissfully unaware of the fact that my double-time blinker wasn't really signaling anything to anybody. It's a discovery of sorts to find out that the message you were trying to broadcast isn't being sent at all. And it's made me think about other signals we send each other, not when driving, but when communicating, and how at times they can be terribly misread.

For example, when I first moved to London, I became friends with two women in my ward. All three of us confided in each other that we were hoping to become pregnant soon. Shortly after, the first woman announced her pregnancy, and shortly after that I announced mine. But the third woman remained announcement-free. As the months and the pregnancies progressed, I noticed that this third woman seemed a little withdrawn. As me and the other woman happily discussed our pregnancies, her face looked sour and pained. I read her behaviour as evidence that she was saddened that she too was not pregnant. So I avoided talking to her about anything baby-related.

And then, months later, she confessed to us that she was pregnant, almost four months along, but hadn't said anything because she had had some complications and was worried that the pregnancy was not viable. And suddenly, I had to rewrite history and correctly decipher all those signals she had given over the past few months.

There is an older gentleman who lives in the building next to ours who is usually very friendly to us. Lately he has started commenting that he thinks Henry needs more room to run around. I usually smile and concur with this statement. Then, a few weeks ago, he asked me quite bluntly if it isn't time we bought a house yet. I smiled and said nothing, instead of asking him in return if it wasn't time he minded his own business. To put the final nail in the coffin, a few days ago he actually stopped us and told us that he had found a house for rent a few streets over, and strongly urged us to consider renting it.

What is this man trying to signal to us? It is very possible that he is just trying to be kind and helpful. But I have a hard time not interpreting these messages as intrusive and rude. Why does he seem so intent to drive us out of our apartment? Are we annoying neighbors? Or is he sincerely concerned about our welfare? I don't know.

I guess people, like cars, sometimes have faulty wiring. It's not always possible to determine what, exactly, they are trying to signal. All those nasty looks that were cast my way when I thought my left blinker was indicating my intention to turn were cast in vain. Because I DID think I was signaling left. So I guess I should give my neighbor the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he's trying to signal left and doesn't know the wiring's disconnected.

The 3 Most Offensive Words in the English Language

2008-07-02T14:23:00.000-07:00

The conversation Bubba and I had this morning while I drove him to work reminded me of something my sister Traci had told me about the 3 most offensive words in the English language. She had taken some sort of psychology or sociology course in college, and her professor had actually spoken these 3 offensive words in class. And I was reminded of them today, because (although Bubba may protest), we were both in kind of foul, early-morning, grumpy moods, and because we used all 3 words in our communication with each other this morning.

So... prepare yourselves. Because I'm about to recreate part or our morning dialogue, and it might get a little offensive.

Here goes:

Bubba: (As I am slow to notice the traffic signal's change from red to green) "You ALWAYS are slow to go after the light changes."

Bubba: (As I ask him for his American Express card, because I reported all of my cards lost or stolen last week, because my wallet(which was quickly recovered), could not be located for a few minutes) "You SHOULD have waited before you cancelled all of your cards."

Me: (Feeling unjustly harassed) "You NEVER say anything nice to me!"

What? You're surprised? You were expecting some profanity? You see, the 3 most offensive words, according to my sister's college professor at least, aren't what you would expect at all. If you really want to excite your partner, if you really want to escalate an argument, skip the swears. "Always," "never," and "should" will do the trick.

Think about it. How many times have you almost flown off the handle because your partner says you should lose some weight? Or you should keep the house clean. Or you never clear the dinner table. Or you're always late picking him up from work. Or you should be making more money. Or you never help with the baby. Or, etc, etc, etc.

I think the reason these words are so offensive is because they immediately cause the receiver to go on the defensive. None of us is consistent enough to always or never do something. So I always am slow to go after the light turns green? What about that time last month that I ran the red light? Huh? How bout it? That time I was so fast, I didn't even wait for the signal to turn.

And none of us like to be told what we should do. Because, the truth is, we probably know it without being told.

The funny thing is, these 3 words don't have to be the most offensive. They could just as easily be used to mollify a situation, to show concern and sympathy. When's the last time you told your husband that he's been working so hard, he should just kick up his feet and watch t.v? When's the last time you heard that you always look beautiful? Or were told that you have never cooked a bad meal?

I'm still not completely sold on the idea that should, never, and always are the most offensive words around. But, it might be useful to avoid using these words as much as you might avoid using other profane words. Because if used too often in the wrong way, they might be more damaging than those other 4 letter words.

Henry's 2nd Birthday

2008-06-25T12:51:00.000-07:00

Daddy's House?

2008-06-16T12:55:00.000-07:00

Today when I dropped Bubba off at work, Henry pointed at his office building and said, "Daddy's house." Not sure that we heard him correctly, we asked him what he said. "Daddy's house," he replied again. "No," we explained, "that's Daddy's office. Daddy's work." But as Bubba stepped out of the car he said it again. "Daddy's house." We laughed, but it was the kind of laughter you usually reserve for news that is depressingly true, like finding out you've gained 80 pounds during your pregnancy or that the rate for your insurance policy has increased 25% because of that accident you were in last month. Something that you know but don't know until someone points it out to you with startling clarity.

H-Man

2008-06-12T11:18:00.000-07:00

"Nakee" in his toy basket

Coloring with friends Ian and Easton

Relaxing

Playing at the beach with his favorite toy, his digger

Again, with the digger, and my sad attempt to compensate for not having a sandbox

Found on our Answering Machine from May 2004

2008-06-08T14:56:00.000-07:00

This weekend, Bubba and I found an old telephone we used to use that has an answering machine on it. We plugged it in and found we had several saved messages on the phone, all left in May of 2004. These are the last messages before we moved out of our Highland Drive apartment before leaving for Notre Dame. Listening to the messages was like finding a slice of our lives preserved in time. We were mostly surprised to find that we used to have friends that called us! Below are some of the transcribed messages. They probably won't amuse you unless you were one of the callers. The message from Bubba's brother Jeremy we found particularly amusing (a note of historical context: Bubba's uncle Nolan was running for governor at the time).

-This message is for Michael Karras. This is Reyes - R- e -y -e- s - Aguilar - A -g- u -i- l-a-r - from the University of Utah. If you could please, return my call.

-Hi Bub, this is Seth (Thorup), just calling you back, or um, calling you from your email, if you could just call me at work or at home or reply to my email.

-Hey Bubba and Kim, I'm Patrick (Moyes). This is my new phone number, and perhaps you could call it back if you want to. Okay, bye.

-Hi ,Kim this is Emily Elsmore, aka Emily Bishop. How you doing? Calling because we want to play basically, on Friday, Kim, Kim Garrett, who was Gillespie, and Rachel, we're gonna get together and do something, so give me a call when you can .

-Hello Michael Karras, this is Ryan (Andrus), just calling, I had a couple of questions for you. Heard you got accepted to Notre Dame. Just give me a call back when you have a second. Thank you Michael.

-Mr. Baggins, this is Barry. Hey, uh, just wondering if your plans have changed or remained the same concerning work, just want to talk about timing and that sort of thing. Call me back and we'll figure it out.

-Hi Bubba this is Gary at Guitar Czar, I've got your guitar ready to go. Okay.

- Bubba, call your mother.

-Hi, this is Deanna at Stichin' Station, this message is for Kim. Just calling to remind you about the Afghan Knitting class on Thursday at 6:30. Thanks. (this was during my crossword and knitting phase).

-Hi you guys, it's Stace (Heaps). Just checkin in and and seeing what's going on in your lives. So call us when you have time. Bye.

-Oh, hi guys. This is Emily (Christensen) and we just miss you guys a ton. And I'm just getting even and calling you cause I want to talk to you but I'll call you this week. We're just dying to know what you guys decided and where you're going. I'll just try to call you sometime. Sorry I missed you, kay, we love you. Bye.

-Hello Kimita, this is Jamie (Eldredge). I'm just calling, I, um, there's an Invitational Track Meet tomorrow and I'm um calling to see if you guys could go. If you take the buses it's gonna take till 7 to get home and I don't want to stay till 7, so if you could give me a ride home or something that would be great. It's at East High - so call me so I know what I'm gonna do. Love you, bye.

-Hi Bubba, Risa wants you to do something, and me (Jeremy)too, yeah. Uh, but um, you know they have this poll on the Provo Herald Web page, it's Hark the Herald .com, it's just like, you know, in the bible - (to Risa) is that the bible? -um, just kidding, just get on there and it has a poll for governor and for some reason this poll Nolan's doing really crappy, he's doing really well on other ones but not this one so, but what you can do is when you go to the University of Utah , there at the library, there's all those computers, crank through 25, 30 computers, whatever you can , get in that many votes, but uh, Risa wants you to be sly about it, I don't think too many people will notice what you're doing, so that can be your small contribution to the campaign. But, uh, anyway, and if you want to, give us a call and say hello.

-Hey Kim, it's your mother, I'm just wondering if you needed that book. I have it, so call me. Bye.

-Bubba Karras, we're (Bubba's dad) looking for campaign workers at the campaign office on 4th south. Saturday from 2 till, I forget what it is, 6 or something like that. You'd just be making phone calls and handing it over, they're gonna have Rob Bishop there, who's a legislature, and Enid Greene and Norm Bangeter and Nolan talk to the people. They want people to dial for them. So, and also do some other campaign things like put stickers on stuff. So if you can make it down they'll make a party of it.

Things that make you go hmmm....

2008-05-27T12:06:00.000-07:00

Carpeted Kitchens - Why was carpet ever considered an acceptable flooring option for a kitchen? It's one of those interior design ideas where form trumps function - only the form stinks. The only condition I can imagine where a carpeted kitchen would be a good idea is ... okay, I can't think of one. It is never a good idea - especially when you reside with a toddler who finds crunching crackers into the floor an immensely pleasurable activity.
The only thing worse than a carpeted kitchen is a carpeted bathroom - and believe me, I'd know since we've had the privilege of living in apartments with both. (For more evidence of the ills of carpet, read http://janelwilliams.blogspot.com/2008/05/who-put-carpet-in-bathroom.html).

Gas Prices - What's worse than paying $3.89 for a gallon of gas? Paying $4.09 for a gallon of gas. Last Tuesday, the price of gas at the gas station we patronize jumped 20 cents in one day. Who did kill that electric car?

Two-piece bathing suits - I hold nothing against two-piece swimsuits - especially my own body. Which is why I can't understand why every single swim suit I saw at Target was a 2 piece. Am I the only seeker of swimwear who doesn't want to expose her abdomen? Does no one else have something to hide? Give me some other options, please.

America Runs on Dunkin - Dunkin Donuts' slogan puzzles me. It seems such an obvious misstatement. Perhaps I am taking it too literally, but does America really run on Dunkin? I would think "waddle" seems a more appropriate verb. Or "saunters", "meanders", or "slouches. " When I eat a donut, it makes me feel like taking up residence on my couch and drowning in the bluish glow of the television. The last thing it makes me want to do is run.

Diaper Genies - Whatever marketing exec came up with the name "Diaper Genie" must have done something right, because you would be hard pressed to find any other diaper pail on the market. But still, Diaper Genie? Really? Aren't genies the magical creatures that appear when a lamp is rubbed three times? For those of you who haven't had the honor of housing a Diaper Genie in your home, I'll let you in on a little secret - this is one container that you don't want to rub. There's something in that diaper pail, but it ain't no genie.

The Kindness of Strangers

2008-05-20T09:21:00.000-07:00

Having a new-born is perhaps the closest most women will ever come to being a celebrity. When you enter a room with an infant in arms, it is usually to the accompaniment of a chorus of "oohs" and "aahs". Shoppers at the grocery store kindly smile as you navigate the cart with baby aboard down the aisles. At the airport,you get to board the plane first; on the bus, fellow passengers readily offer you their seats. At restaurants or shopping malls you become accustomed to receiving adoring compliments from passing patrons. You know the compliments are directed at the baby, but you relish in them as if they were intended for you. The kindness of strangers is overwhelming, abundant, and extremely gratifying.

I was recently at Navy Pier with my family. Henry was tired of being confined by the stroller, and so we let him out to stretch his legs. He immediately took off, racing past the shops and restaurants, and I dutifully pursued him. As I captured him in my arms, I noticed a young couple watching the scene. Expecting the kind remarks I usually receive from strangers,I wondered what compliment they might offer me. Perhaps they would remark on Henry's astonishing speed. Or maybe they would comment on the adorable way his long, blond hair fell across his beautiful face. As they approached me, I eagerly awaited their praise, only to become crestfallen when the man smiled and said, "Now that's good birth-control."

What has happened to the kindness I have come to expect from strangers? I have begun to notice a change in tone in the way people respond to me and my toddler. At the grocery store, shoppers' smiles are increasingly replaced by looks of sympathy, or worse, unsolicited advice, as I struggle to contain Henry, and our groceries, in the shopping cart. The last time I boarded a plane, I noticed many of the passengers look down as I proceeded down the aisle, uttering urgent prayers that we were not their assigned row-mates. At the library, as Henry races about removing books from shelves, I can sense the librarians perceive him as at best an annoyance and at worst a threat.

My brief-lived near-celebrity status is coming to an end. As a mother of a toddler, I am more often viewed with the pity that one has for Brittany after her custody battle or Lindsay after rehab.Of course, the kindness of strangers has'nt disappeared completely, although its intensity has become somewhat diluted. It is the frequency, not the quality, of the compliments that has changed. As Henry becomes a full-fledged toddler, he can be more adorable than he ever was as a new-born: he can give big bear-hugs, laugh and smile, and even attempt to say "I love you." But with these new developments also comes kicking, biting, and full-on temper tantrums.

As far as I'm concerned, these difficulties are a small price to pay as I watch Henry's personality emerge and develop. But with the terrible twos fast approaching, I'm aware they'll more likely be heralded by the dissonant symphony of kicking and screaming than the adoring "oohs" and "aahs" from strangers.

You Might Be a Red Neck If...

2008-05-14T05:41:00.000-07:00

...your son's favorite toy is a disembodied stuffed bear called Little Bear. You can't decide whether to be amused or disturbed by the fact that Little Bear has to turn the pages when a book is read, eat at the dinner table, and take walks with the family.

... your mechanic tells you that the reason your car's "check engine" light is on is because some kind of rodent has chewed through all the electrical wires. This accounts for the several hours you invest searching "rodent prevention" on the internet and wandering the "Pest Control" aisle at the local hardware store.

...your abysmal lack of computer skills leads you to pack your non-functioning computer in a laundry basket and drop it off at the Easy Tech at Staples. You manage to leave the technician suspecting that you are a complete idiot as you attempt to explain the error in language that is anything but technical. Suspicion of idiocy is confirmed when the technician calls to say that there is absolutely nothing wrong with said computer.

...you are disappointed to find that the $600 per person/ $300 per child tax rebate doesn't actually apply to you because, the adjusted income amount on your 2007 tax return was too small. You end up receiving only 2/3s of what you expected, leaving you feeling hurt and afraid.

I am increasingly becoming aware that we belong to that demographic of poor, white, hardworking Americans that make up the core of Hillary Clinton's base.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.

The Budget Inn

2008-04-23T13:30:00.000-07:00

Henry enjoying the Budget's pool

The Budget Inn is an embarrassingly accurate name for a hotel. I would know, because the Budget Inn in St. George, Utah is the hotel my family has been staying at for years. The funny thing is, the hotel is pretty nice, as far as economy hotels go. It has an indoor and outdoor pool, a playground, and a mini-fridge and microwave in suite. Budget nothing.

Last week I joined my family for a little vacation in St. George. We all enjoyed some good joking at Budget's expense. There is something inherently hilarious about a name as honest as The Budget Inn. Like, when Traci's father-in-law asked her if our parents had a place in St. George, and she had to reply that no, but they had a room at The Budget Inn. Or when we ran into a friend at McDonalds, and, declining to state the name of where we were staying, instead motioned vaguely across the street.

We encountered another example of a brutally honest name when we ate at The Cheesecake Factory in Las Vegas. My sister ordered their Weight Management Salad. Must they call it the Weight Management Salad? It's specific, sure, but it also conveys too much information. Like the clothing store aptly called Big and Tall. Surely there are gentler, more euphemistic options.

I don't know what's worse: honest names or ironic ones. There seems to be a hint of sadism in the persistent trend to give trailer parks uncommonly luxurious names, like Country Club Estates. It's all good and well to tell people you live in the Country Club Estates, until they come over for dinner.

Bubba recently accidentally signed up for a discount entertainment card called Big Fun. He was making an on-line purchase and realized afterward that he had also enrolled in a program which gives minimal discounts at restaurants where we never eat for a monthly membership fee of $10. It was anything but big fun trying to cancel our membership, as the number listed on the back of the membership card had very limited customer service hours. We still keep receiving checks in the mail from Big Fun, with a nearly invisible disclaimer stating that, if cashed, we will be re-enrolled in the program.

It is not fun to deal with Big Fun, nor is it fun to tell the waitress you'll have a weight management salad. When Romeo exclaimed that a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet, he may have been right. The Budget Inn by any other name would still cost as cheap. But a name change may spare its guests from bouts of mild embarrassment.

The Catapult

2008-04-09T10:19:00.000-07:00

"Much madness is divinest sense, to a discerning eye", and so begins a poem by Emily Dickinson in which she illustrates the fine line that exists between sanity and lunacy. Certainly many brilliant ideas initially sounded like the product of an unsound mind: antibiotics, flight, the inter-web, the entire family of Ronco devices. Bubba has an idea of his own that has led to an on-going debate between us over which side of the sanity line it falls. His idea? The Catapult.

The Catapult was originally conceived among Bubba's friends (ie, the Clann) in high school. The concept is a little blurry and changes over the years, but the basic gist is a Clann owned restaurant/hang out that would cater to the college crowd and serve specialty donuts and hot chocolate (preferably Steven's Gourmet Hot Cocoa). A catapult would in someway be central to this dining institution, whether by design (the building would be in a shape of a catapult), by function (customers would receive their order via catapult), or some other yet to be imagined way.

Bubba is especially fascinated with the concept of food service via catapult. When I have, quite sanely, pointed out that this method of food distribution would be disastrous, he's suggested that other creative methods could also be considered. Alternative solutions include, but are not limited to, service of food by conveyor belt or the implementation of tube-technology similar to that of drive-through banking.

To whom does the discerning eye belong? I have always claimed to possess it, arguing that establishing a restaurant based on a novel means of food distribution is doomed to fail. But the opening of an "automated" restaurant in Germany may force me to forgo my claim. The restaurant, called Bagger's, is described as "automated" because it doesn't employ any servers. Instead, customers order their meals on table-top touch screens. Their orders are then moved from the upstairs kitchen to their tables via gravity operated ramps. Below is a picture of the joint, and I have to say, it looks pretty cool.

Maybe Bubba was right. Maybe one day the Clann will run a successful hip hang-out. Then I'll not only have to eat food served via catapult, I'll have to eat my words, too.

This American Life.

2008-04-02T11:02:00.000-07:00

I must confess, I have become a little bit addicted to the radio show This American Life. Our friends Jenny and Matt urged us to listen to it several times, but Bubba and I thought to ourselves, "A radio show?"

Yes, a radio show. It is so good that I can seldom get through without laughing, crying, or both. I could go on, but instead I'll direct you to Jenny's blog post about the show: http://jennyselsewhere.blogspot.com/2007/09/this-americans-life.html. This post finally motivated me to listen to the show, and I have been listening to archived programs non-stop ever since. You can also visit the show's website at http://www.thisamericanlife.org/.

If you've never listened to the program, turn off the t.v. one night this week and try it out. I promise you will be entertained.

Stop talking and listen to yourself!

2008-03-27T15:38:00.000-07:00

Henry, being 21 months old, isn't the best communicator. His vocabulary at the moment is pretty much limited to mama, dada, bubba, and animal sounds (he does a great snake). Recently, Bubba and I have grown frustrated with his attempts to tell us what he wants. Over the past week or so he's picked up the habit of saying "dis, dis" whenever we ask him what he wants.

To us "dis, dis" is meaningless. "Use words" we plead. "Talk to us, Henry." "Don't say 'dis.'"

And then, today, it suddenly hit me. I knew what "dis" meant. To demonstrate how I arrived at this epiphany, let me share a typical "conversation" between Henry and us, his parents.

Henry: Dis, dis.

Us: Do you want this? (picking up a package of crackers). Do you want this? (picking up his blanket). Do you want this? (picking up a book).

Henry: Dis, dis.

Us (frantic): Don't say dis. What do you want? Use words! Do you want this? (frantically pick up whatever remaining item is within arm's reach). Do you want this? (repeated again, exasperatedly).

Henry (pointing): Dis.

Sometimes it's instructive to shut-up and listen to yourself talk. Instead of pleading with Henry to "use words", I should have been using words. Words like blanket, crackers, book. How can I expect him to distinguish among these items when I use the same word to describe them all?

I recently listened to an episode of This American Life where a father, suspecting his son is doing drugs, decides to tap the phone. The father records dozens of his son's phone calls, which confirm his suspicions to be true. When the son discovers his father has learned of his drug use, he fears the punishment. He is surprised when all his father requires of him is to listen to all of the taped phone conversations. And, oddly enough, that's all it takes to change the son's behaviour. He said that listening to himself on the recorded conversations made him embarrassed - he hadn't realized how stupid he was being - and he changed.

Conventional wisdom says that the key to being a good conversationalist is to be a good listener. We usually assume that this means listening to the other person involved in the conversation. We seldom think about listening to ourselves, to what we are saying and how we are saying it. It's not such a bad idea to stop talking and listen to what you're saying. You may find you have something to teach yourself.

The Problem with Selflessness

2008-03-14T19:43:00.000-07:00

We've all at one time or another, when feeling down and depressed, received the advice to do something for someone else in order to feel better. It's a conundrum really: to find happiness for ourselves, we must lose ourselves in the service of others. The equation selflessness = happiness appears to be circular instead of linear. I'm being selfless precisely because I want to be happy. Isn't that the very definiton of selfishness?

Is it possible to perform a purely selfless act? Can we do something for another without receiving a benefit ourselves? Can we do anything selfless without being selfish?

Let's examine a conventionally perceived selfless act: raising children. People (parents) wax on about the selflessness involved in bearing and rearing their young. If the individual tasks of parenting are broken down and examined individually, parenting begins to look very selfless: changing a diaper, giving a bath,preparing a meal, laundering an outfit. The performance of these tasks in and of themselves does not scream selfishness. Except, in most cases, said parents chose to bring a child into the world because they believed the child would bring fulfillment to them, that having a child would, in short, make the parents happy. One could argue that having children is in fact selfish, narcissistic even, creating a miniaturized version of you to ooh and ahh over, and (hopefully) care for you when you're old.

I suppose I started mulling over this self-ish-less issue tonight because Bubba asked me a question: What would I do if I were the only person on earth? (This is a twist on the "alone on a desert island" scenario, except with access to all material goods and without the hope of being rescued or running into hot, scantily-clad natives). Bubba, of course, had ready answers that involved rummaging through people's homes and learning how to fly an airplane or navigate a boat across the Pacific. But I couldn't think of anything to do, because I was struck by how utterly pointless a life without anyone else would be.

It's hard to imagine acting without self interest. It's equally hard to imagine acting without the interest of other people. Even self-absorbed acts seem oddly dependent on other people. Would you worry about your looks if there was no one to see? Could you run a one-man rat race? Would you be motivated to create - sing, write, paint, dance - for an audience of none?

Alone on the earth, it would be hard to be selfless. There would be no one to lose yourself to. And, I suppose, perhaps no way to really find yourself. Alone on the earth, I fear I would tire of being selfish. For my own self-interest, I would want other people to care for, laugh with, love and serve.

My own self-interest requires the interests of others.

Do you see the problem with that?

Our day at the beach

2008-03-03T07:57:00.000-08:00

What's the best remedy for winter doldrums? A day at the beach seems like a possible antidote. We decided to visit the Indiana Dunes and Lake Michigan on Saturday. It was a balmy 32 degrees, and when we arrived at the lake Bubba and I just laughed. What were we expecting? Warm sandy beaches and clear blue water? I don't know what we were thinking, because instead of a beach we got a frozen tundra. Even still, we wandered the lakeshore and found it had a kind of austere, brilliant beauty.

Winter Doldrums

2008-02-20T07:00:00.000-08:00

The problem with winter is it's cold. And dark. It snows. Your skin gets dry and cracks around your knuckles. Hair darkens. Skin pales.

The problem with winter is you're not on the open road, driving home from a summer vacation. Winter can't produce a memory as palpable as this: suntanned bare feet on the dashboard, Good 'n Plenty and lukewarm Lemon Propel rattling in the console, singing along out loud to James Taylor or Counting Crows or Tom Petty. You gaze out of the insect-splattered windshield while I make tiny Xs over the mosquito bites on my legs. My body is exhausted, but in that good, worn, tired way that only comes from a day spent in the water. There is an irritating tightness on my shoulders from sunburn and the slight indentation of swimsuit straps. The landscape is mountainous and arid and empty, the sky impossibly high and open, and we fill the time with idle games of 20 Questions and I'm Going to Grandmother's House. We've forgotten what the N item on our list is, but are certain of Mongoose and Lima Beans.

We stop at a convenience store as the sky bruises into a purplish darkness. The air smells of gasoline and fried food and is just cool enough to raise goosebumps on bare arms and legs. Our flip-flops smack against the blacktop and make dirty half moons on the store's just mopped tile. Ice cubes thunk and clunk into 64 oz plastic cups and the refrigerated cases buzz and the till bings open and shut. The sounds are familiar and oddly comforting. Restrooms are bravely visited, snacks are selected, and then florescent lights are replaced with headlights on the highway.

We are quiet in the car now, the yellow and white lines of the road in stark contrast to our wandering, scattered, patternless thoughts.

That's the problem with winter: you're not on the open road, driving home from summer vacation, the freedom of your undecided life ahead tempered by the safety of the straight, even road vanishing into the darkening horizon.

Henry Dan

2008-02-19T06:11:00.000-08:00

Looking good after another home-style haircut.

Enjoying a nutritious dinner of powdered sugar and raisins.

Really into the soccer game on T.V.

In heaven in the wagon with all his comfort items: blankie, teddy bears, and yellow tractor.

B***GET

2008-02-09T15:17:00.000-08:00

"Budget" should be a four-letter word. Because when you're talking with your spouse about money and the word "budget" gets thrown out, it feels bad, like getting reprimanded by your 2nd grade teacher for talking during the lesson. When someone says they're on a budget, it's a nice way of saying they don't have any money. A hopeful euphemism that isn't big enough to hide the truth.

As of January we are on a budget. Which is a nice way of saying that the money I didn't realize I was spending on Bubba's halloween costume (Grimace), groceries (luxury fruit smoothies), and preventable emergencies (the locksmith's fee for retrieving the only set of keys from our locked car), is maybe more than is coming in.

We've decided to try having a cash allowance. At the beginning of the week, I retrieve the allotted amount of cash from the bank, and I try to stretch the money out until the next ATM withdrawal. To be honest, at first I thought I would hate this budgeting techinique, but it's actually starting to grow on me. It's made spending money into a game that rewards me for spending less. If we get to the end of the week and have money left over, then we can upgrade from Wendy's to say, Red Robin for dinner.

Plus, spending cash feels more like spending money than using a debit or credit card. If I opt for the generic brand of a product at the grocery store, I'm actually walking out of the store with a dollar more in my pocket. Chi-ching.

Even still, this new money managing method comes with some drawbacks. Like this week, Bubba had exactly 2 Pringles in his sack lunch on Friday because the cupboards were pretty bare. And sometimes the game of spending less than the determined budget amount isn't as fun as other less fiscally restricting activities. I'm already craving carefree shopping sprees at Target, under florescent lights, tossing a knit sweater into the cart, raiding the sale rack in the children's department, perhaps strolling down the frozen foods aisle and spontaneously splurging on a pint of Ben and Jerry's ...

Playtex and the Amazing 18-hour Bra

2008-02-03T07:23:00.000-08:00

Have you seen this commercial? An attractive woman wearing a bra asks "What could you do in 18 hours?", and then, to the beat of some generic background music, proceeds to tell us what she could do in 18 hours. Out of the seemingly infinite number of options, she chooses the following 2 things: 1)go to lunch with her husband...in Milan, or 2)"shake things up a bit." After awing the audience with this array of options, the woman looks directly into the camera and concludes, "In 18 hours, I could do anything."

In interest of full disclosure, neither my physique nor my lifestyle require the support of an 18 hour bra. That being said, I find the logic of the advertisement faulty, if not downright ridiculous. First, there is the incongruent rhetoric of the 2 examples given. The first activity is extremely specific, identifying the who (husband), what (lunch), and where (Milan).The second activity is extremely generic and, consequently, absolutely meaningless. What, exactly, does she plan to shake up, and how? The only thing the two activities seem to have in common is that both would be considerably more interesting without wearing of said bra.

Rhetoric aside, the two activities seem to make a poor argument for the commericial's thesis that a woman, if freed from the restrictions of run-of-the mill brassiers, can do anything. The question must be asked: what activities require a woman to wear a bra for 18 hours? What woman on a typical day is on the go from 6 a.m. to 12 p.m.? An executive? Maybe. A single mother working two jobs? Perhaps. Maybe the female pilot of the plane to Milan? Or the candidate for President on the campaign trail? None of these activities are offered in the advertisement as possible 18-hour fillers . In fact, the thesis of the advertisement (woman can do anything) seems if anything to be jeopardized by the chosen activities. Shaking things up a bit and lunch with hubby seem opposed to the feminist slanted message of woman can do anything.

You may be thinking that I've spent way too much time analyzing a commerical that you've probably never paid any attention to. You would be right. Whenever this advertisement airs, Bubba and I are launched into a long discussion about how absurd the whole thing is. Even when this commerical isn't on, we somehow find ourselves laughing about it. And for that, at least, I am grateful, that this seemingly benign ad has provided unending entertainment for us.

2008-01-28T13:07:00.000-08:00

There is a verse in the Doctrine and Covenants that aptly describes how members of the church gravitated to President Hinckley: "without compulsory means [they] shall flow unto [him]." President Hinckley was so wonderful that it was easy to want to listen to him, it was easy to love and admire and respect him. I am honored to be numbered among those who called him Prophet.

So much depends on time

2008-01-18T20:26:00.000-08:00

There are those precipitous moments in life when timing is everything: the meeting of a spouse, the avoidance of an accident, the miracle of conception. Events where, upon reflection, it would seem that there was an intelligent design in the way occurences unfolded to produce such a felicitious moment. Such events elevate the seemingly trivial details of our lives: missed phone calls, forgotten jackets, and class schedules become key players in our personal narratives. Call it a "Sliding Doors" moment, when the seemingly trivial event of missing or catching a train dramatically changes the course of one's life.

One such "Sliding Doors" moment occured shortly after Bubba and I moved into a new apartment after our second year of marriage. At the time, I was working at an office job and Bubba was going to school and painting apartments part-time. Each day Bubba called his boss to see what apartment complex they would be working on. As we had just moved over the weekend, our phone wasn't set up, and so Bubba came to the office to use the phone. While he was there, he ran into my boss, and struck up a conversation about school and his philosophy degree and possible career paths. My boss was friends with a man who was a lobbyist, and moments later they were on a conference call with his friend, who just happened to immediately need someone to work on a campaign in New Mexico. By the end of the day we were shopping for suits at ZCMI, and by the end of the week Bubba was driving to New Mexico to start a new job.

This was the moment that set Bubba on the path to becoming a lawyer. If we hadn't have moved that particular weekend, he wouldn't have needed to use my office phone on that exact day, and he wouldn't have run into my boss at that moment, and he wouldn't have accepted an immediate job opening in New Mexico, which in turn helped him become a legislative intern, which in turn influenced him to take the LSAT, etc.

Of course, this may all be complete nonsense. You may be reading this thinking, yeah right. And I must admit, it is quite possible that Bubba would have decided to go to law school whether or not this particular event had occured. I mean, what else was he supposed to do with a philosophy degree?

Maybe "Sliding Doors" moments only exist in retrospect. Maybe we create them to organize our personal narratives, to make sense of the random events that take place, to identify the catalyst of a change. By naming the moment that sparked a change, we also allow ourselves to muse on the parrallel lives we might have lived if the moment hadn't happened. If not "X", we wonder, than maybe "Y" or "Z" would have occured. And even if we imagine these alternative lifes to be better or worse than reality, their pretend existences help us identify our feelings about our own life.

Even so, it can't be denied that our lives move through time, and that time, and timing, has an undeniable effect on us. As the poet William Carlos Williams so sparsely penned:

"so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens."

Idol Chatter

2008-01-11T07:52:00.000-08:00

How is a raven like a writing desk? How is the presidential election like American Idol? I don't have the answer to the first question, but I've tried my best to answer the second in the following comparisons:

Hillary (and Bill) Clinton and Terrell (and Darrell) Brittendum

One proposed benefit of voting for Hillary Clinton is it's a 2 for 1 deal - you get Bill, too. The Brittendums operated pretty much the same way. When Terrell (or Darrell) suspected that Darrell (or Terrell), hadn't made it to the next round, he gave an impassioned speech claiming that if his brother was out, he was too. Oops, too bad the brother hadn't really been kicked off. We watched in glee as the other pleaded with the judges to remain on the show. When Hillary was predicted to lose New Hampshire, Bill came to her defense, telling voters he couldn't make her younger and speculating whether they should pull out of the Nevada caucus. Oops, scratch that,she ended up winning New Hampshire. The Brittendum plea was similarly in vain because both soon left the show to deal with charges of fraud and theft. Illegal and sketchy behaviour seems to plague the Clinton camp too.

Ron Paul and Crazy Dave Hoover
When Dave Hoover auditioned for American Idol, he was bare-foot, sang an "original" song, and appeared to be under the influence of drugs. Much to everyone's surprise, he made it through to the Hollywood round. Ron Paul is the Crazy Dave of the presidential election. His ideas are clearly Libertarian, his foreign policy is isolationist and he wants to eliminate Social Security, the Department of Education, and basically every federally sponsored program. He's a contestant in a competition, but it doesn't seem to be the right one. One of these things is definitely not like the others. Still, like Crazy Dave, he has a surprising and loyal following.

John McCain and Chris Daughtry
"Maverick" is an apt adjective for both McCain and Daughtry.

Chris Daughtry wasn't the Idol type - he was a rocker - and

Simon, Paula, and Randy wondered how he'd fare in a pop competition. Still, he was "true to himself", he had musical integrity, he made each song "his own." McCain is the Daughtry in the race for the White House. He's rough around the edges, not as polished as the other candidates, but like Daughtry, he's true to himself, and eager to give anyone who will listen an earful of "straight talk."

Bill Richardson and Lakisha Jones

American Idol tauts itself as a singing competition. And there's one thing you can say about Lakisha Jones: girl can sing. If the competition really were about straight singing, she definitely would have made it further in the contest. In a Democratic race that seems to be between experience and change, you would think Richardson would stand out as the experienced candidate. Hillary's years as First Lady pale in comparison to Richardson's resume: Congressman, Ambassador to the U.N., Secretary of Energy, Governor. But somehow, Richardson's campaign never caught fire. He seems to be like Lakisha Jones, voted out before the final showdown.

Mitt Romney and Katherine McPhee

On paper, Katherine McPhee was a shoo-in for the American Idol title. She's beautiful, has an incredible voice, and great stage presence. Mitt Romney similarly is, on the surface at least, certainly the most presidential of the Republican field. He's smart, good-looking, articulate, and has relevant leadership experience. Still, there is something about both that prevents their audiences from taking the step from admiration to adoration. Both have been attacked for being plastic, insincere, fake. Katherine McPhee was good enough to take second place, and so far Mitt has been too, but it's not certain whether Mitt has what it takes to win the approval of the Republican party.

Fred Thompson and John Stevens

Do you remember John Stevens? He was horrible. When he performed
Elton John's Crocodile Rock, he had less enthusiasm than a dead fish. The best word to describe his performances is lethargic. And still, week after week, he kept progressing to the next round. Fred Thompson similarly is able to generate a lot of buzz despite his lethargic, uninspiring campaign. He seems bored with his own campaign, but for some reason keeps going week after week, the anti-Energizer bunny.

Mike Huckabee and Garet Johnson

When we first met the Littlest Cowboy, he was on his ranch in Wyoming, singing to the turkeys. And it was hard not to love Garet Johnson, with his wide-eyed optimism, cowboy hat, and funny way of talking. His chance of winning the competition was hopeless, but somehow this hopelessness propelled him farther than anyone expected. Mike Huckabee is in the same category, the Little Engine that Could, who somehow has made his lack of funding an asset, his folksy way of talking endearing. Still, as much as we all loved the Littlest Cowboy, none of us were really going to buy his album. When Huckabee began getting more attention, he was similarly loveable, but none of us were really going to vote for him. Only now I'm not so sure that's the case.

Barack Obama and Carrie Underwood or Fantasia Barino

When Fantasia Barino performed "Summertime", it was inspiring. Amazing. Different. That performance ensured her victory of the American Idol contest. However, after winning the title, her career hasn't been as promising as one might have expected. Carrie Underwood, on the other hand, has been the most successful Idol of all. Barack Obama's candidacy is imbued with a certain electricity, and we dare to hope that if elected, he may be one of the most successful presidents of all. But his candidacy is also plagued with uncertainty, and we fear that if elected, he may shrink into mediocrity.

God is not a vending machine

2008-01-07T12:30:00.000-08:00

I recently received an email claiming that if I needed financial assistance, all I had to do was read the attached prayer. The sender claimed that one woman, after saying the prayer, miraculously received enough money to pay off the balance on all her credit cards. I realize that by reproducing the text of the prayer below, I am further propagating something which I despise. But... here it is:

Heavenly Father, most Gracious and Loving God, I pray to you that you abundantly bless my family and me. I know that you recognize that a family is more than just a mother, father, sister, brother, husband and wife, but all who believe and trust in You. GOD, I send up a prayer request for financial blessing for not only the person who sent this to me, but for me and all that I have forwarded this message on to. And that the power of joined prayer by those who believe and trust in you is more powerful than anything! I thank you in advance for your blessings. God, deliver the person reading this right now from debt and debt burdens.

After I read this prayer, I was reminded of a talk I heard in church once titled "God is not a vending machine." I think saying this prayer is like selecting a Twix bar from a vending machine by pushing D4. Except instead of pushing a button you say "deliver me from debt right now!" and instead of getting a candy bar you get a check for $12, 000. I have to admit, at times I think it would be pretty sweet if prayer really did work that way. I think a lot of us could muster up a lot of faith pretty fast. Mustard seed, nothing. I'm talking a whole redwood tree full of faith.

Figuring out how prayer works is hard; and I'm definitely no expert, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't work the vending-machine way. I think it requires more give and take. More listening than demanding. More humility and less pride. I'd like my debt erased as much as the next person, but I don't think it will happen if I follow the email's instructions and say the prayer and forward it to 8 friends. And that doesn't mean I'm not praying for help, because believe me, I am. I believe the Lord will provide, but I have to do my part, too.

Doing my part is hard, and entails trying to stick to a budget, avoid incurring further debt, and limiting eating out to only once a week. On second thought, maybe the sender of the email was on the right track. Don't be surprised if you see an email from me in your inbox with the subject "Financial Assistance Available." You only have to forward it to 8 other people, and the results are virtually guaranteed...

Save the lunch meat, save the world?

2007-11-29T06:06:00.000-08:00

There's no accounting for taste. Bubba, who will happily eat Totino's pizza rolls, Aunt Jemima's frozen breakfast, and Cheese Wiz, adamantly refuses to touch cold lunch meat. So when it comes to packing his lunch each day, I'm left with only 2 sandwich options: peanut butter and jelly or peanut butter and honey.

Who among us haven't at one time subsisted on a steady diet of PB&J sandwiches? Even after I graduated from high school, I still toted the brown bag with said sandwich to work. They're inexpensive, easy to make, and have considerably less calories than a #1 combo from Burger King. I've even perfected the preparation process: after applying a lavish scoop of peanut butter to one slice of bread, I spread a thin film of peanut butter on the other slice to prevent the jelly or honey from saturating through. Works like a charm.

Despite the benefits of the PB&J, I must admit I've grown weary of the sandwich. These days I rarely choose to eat a PB&J for lunch. Which is why I feel more than a little guilt as I prepare Bubba's lunch each morning, knowing he too will soon tire of the sandwich, if he hasn't already. I pose the question "honey or jelly?" energetically, trying to pretend that he really does have a vast array of menu options to choose from and that they are all delicious. I comment on his waistline and the extra dollars in our checking account, hoping to lengthen the time he'll endure packing the brown bag to work.

I recently came across a website that may further aid my cause to keep Bubba eating the PB&J. The PB&J Campaign claims that skipping on lunch meat and eating a PB&J sandwich just may save the planet. How so? you wonder. The site claims that if you have a PB&J instead of a ham sandwich or a hamburger, you save the equivalent of almost 3.5 pounds of greenhouse gas emissions. A PB&J is a plant-based meal, and converting animals into food is so inefficient. Eating a PB&J conserves both water and land. According to the site, the water it takes to produce the beef on one roast beef sandwich could produce peanuts for about 17 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and the land that it takes to produce that beef could produce peanuts for 19 PB&Js.

Could it be that Bubba's aversion to lunch meat stems from his concern about the environment? Will he soon be promoting a green agenda and winning Oscars and Nobel awards? Probably not. But if I can convince him that eating a PB&J not only saves his waistline but the environment too, we might have a few extra greens in our wallet each month.

Smile!

2007-11-24T19:44:00.001-08:00

All weekend, and I mean ALL weekend, Bubba and I have tried to take a picture of Henry to send out on Christmas cards. We have taken well over 60 pictures and NOT ONE has been successful. Henry is much too fast and will not smile on demand. Below are some samples of our poor photography skills.

6 Things You Might Not Know About Me

2007-11-20T11:51:00.000-08:00

I've been "tagged" by Lindsay Ream . I'm supposed to write 6 things people might not know about me and then "tag" 6 other people to do the same. Here goes...

I only had a dishwasher for 9 months of the first 7 years of my marriage. Oh, I forgot, you already know this because I tell EVERYONE about it. I've learned how to state the fact in a way that makes me appear extremely disadvantaged and deprived. As if I'd gone without regular dental care for the past several years. Oh wait, I have. Poor me.

I HATED living in London. It was uncomfortable, dark, and our living conditions were horrible. But, now that we're back in the States, I think about our stay in London all the time - I even dream about being there - and the dreams are always pleasant and lovely.

When it comes to racing, I cave under pressure. If I'm just jogging for exercise, I am really competitive and will try to pass anyone I see. But put me in a race and I have a mental breakdown. I'll often end up running slower than I ever do. This reached it's height when I was running Cross Country at the University of Utah. Please don't Google my name - I'll just
tell you, I did take last in almost every race. Oops.

I was fired from Papa Murphy's. I worked there my Senior year of high school, and was fired for missing work when my family decided to extend a vacation by a few days. How many people can say they've been fired for absenteeism? Okay, probably a lot. I also worked at ZCMI for one day, but walked out on my lunch break because, well, I was assigned to work in the hosiery department. What other explanation do I need?

After Henry was born, I became addicted to make-over shows, specifically What Not to Wear and 10 Years Younger. Was my choice in television genre affected by the fact that my post-partum self desperately needed a make-over? Possibly.

Lionel Richie's "Dancing on the Ceiling" is among the CDs in my music collection. Do I listen to it? Sometimes. Am I ashamed? Yes.

What 6 things may I not know about:

Stacy Heaps

Marci Hansen

Janel Williams

Kimberlee Jensen

Jenny Meese

Denise Avey

You're it! Ready, set, post!

A Dictionary of Terms

2007-11-13T06:09:00.000-08:00

The thing I hated about studying Math in school was you always learned things that made you respond: "When am I ever going to use that in real life?". I liked History and English, because they delved into subjects like love and hate and power and beauty. So I decided to study English in college, only to find myself asking: "When am I ever going to use that in real life?", real life now being the work force. Turns out studying Literature doesn't easily translate into dollars and cents in the real world. Even still, my study of words does inform my real life from time to time. Following is an excerpt from my real-life dictionary.

Hyperbole: Extravagant exaggeration.
Example: A recent headline for a story on MSN: "Every woman's worst nightmare: Cellulite."

Delusion: a persistent false psychotic belief that is maintained despite indisputable evidence to the contrary.
Example: The University of Notre Dame soliciting donations from a recent graduate (Bubba) who still owes said University thousands of dollars in student loans.

Euphemism: The substitution of a mild or less negative word or phrase for a harsh one.
Example: Chase Bank congratulating me for "paying off" my American Express card when I transferred the balance to a new credit card account.

Misnomer: The use of a wrong or inappropriate designation.
Example: Hearing someone say they want "free health insurance" in America like they have in England.

Oxymoron: A combination of contradictory terms or images.
Example: This lovely decorative piece in our neighbor's yard:

Just A Mom

2007-11-06T10:24:00.000-08:00

A few weeks after Henry was born, we attended a bar-b-que with some friends from high school. As we caught up with our friends, one new mother replied that after having her baby, she had quit her job, and was now "just a mom." Another friend immediately reprimanded the new mom, and, after extolling the merits of motherhood, said the answer "just a mom" belittled the role of mother.

Of course, this friend couldn't have answered that she herself was "just a mom", as she not only took care of her two children, but ran a successful home business as well.

Since joining the roster of stay-at-home moms, I've been struck by the ambivalence with which women approach the role. It has been said that "it is the fate of women everywhere to be miserable always", and I think motherhood has much to do with this misery. When it comes to choosing between working or staying home with the children, it's a damned if you don't, damned if you do situation. If a mother decides to work, or must work for economic reasons, she inevitably will feel guilty about time spent away from her children. If a mother decides to stay home, she inevitably will experience isolation, lose additional income, and struggle to feel validated.

There are 2 opposing views of stay-at home moms. The first maintains that stay-at-home moms lead lives of ease, spending days reclining on the sofa while watching soap operas and eating bon-bons. The second maintains that stay-at-home moms lead lives of deprivation, a sleepless, bleary-eyed, unshowered breed of women who spend isolated days changing dirty diapers and subsisting on scraps of toddler food and diet sodas. Speaking from experience, I can say that the job is somewhere in between these two extremes (I have yet to eat said bon-bon).

The level of scorn or sympathy one extends to stay-at -home moms most likely depends on if the individual is a stay-at-home mom herself. On declaring myself a stay-at-home mom, I have received responses that illustrate both views of the position, from "Oh, you're one of those women" to "I wanted to slit my wrists when I started staying home."

Scorn and sympathy aside, sometimes I am hesitant to say I am a stay-at-home mom because I'm afraid the term will define me. Stay at home mom = minivan and Winnie the Pooh diaper bag = boring. I'm afraid that the term doesn't allow for everything that was me before Henry came along. That the sum of me can be distilled into the phrase "just a mom." Maybe we women tend to focus on what we lose when we have a child rather than what we gain. We become so absorbed in mourning our former selves that we fail to fully enjoy our new lives. We forget that the "mother" hat isn't one-size-fits-all. We forget that as much as motherhood defines us, we define motherhood. We forget that life was often difficult and hard and tedious before the baby came along.

So I'll say it, I am a stay-at-home mom. And I'll gladly take all the time I get to spend with Henry. And hopefully when he's grown, I'll find that I've not only retained the things that define who I am, but improved and added to them. I am more than a mother, but I also am more because I'm a mother.

Bubba, rotten tomatoes, and ghouls gone wild

2007-10-31T10:03:00.001-07:00

A few years ago, Bubba stumbled across a web-site that changed our lives. Well, at least our movie-viewing lives. The site was Rotten Tomatoes, a site that compiles reviews of movies from critics across the country and gives it either a "fresh" or "rotten" rating. If more than 60% of the critics gave the movie a positive review, it is considered "fresh"; less than 60%, it is deemed "rotten."

I didn't know it at the time, but Rotten Tomatoes would become the litmus test in determining what movies we will watch. It is our entertainment oracle, if you will, our cinematic crystal ball, a trusted advisor who must be consulted before a movie is viewed. After Bubba became converted to the site, he went to great pains to look up our entire DVD collection to see what percent of our movies met the "fresh" status. He was pleased to find that only 2 were considered rotten: Bedazzled (49%) and Just Married (20%).

Bubba gets a lot of flack from my family about his devotion to Rotten Tomatoes. My dad slyly derides his obsession by refusing to refer to the site by its proper name: it is either Soggy Tomatoes, Rotten Apples, or some other corruption of the title. This mockery has left Bubba unfazed: he is shameless in his promotion and devotion to the web site.

A few Halloweens ago, his devotion was challenged. My mom had purchased a Halloween film for us to watch, a frightening flick called "When Good Ghouls go Bad." Haven't heard of it? Count yourself lucky. This is one of those films that is so bad, it's bad. After the painful viewing process was over, Bubba suggested we look up the movie on Rotten Tomatoes, in an effort to prove once and for all that Rotten Tomatoes would have saved us from this cinematic nightmare. With bated breath we huddled around the computer, waiting for the assuredly "rotten" pronouncement. The result, however, produced an audible gasp from us all: not only did the website consider the movie "fresh", it had received 100% positive reviews.

Bubba was crestfallen. The credibility of his site was destroyed. My family continues to make fun of Rotten Tomatoes. Bubba continues to defend it.

The moral of the story? To borrow from Anchorman (64% on Rotten Tomatoes), when it comes to the infallibility of Rotten Tomatoes: Sixty percent of the time, it works every time. The other 40%, you better trust your instincts. And avoid morally challenged ghouls at all costs.

Henry's Snarl

2007-10-29T07:07:00.002-07:00

Recently, Henry has started to "snarl" at us; he'll scrunch his face together and breathe in and out through his nose really loud. It's a little alarming. Beware, the following pictures may not be suitable for viewers under 8:

The Last Hoop?

2007-10-23T11:09:00.001-07:00

Hoop 1: LSAT
Degree in Philosophy and unremarkable GMAT score prompt Bubba to apply for Law school. Becomes obsessed with preparation for the LSAT. Our conversations revolve entirely around the test and its ramifications.

Hoop 2: Application process
Test results reveal that admission to Law school is both probable and possible. Spend several hundred dollars applying to schools. Believing he is a Rudy-figure, Bubba decides on Notre Dame. We commit the rest of our lives to repaying student loans.

Hoop 3: 1st year
Move to South Bend. Bubba dons black frames to appear academic. Studies. A lot. At work, I endure the embarrassment of wearing unflattering scrubs and being verbally accosted by Richard "Digger" Phelps. Unfamiliar with the "down to earth" Midwestern style, I pride myself on being among the few Walmart shoppers who actually wears a belt.

Hoop 4: 1st Summer Internship
Return to Utah. Car reaches 100,000 mile mark on trip home. Sleep on a semi-truck mattress and share bathroom with Katie. Ruthless arguments over borrowing clothes ensues. Bubba invests in "business casual" attire for his job at the DA, including two pairs of shoes from Payless Shoe Source. The shoes are not argued over.

Hoop 5: 2nd Year
Move to London. Bubba enjoys going to school within a rock's throw of the beautiful Trafalgar Square. I enjoy pregnancy by sharing a toilet with 6 strangers. England's cuisine is not able to fulfill my craving for a corndog.

Hoop 6: 2nd Summer Internship
Back to Utah. Bubba returns to the DA's office, only this time to the civil division. Work proves to be much less interesting than the criminal side, as much of his tasks involve collecting outstanding library fines. We welcome beautiful little Henry to our family.

Hoop 7: 3rd Year
Make the trek back to South Bend. Journey is much more formidable with Henry in tow. Bubba and I enjoy leisurely lunches eating grilled cheese sandwiches and watching Magnum P.I. Interest in school work is noticeably waning. Despite this, Bubba finishes well and graduates. Receives his diploma while holding Henry, who decides to award his father by having a massive blowout. Return stained graduation robe to bookstore.

Hoop 8: Securing Employment
Take the first job offer Bubba receives. Hope that working in Hammond is better than unemployment.

Hoop 9: The Bar
The joy of graduation is mitigated by threat of the impending Bar exam. Bubba sells kidney to pay for Bar/Bri review course. Fear of failure motivates him to study excessively. I spend lonely evenings alone at Walmart, dressed in sweats and make-up free, and begin to feel oddly at home. Bubba completes the bar which involves re-enacting Tom Cruise's role in A Few Good Men, summarizing a John Grisham novel, and a staring contest with a district judge.

Hoop 10: Admission to the Bar
Bubba passes the bar! Drive to Indianapolis to be formally admitted to the Indiana Bar Association. Bubba now can add the title "esquire" to his name.

Congratulations Bubba!!!!

Near-life experiences

2007-10-16T08:36:00.000-07:00

We've all heard the term "near-death experience." It goes without saying that we go to great lengths to avoid this type of situation. You may not be as familiar with the term "near-life experiences", those incidents that occur when our lives collide with those around us. Oddly enough, it seems that most of us avoid these situations with the same vigor with which we avoid the more deadly variety.

We've developed tactics for avoiding near-life experiences: we don't sit next to someone in a movie theatre unless it's the only vacant seat, we take the empty booth on the other side of the fast food restaurant, we become strangely interested in the floor of the elevator when another person gets in. The more congested an area is, the more we feel our personal space threatened, the more introverted we become. When your face is smashed into some man's armpit on the train, you have to create some kind of barrier, if only a mental one. This explains the seeming paradox that proximity breeds isolation.

Bubba and I had a memorable near-life experience while attending King Kong in a London movie theatre. We had arrived early to the show and were the first ones in the theatre. We took the prime seats: the middle of the first row of the stadium seating (you don't have anyone in front of you and you can put your feet on the railing). While I was using the restroom, another couple entered the theatre and, oddly, took the seats on the end of our row. Another couple entered, and the man actually asked Bubba if he could move down so they could have the middle seats (mind you, NO ONE else was in the theatre!). Bubba moved all right, several rows back. When Bubba related his reason for relocating to me, I was indignant and incredulous. The nerve of some people!

My dad had a near-life experience that yielded a different reaction. He and a co-worker were eating lunch at a mall food court. Their lunch was interrupted when they heard a man yell, "Hey, will you feed me?" Seated at a nearby table was a man in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the neck down, with a slice of pizza in front of him. My dad and his friend continued to eat their lunch, when the man looked at my dad and again yelled, "Hey, will you feed me?" My dad somewhat hesitantly approached the man and asked "How should we do this?" The man instructed my dad to hold the pizza to his mouth and he'd chew. With some trepidation and awkwardness, my dad helped this man eat his lunch.

When we encounter other people, do we distance ourselves from them or engage with them? Have you ever had a day when a kind word from a stranger is desperately needed? Are we too often impatient and careless in our interactions with others? Do we nourish or neglect? Perhaps we should be less hesitant in engaging in near-life experiences. There seems to be something instructive in the tale of my dad feeding the paralyzed man, something almost biblical, something bordering on a parable.

Even still, I won't be eagerly seeking out an opportunity to ride on a crowded train anytime soon.

(*I borrowed the term "near-life experience" from the title of a book by Olivia Birdsall)

Oops! I did it again...

2007-10-02T08:54:00.001-07:00

When the Today Show aired a segment about Britney Spears's custody battle this morning, Bubba stopped eating his cereal and I gravitated out of the bathroom to stare fixedly at the t.v. screen. The usual experts were on hand, individuals with no personal knowledge of Spears but nonetheless "qualified" to dissect her motives and project the outcome of the legal proceedings and the certain havoc it will wreak on the lives of her children. And I have to admit, as I eagerly digested this tidbit of news, that I was more than a little ashamed.

Why are we so engrossed in the misfortunes of people like Britney Spears? I tried to delve into this question with Bubba as I drove him to work this morning. Frankly, I don't think he was too interested in the question and humored me by saying that maybe it's because we're concerned about her children. Oh really Bubba? I don't think so. It seems our motives are far less benevolent than that.

Maybe it's the media's fault. They're the ones that keep pushing these stories on us, anyway. But recent events undermine this argument. Case in point, the 2007 Miss Teen USA pageant. The contestant from South Carolina, Lauren Upton, responded to a pageant question in an embarrassingly incoherent way. Video of her response on YouTube drew a couple million hits. The so-called democratization of the media allowed the public to replay this young woman's embarrassing moment over and over again: and we did.

Neither Spears nor Upton seem to have much control over how the media represents them. Contrast this with the story of a carefully crafted media image. In Joan Didion's Political Fictions, she recounts an event she witnessed at the San Diego airport during Michael Dukakis's presidential campaign. Dukakis got out of the plane and, after being instructed by his campaign manager, tossed a ball back and forth with his press secretary on the tarmac. After enough photographs and live footage had been taken, the ball-tossing abruptly ended. Didion asserts that this ball-tossing was a set-up; however, in the weeks to follow numerous news articles referred to the event as evidence that Dukakis was an every-day guy.

If an individual can attempt to shape the media, can't the media shape an individual? If the media coverage of Dukakis as a regular Joe was fictive, isn't it possible that the coverage of Spears is too? In a recent opinion column, George Will called our obsession with gaffes, flubs, and other public embarrassments evidence of the coarsening of society. He said that the attention drawn to Lauren Upton's verbal missteps was cruel. Cruel is a harsh word. But be honest and ask yourself if you don't derive a certain amount of pleasure in watching Britney's life spiral out of control. And if so, isn't that, if not quite cruel, at least not kind.

If we become a society too willing to revel in the misfortunes of others, we risk losing our ability to be compassionate. So the next time the Today Show features a story on Britney, I'll try to not be so entertained. Or, like Bubba does, I'll think of the children.

My skinny baby

2007-09-26T20:57:00.000-07:00

In April my mom bought Henry a pair of jeans (size 12 months). They didn't quite fit back then:

I tried them on him again today. He didn't seem to fare much better. They kept sliding right off him. He didn't let it keep him down though:

Some days I still feel like this girl

2007-09-22T09:01:00.000-07:00

I read a short story in high school that described the development of self as a layering process. If we could dissect our personalities they would be like the layers of an onion or the rings of a tree. According to the story, each year we add another layer to ourselves, a distinct, identifiable part that contributes to our personality and behaviour. As this layering process continues, the traits we acquired earlier become less prominent, but they are always there, lying beneath the surface, waiting to emerge. So when I calmly respond to Henry eating deodorant by flushing his mouth with water while dialing Poison Control, that's the part of me that's 27. When I overact to a completely benign comment Bubba made by running to my room and slamming the door, that's the part of me that's 11. When I am inordinately happy because I just spotted a blue jay, that's the part of me that's 3.

Sometimes our physical manifestations of our age don't keep up with the corresponding layer. Even though I'm currently working on layer 28, my voice still thinks I'm on layer 14 (okay, I'm being generous, layer 12). My complexion seems to be stuck on the spotty, troublesome layer 16. Even more obnoxious are those physical manifestations that precede our current layer (but who wants to talk about aging, anyway?).

The trouble with family is they know all of our layers. We can wrap ourselves confidently in our current, sleek layer, and perhaps convince the clerk at the grocery store or a casual acquaintance that yes, I really am this calm, collected and cool. But our families know better. Our families know the parts of us that overreact, irritate, and annoy. They know the parts of us that are mean, unforgiving, selfish, neurotic and moody.

But our families also know the best parts of us. In consideration of this, perhaps the layering model isn't adequate. Maybe a patchwork quilt model is preferrable, one that allows for revision and replacement. So we can keep the curiosity of layer 3, but temper it with the patience of layer 25. We can remove irrationality and selfishness and replace them with compassion and reasonableness.

I'm afraid the patchwork quilt model would tempt us to remove other personality traits, too, the little quirks and peculiarities that make us wonderfully identifiable as "us". I'm glad that I know the part of Bubba that lost his wallet days before our wedding. I love the part of Traci that could be convinced that wearing a belt over her nightgown made it adequate attire for a night out with her friends. I wouldn't want to forget the part of Scott that couldn't quite get the timing right when laying out the plot of a scary story. Sometimes, we are perfect in our imperfections.

If we could get rid of all our undesirable traits, who's to say that our current layer is our best? Perhaps the layering model will have to suffice for now, allowing us to both repress the worst and recall the best that is in us.

Even on my best days, I couldn't reclaim the innonence or sweetness I possessed at 9. But at least I've ditched those glasses.

Henry's New Do

2007-09-18T05:25:00.001-07:00

We cut Henry's hair on Saturday. I held him down and Bubba did his best with the scissors. Unfortunately, his best wasn't great. Henry went from looking like Shaggy on Scobby Doo to Dennis the Menace.

Before:

After:

Side view:

To read or not to read

2007-09-13T13:13:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make: I am a book snob. I didn't read the Harry Potter books. I shy away from Danielle Steel, Nora Roberts, and Mary Higgins Clark. I prefer John Steinbeck to John Grisham. If a book is sold at the check-out stand in the grocery store, you can bet I haven't read it.

Bertrand Russell said, "There are two motives for reading a book: one, that you enjoy it; the other, that you can boast about it." Despite my literary standards, I have found that bragging rights alone aren't enough to read a book . I tried reading Joyce's Ulysses last summer, and while I would love to be able to brag that I have completed the novel, I couldn't stomach my way through it. Dare I say that some so-called classics are downright miserable to read?

Should we read for edification or amusement? I recently read about an evangelical campaign in the early 1800s that implored readers to "Put down that novel!" The organization feared that reading solely for entertainment would lead to the "grossest darkness and spiritual ignorance." There is something to be said for substance, with or without style. But we want to be entertained, too.

While I was visiting my family this summer, my mom kept persuading me to read some book about vampires. I resisted. She persisted. I would wake up to find the book on my bed stand. She would slip it next to me while I was talking to my sister. Despite her best efforts, I rejected her recommendation in reading material. My mom came to visit me last week. We went to the Magnificent Mile in Chicago, and stopped in at Borders. And there was another one of these vampire books, the store's number one best-seller.

Should I succumb and read Stephanie Meyer's novels? Are they brag-worthy? Even if not, are they entertaining enough to make it worth my while?

This will literally take only 2 seconds to read

2007-09-04T17:44:00.000-07:00

To introduce the Primary lesson I taught on Sunday, I wrote on the board 'What is the most incredible thing you've ever heard?' The lesson was on the Resurrection, and I thought this question would be a nice way to introduce this truly incredible and important gospel principle. I made it clear to the class that whatever their responses to this question were, they had to be true. What I failed to consider was that my class consisted of four ten-year old boys. It turns out, these boys have heard lots of incredible things, although the veracity of these incredible facts is somewhat questionable. Their examples became increasingly more unbelievable, and the discussion completely devolved when one boy recounted a story that included a freak accident involving a highlighter-sniffing classmate, a semi-truck, and a bicycle. I won't awe you with the details.

When children tell outrageous tales, we call it 'telling stories.' When adults tell such tales, we call it lying. Still, our childhood fascination with telling stories never really escapes us. We know that when we tell a story, it should have a point, but it's even better if it's interesting, too. And so, when we tell our own stories, our own personal narratives, the impulse to exaggerate, to embellish, to enhance is always present.

A good example of this is found when people recount events that took a specific amount of time. We often hear things like, 'It literally took me all day to finish that paper!' Or, 'I literally spent 8 hours in line at the DMV.' When you say such things, it's almost as if your subconscious knows you're about to lie, and sends a message to your brain, saying, 'Throw out literally! Then we'll really fool them!'

Of course, we omit information as often as we exaggerate it to make our personal narratives more interesting: I took 1st in my division (out of ...1), I only got 'A's in college (I only enrolled in and completed 1 course... bowling), I scored just below the 95th percentile (okay, I scored in the 75th percentile).

I could go on, but I have a really important meeting with the Prime Minister of Malaysia in literally 2 seconds.

Happy Birthday Bubba!

2007-09-03T07:10:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you!

Make a wish!

30 little candles, 30 great years.

He works hard for his money

2007-08-30T11:30:00.000-07:00

Henry's days are very full right now. When I'm not making him sweep the floor, he's busy fixing dinner. He can't be bothered to put on pants or comb his hair. He was going to post these pictures himself, but he's too busy cleaning the bathroom.

My 2 cents

2007-08-27T21:04:00.000-07:00

You may find Kevin Federline an unlikely spokesman for the "Save the Penny" campaign. I too experienced feelings of doubt when I heard the news. Couldn't the organization have found a more credible advocate to champion its cause? But when K-Fed justified the penny's continued existence by stating "I feel good about the penny", I knew the campaign had found their guy.

Could it be that K-Fed is the penny incarnate: obnoxiously ubiquitous, nearly valueless, and frustratingly unavoidable?

Perhaps. Kevin Federline joins the growing ranks of celebrities who are famous for being famous. This was made painfully aware to me when I saw him promoting his new rap album on Ellen. Watching him perform gave me the same sense of vicarious embarrassment you sometimes experience in a Fast and Testimony meeting when the member chooses to express her sentiments in song. Unaccompanied. Sadly, those performances are at least as good, if not better, than K-Fed's attempt to break into the music biz.

Paris Hilton leads the growing number of vacuously talentless celebrites. Sure, she's starred in movies, advertisements, and even released an album, but the theatre she most frequently performs in, and is best known for, is real life. I don't care to follow the chronicles of Paris, but their details are almost unavoidable. During the height of her imprisonment debacle, I was relieved to find at least one tabloid promoting itself as "Paris-free", but crestfallen when I found the subject of their headline story to be... Nicole Richie.

I encountered an irritatingly striking example of the 'famous for being famous' phenomenon while living in London. Her name was Chantelle Houghton, a reality t.v. star who had garnered attention because of her uncanny resemblance to Paris Hilton. Looking at her gave me the sense of being in a living room, with a picture on the wall depicting that living room, with a picture on the wall depicting the picture of the picture of the living room, ad infinitum. Or ad nauseum.

This multiplication of identities, this replication of resemblances, was also made manifest in England in another, more pecuniary form: the two pence. If you think the penny is annoying, try two stuck together. It seemed I was always receiving the dreaded coin as change for a transaction, but was never able to reciprocate and actually spend it. Even now they turn up every once in awhile, in the bottom of a book bag or the pocket of a seldom worn jacket, daring me to find any utility in their existence.

If England ever launches a 'Save the Two Pence' campaign, I think Chantelle Houghton would make a great spokeswoman. There's a certain poetry in one irrelevant duplication defending another.

Aloha!

2007-08-23T11:00:00.000-07:00

Here are some pictures of Henry. Clothing courtesy of our friends Jaime and Chris.

Identity Crisis

2007-08-20T08:49:00.000-07:00

Have you ever introduced yourself to someone and been asked, after stating your name, "Is that your given name?" Most of us have never been on the receiving end of such a query. However, when you go by Bubba, the question is not uncommon. The inquiry does two things: 1) implies that your name is unusual, bizarre, or unfit and 2) calls into question the sanity of your parents, who may or may not have bestowed such a name upon you.

In Bubba's case, he can luckily reply "no" to the question. Born Michael Dan, he is neither the recipient of an unsound name or unsound parents. His current moniker, however, was no less Bubba's choice appellation than yours or mine. And, unfortunately, it's giver did not have the wisdom or life experience that many parents possess when choosing a name for their child.

It could have been worse. In many ways, Bubba got off easy. I went to high school with kids nicknamed Cheese, Sleaze, and Fruity. Or, he could have followed in the misguided steps of those who choose self-imposed nicknames: Corndog (chosen by the individual because of his love for the delectable treat) or Fritz (I don't know why this person chose this name).

Regardless of the quality of his nickname, Bubba has, in the words of Alexander Pope, "first endured, then pitied, then embraced" it. Which brings him to his current dilemma. Until now, Bubba has been, well, Bubba. But our recent move to Munster has been accompanied by a life change, i.e. a job. Bubba is, in some sense, a professional. And is it fitting for a professional to go by the name of Bubba? We don't know the answer to this question yet. But ask yourself, seriously, would you hire a lawyer named Bubba?

For the time being, Bubba is using the alias Michael at work. The members of our ward have been less receptive to calling him Bubba than other congregations have been in the past. Some members have flat out said they would prefer to call him Michael. Michael? Who is this man? Surely I haven't been introduced to him.

The term "given name" implies that it is, in some sense, a gift. For people with given names of Thomas or Sarah, this concept seems plausible. Less so for those with the given name of Jazz or, as I recently encountered, Prima Donna. In these situations, it is reasonable to ask if a given name is indeed a gift, or rather a curse.

The implications of the term "nickname" are less certain. How does one, exactly "nick" a name? Is a nickname merely a substitution of one name for another? A replacement? I fear in Bubba's case it may be not a substitution of one identity for another, but a multiplication of identities. Will Michael bring about the demise of Bubba? Or can the two exist simultaneously?

Only time will tell.

Ode to Blogging

2007-08-17T13:57:00.000-07:00

When I told Bubba I had started a blog, his reaction was "You mean just for family to look at, right?" No, Bubba, I was hoping my blog would rival The Drudge Report. You see, Bubba is suspicious of bloggers. Why do they blog? he asks. Why do they think that what they have to say is so interesting? Why does anyone care?

It reminds me of the Dharma & Greg episode when Dharma's dad sets up some old radio broadcast equipment in their living room. Greg stays home from work and spends the day playing DJ. For those of you fortunate enough to have seen the episode, you'll remember Greg's utter dismay when at the end of the day he realizes the broadcast equipment was not plugged in. He compares his wasted day to being ten years old again and playing make-believe by talking into a hairbrush.

But the thing is, Greg had a great day even if no one was listening. And I guess that's why I wanted to start blogging. Motherhood is great, but it can be isolating. At the moment, Henry's not the best conversationalist. There are lots of times during the day when something happens and I want to tell someone, anyone. Blogging may become the next symptom of depression. "Doctor, I'm experiencing lack of appetite, decrease in energy, and the urge to blog." On second thought, perhaps, it's the exact opposite. Communication, or at least the impulse to communicate, is not destructive. It's creative. So I guess Al Gore did me a favor when he invented the internet: he gave me a hairbrush to talk into. And pretend it's a microphone. And hope someone's listening.

And that's a truth that's not so inconvenient.