PROSE-SPECTIVE

I'm a blog pick-pocket

2012-01-26T09:42:00.000-08:00

I saw this post on my cousin's blog and liked it so much that I slipped the questions from her blog into my pocket. I'm like Dodger...or rather a Blodger. heh. heh. Yeah. Lame joke.

Anyway, it's a quiz about my 2011 year. Since I didn't really give you a list of my goals and plans for 2012, this seemed a good substitute.

1. What did you do in 2011 that you’d never done before?
Started a weight loss blog: www.theredbookexperiment.blogspot.com

March 2011

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I wanted to lose 21 lbs, but only lost 15. I still feel good about that though. Yes. I have goals this year. One is to finish my weight loss memoir.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Yes. My best friend, my sister-in-law, and two of my friends.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
No. But a part of me died a little.

5. What countries did you visit?
None. But I went to Ogden twice. That's almost like a new country. I also visited Bear Lake.

6. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?
More financial security. (This was my cousin's answer too.)

7. What dates from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
The whole month of July. My whole life changed forever. My world seemed to tilt and hasn't quite been on the right axis since. This post is vague, but sort of explains how I was feeling at the time.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Um...Allow me to answer this with a link to my newsletter.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Sometimes I'm just an idiot, ya know? I just do stupid things without thinking and inevitably someone gets hurt. I really thought I'd grown out of that, but obviously I didn't. I'm definitely going to work on trying to think before I act no matter what.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
I got sick after Christmas. I was bed-ridden for a whole week. It was awful. I wrote this post about it.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
My Kindle. I didn't really buy it. My husband got it for me for my 30th birthday.

12. Where did most of your money go?
Food, car payment, mortgage, bills...

A little went into shoes...

13. What did you get really excited about?
Going to Orlando and Disney World in Jan. 2012

Visiting Lisa in Orlando.

14. What song will always remind you of 2011?
"For the First Time" by The Script.

15. Compared to this time last year, are you:
– happier or sadder? [shrug] depends on the day.
– thinner or fatter? thinner
– richer or poorer? poorer

16. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Writing, spending time with my kids, vacationing, relaxing during the summer instead of going to 3 teacher's conferences (although I learned so much from each one and used what I learned in the classroom, so maybe I don't wish that).

I would redo CUWP a hundred times over. =)

17. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Crying. And dealing with stress by overeating.

18. How did you spend Christmas?
At home, then at my mom's. I was starting to get sick, so I rested a lot that day.

19. What was your favorite TV program?
Mad Men, Dexter, Downton Abbey, Psych, Leverage, and Bones. But I haven't really been addicted to anything. If Joss Whedon would put something out again, I'd be all over it like Buffy on vamps.

20. What were your favorite books of the year?
Half Assed: A Weight Loss Memoir, I Am Not a Serial Killer, Ten-Year Nap

21. What was your favorite music from this year?
Adele, Christina Perri, and "It's a Quarter After One" by Lady Antebellum

22. What were your favorite films of the year?
Mostly I watch them on Netflix, because I don't have time or money to go to the movies. However, I really liked The Help. Now I wanna read the book.

23. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
[sigh] I turned 30, and really struggled with it. See this post for reasons.

24. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
I wish Cole could get a better paying job. It's not that he dislikes his current job. It's just that his paycheck could be bigger. I think in this economy, everyone's paycheck could be bigger, though.

25. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2011?
Structure. Structured, fitted jackets, pencil skirts, tall heels, and red. I love RED. (but there's no shortage of silly either.)

But I'm also into the Mad Men styles too. I just got the cutest trench for Christmas. It's very PanAm.

I'm in the middle. I got the trench from Tulle.

26. What kept you sane?
Netflix, Prozac, and prayer. Not necessarily in that order.

27. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011.
Life is only going to get more stressful, and I have to learn to handle it better. In the past, I handled stress with snacking and sugary foods. I think I've tackled that bad habit, but replaced it with other bad habits. Now that I'm aware of my problems, I think I can find healthier outlets for stress.

I also learned that it's ok for me to spend time on me. I should not feel guilty about working out or taking a girls only vacation. I need a timeout from my life once in awhile in order to stay sane. Plus it makes me appreciate my husband and children more when I get back.

I flew to Orlando but landed on Memory Lane

2012-01-16T12:30:00.000-08:00

Lisa and I in front of Epcot

Napoleon Birthday cake for Lisa's birthday. YUM!

"Screw the fork! It's my birthday! I'm chowing down."

Dr. Who? (Lisa in "England")

So, I'm in Orlando right now and staying with a friend I haven't seen almost 13 years. She and I were friends in high school when we both lived in Mississippi back in the late nighties. She and I reconnected over facebook a few years ago and have been pretty close for the better half of a year. So I came to visit her.

I flew to Orlando.
and ended up on Memory Lane.

I think the weirdest thing about this trip is that I'm remembering things that I haven't thought about in a decade. Things like...

"A likely story..." and "negatory" and "how do you reeeeally feel?"
Sensory details so poignant, I might as well be in a time machine.
The way the D. family's arguments could take on any debate team and make their heads oscillate like a salad spinner. (PS. Remember the law of inertia: Don't open the salad spinner when the object is in motion. This can be taken metaphorically and literally. Your choice.)
The D. family children treat "Game Night" like the opportunity to intellectually wrestle for a chance to be King of the Mental Mountain for a few weeks until the next "Game Night". And how strangely victors and losers are equally smug when it's all over.
And the movie references! "Do you realize the street value of this mountain? It's pure snow!" and "Heeed! Pants! Now!" and "It's possible. Pig. Conceivable. You vomitous mass."
Remembering the songs we listened to and either loved or hated. Loved: "Baby Got Back" by Sir Mix-a-lot; Hated: "Truly, Madly, Deeply" by Soundgarden.

I heart Orlando!

Remembering how intimidated I used to be of my friend's dad. (Not so much anymore. I could hold my own as long as we weren't playing Trivial Pursuit, which they tried to talk me into. I put my pedicured foot down on that one.)

Don't tell our husbands, but we met someone. So what if he lives under a bridge and quizzes us on our favorite color and the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?

We each got a pearl straight from an oyster in "Japan" and got them set into a necklace.

We both got size 7 pearls. I learned how to count down (3-2-1) in Japanese, then promptly forgot it.

Then we created new memories:

Bingeing on foods of the world...Disney World
Peeing a little on The Tower of Terror
Learning how to play Golf without a course
Watching karaoke at Rising Star on Universal's City Walk, daring each other to sing, and when they didn't call our names, we were equal parts disappointed and relieved.
Getting a massage by Dawson from Dawson's Creek. (As close to literally as a person can get without being literal.)
Heel swapping
Pillow talk with my new/old BFF.
The best dang mango salsa since the invention of Cafe Rio.
If you combined PMSing Siren, a Tazmanian Devil having a seizure, and a Banshee having a meltdown together, you'd witness a fraction of the tantrum my friend's toddler had at church. Seriously, a dingo ~~ate~~ possessed her baby.
Seeing the top of the dolphin tank in the Nemo exhibit. SO COOL.

I am pretty much having the best time ever. And I still have 2 more days to go!

Eat your heart out, bobbies!

Karma slapped me with paralysis.

2012-01-03T19:13:00.000-08:00

So when I was sick the week after Christmas and bed-ridden to the point that my muscles atrophied like the murder victims from that TV series Bones, I wondered if I'd ever be able to walk normally again instead of stumbling about like my 26-year-old arthritic co-worker (true story. Love you, Ash.)

And around the time that I could be awake longer than an hour at a time and could do more than walk to the toilet and back, I tested my ability to do basic things by first doing the dishes. Why? I don't know. The very act of washing dishes makes a mom again. Once I'm free and clear for scrubbing pots and pans, my kids also believe it's time to demand breakfast, lunch, or dinner or a snack or a drink or "Where's my stuffed dog?" or "Put my Batman costume on me NOW!" and NASA calls me on the red rotary phone to ask for a cup of Joe and their lucky nude-y pen because that's how important I become to the household...nay, America! when the cloud of my damn fever lifts.

For a while I'm happy to be doing anything other than leaving butt imprints on my side of the bed, but the happiness soon transitions to remembering. I remember how many balls I've got juggling in the air.

Lesson plans.
Grading.
Writing.
Bathing.
Reading.
Dishes.
Housework.
Dog-caring-for.
Tanning.
Blogging.
Writing.
Planning.
Preparing to travel to Orlando.
Playing with kids.
Babysitting.
Meetings.
Census surveying.
Couponing.
Budgeting.
Writing.
Homework with Layne.
Wrestling with Gavin.
Movies with Cole.
Dieting.
Cardio work out.
Ab exercises.
Weight lifting.
Writing.
Facebooking.
~~Netflixing~~. I did plenty of that when I was sick.

The point is I work myself into a crazy corpse-ish coma. My body just shuts down in protest as if it's the only way I can settle down a little. That's my theory.

My students think I got that sick because I gave them homework over the break. Karma's a bitch, huh. And I bet she does dishes too.

Stupid Prezi ate my newsletter.

2011-12-23T16:19:00.000-08:00

I've been working on a Prezi newsletter for the past month that when finished would have family photos, cool captions, little blurbs of our life, and a dizzying visual effect, but...

Stupid Prezi ate my newsletter. That's not entirely accurate. The last few times I brought it up to edit it for final touches, Prezi took FOREVER to load and then froze my computer long enough for me to throw my hands in the air and declare the battle a loss. You win, Prezi. You win.

So here I am, back at my trusty blogger site. I'm just going to give the low-down of my family right here. Where it's safe. And the words don't spin and dip while you read them. (I'm pretty sure the Prezi version would've made my grandma want to hurl.)

So guess who's progeny is into Harry Potter now? Mine. Ugh. How did this happen?

We'll start with Layne. She's 7 and asked me what a period was the other day, so I'm pretty sure she's growing up too damn fast. I mean she graduated from kindergarten in May, for Dr. Seuss' sake! She shouldn't be asking me about that stuff until she's old enough to find Mr. Darcy the most attractive fictional character in print. (And bonus points if she finds him doubly attractive as a zombie-fighting aristocrat.)

Captain Underpants. At least he got over that slight slip of the tongue when he would pronounce "truck" like a very very bad word.

Then there's Gavin. He's 3, almost 4, and is in a punching phase right now. To recap he's also experienced the "spitting phase", "growling phase", "wearing-nothing-but-underwear-all-day" phase, "wearing-only-batman-and-superman-jammie-tops phase", and "threatening-to-hit-you-in-the-face-if-you-don't-turn-on-Toy-Story-right-now phase". He can revert back into any one of these phases depending on his mood and my mood. I just know to clear outta there when he growls, "Hulk Smash".

bad family photos 2011

Cole next. He started blogging a little bit on the side at Political Z-search and Z? I'm not mad! He was also a Payson correspondent for the Daily Herald for 6 months this year and still works full-time for the UVU Library. He got a dog in the summer, which we affectionately named William the Bloody after this William the Bloody, but nick-named him Spike. Unfortunately, right after Cole gave Spike his first bath, Spike has attached himself to me like a feisty Mexican parasite. (Did I mention Spike's part Chihuahua?) Now Spike spends most of his time trying to protect me from the strange cacophony coming from the laundry room on laundry day or biting the hem of my jeans while I'm dancing/doing the dishes in the kitchen.

Then there's me. If you don't know anything about what's going on in my life, then you haven't been reading my blog due to a flare up of Amish-itis. What else could it be? Get well soon, for when you do, here's links to some of the highlights of my year:

What's not to love with a mug like that?

Merry Christmas, e-friends and e-family and real friends and real family.

(See this post for something more reverent.)

Til next year. And sorry you have nothing to hang on the fridge this year. I guess if you're that needy, you could simply print this out, but don't hang it up with that Perky Plumber magnet. That's just tacky. And clearly we are one classy bunch.

The 12 Days of Christmas: a thank you note

2011-12-21T14:52:00.001-08:00

They were good kids this year.

It's no secret that we're struggling financially this year. Aside from our own personal day-to-day money struggles, this year we've endured two pay cuts, a job loss, and an errant paycheck. Even without all that drama, I'm a part-time teacher and a writer, for Benjamin's sake. Money is always tight. And Cole has a job with great health insurance (I'm not kidding. It's like he works for the military), but the whole university on a raise-freeze, and there's no opportunities for advancement.

On top of all that we have been trying to eliminate debt. We sold a car to avoid the payment and now spend much of our time bumming rides off our friends--who, I'm sure given a little more time being forced to sit in a vehicle with us during the 20 minute commute, will be soon cured of their toleration for us.

The truth is we've spent several years in a financial rut, and are probably secretly known by our friends and family members as "the charity cases". Even our yard was donated by my mother. And when the washer broke two weeks ago (a 3rd hand washer that I bought off of my sister for a reduced reduced price almost a decade ago), I did wash at my mom's house until luckily and thankfully my grandmother offered to pay for the repairs. One friend bought me an entire Florida vacation for next month, and another offered to pay for a week's worth of hotel costs for a vacation in March. (I turned it down because the plane ticket was too much.) My brother-in-law bought presents for my kids when he heard of our struggles and my colleague bought me a pedicure soak kit (and Lords of Mary Kay know I need it). Clearly, I'm blessed with an awesome family and some kick-ass friends.

My miracle baby. True story.

Anyway, we've had hard Christmases before, but not like this one. My present budget for each of the kids was cut to 1/4 of what I usually spend each year, which wasn't a whole lot to begin with. I found some second-hand stuff, and Cole and I barely got anything for ourselves, instead pushing our funds into the kids' budget. Then when one of my paychecks went AWOL, I thought we were definitely screwed.

But...

Last week we discovered that our family was chosen to be the recipients of the Twelve Days of Christmas. The first day we found a bag of pears on the doorstep. The next day at bag of Dove chocolates and Turtle bars. Each day something fun showed up on our doorstep. The children and I eagerly anticipate that nightly doorbell chime. While the kids bolt to the door and Gavin tries desperately to twist the deadbolt open, I always take my time, because I want our secret Santas to have a chance to get away. I don't want to ruin their surprise.

Yes, he is wearing a batman shirt over his superman shirt. That's how we roll, folks.

I don't know if the family helping us has any intentions of revealing their identity, but if they don't, I need them to know how grateful we are.

Every time I give the kids a bath and pour a little of the apple-scented bubble bath from the Seventh Day of Christmas (swans-a-swimming) and watch their little faces light up at the cascades of bubbles or see them make bubble-beards and say "HO HO HO", my heart swells with gratitude.

Every time I pour milk into Elayna's oatmeal or fill Gavin's sippy cup with day 8's Maids-a-Milking gallon of skim milk, I'm reminded of how blessed we are to have people in our lives who care. Who noticed our suffering and literally provided the milk of human kindness.

Christmas play pose.

And as I hid away some of the goodies and tucked the hula hoop away before the kids saw it, I'm thankful to have something to fill stockings with or one more thing to put under the tree on Christmas Eve for my kids. My Christmas angels gave us a little more Christmas this year.

The spirit of Christmas is about giving, after all. I don't know if my kids appreciate it as much as they should. I mean they didn't get teary-eyed at the bag of 5 golden doughnuts or choke up at the sight of 4 calling holiday Peeps like I did, but I'll teach them to see the beauty in giving.

My biggest wish of all this season is not for new shoes.
Or a phone that my students won't make fun of because of because it predates MTV.
Or even that my kids aren't disappointed on Christmas.

Thank you and Merry Christmas! Love, the Smitheys

My biggest wish of all is that one day I can be in a position to give the way our Twelve Days of Christmas family gave to us this year. I hope we can change someone's life too.

Thank you so much.

Rena and Family

How Americans could be like frogs, and is it ever a good time to kick an old woman? Hilter says "yes".

2011-12-04T14:00:00.000-08:00

We're reading Fahrenheit 451 in my junior English class, (side note: it's taken me like 5 years to finally spell Fahrenheit right without a squiggly misspelled indicator under it. Same thing with onomatopoeia) and as I started reading it, learning about how the government has firemen to burn books, I wondered how the devil the government decided it would be a good idea to burn literature. What happened to America that it's problems resulted in the incineration of literature. So, naturally, I had my students discuss and write on it.

I wrote about it too. Here's what I came up with during the Scribble:

Any government with plans to keep their people in line could come to the conclusion of burning books. Controlling which histories are made public and stifling literature that expresses free thought are not new concepts. It's been done for years. Fascists. Nazis. Communist Russia, and for goodness sake the whole Israeli/ Palestinian conflict is the he said-she said argument. So the idea of this happening doesn't surprise me. But I am shocked that it happened in America (Bradbury's fictional dystopian America, that is.)

Would Americans fall for that garbage? That book burning is acceptable and the best solution to a national problem? Would they reject literature and history because some ruler suggested it?! I don't think so.

However, I'm thinking what would really happen is Americans would be lured into giving up higher-level thinking in exchange for the brain-fodder that is reality TV or other mindless sources of entertainment. It's like that old frog story. You can't cook a frog by throwing it into a pot of boiling water, b/c it will jump out. But if you put it in tepid water and start boiling it, the frog will stay there and boil to death before realizing what happened. This is how it would happen in the US.

So how would this evil government do it? They start with the kids.
Convincing the children or new generations that burning books is a worthwhile undertaking would be easy if the government started brainwashing the kids at an early age. Infancy perhaps. They would simply need to endoctrinate them with the billboards of persuasive (pathos-based) arguments. I can picture a PSA that showed students reading books and some minor-chord angry guitar playing as a soundtrack. Then later those "free-thinking" rebel readers are seen kicking an old woman on dialysis. They'd have to go for the heart, and leave out the logic with ads like that. Down with books!, they'd chant. And somehow link reading to cancer and the hunger problems in America.

If you've never read Fahrenheit 451, I highly recommend it. Also, for the younger audience, try Ally Condie's Matched. It explores a similar concept in a similar world.

In Matched, Cassia lives in a world where everything is decided for her because of statistical probabilities researched by the Society. The Society chooses what clothes she wears, which foods are in her diet, and how much she eats, what recreational activities she may participate in, and even who she marries. But when a strange mix up occurs on the day of her Matching, Cassia begins to wonder if maybe the Society got some predictions wrong. It's brilliantly plotted and fast fun twist on a world like Bradbury's in Fahrenheit 451. I give it 4 stars.

Ally Condie just before signing a copy of Matched

Plus, her sequel Crossed is now available too.

You know you want one.

2011-12-01T08:22:00.001-08:00

I just got one of these super cute hats from Lettilu for my daughter's Christmas present. She is going to love it. I would've had her model it, but she has to wait until Dec. 25th to see it.

But fortunately, you have me to do the modeling, eh? Yes, they say modeling could've been my 8th career. And by "they" I mean "me and my highly controversial and often debated, warped perception of myself". But you don't have to take my word for it. The proof is in the pictures, baby!

Oh yeah! Sickly, angular pose! "Gimme lame teenage profile pic!" You got it!

Sweet duck-lips pose. Dang that's a cute hat. I shoulda got it for me.


I know you prefer the photos of me in the hat, but here's the item solo. Love it.

Get yours at Lettilu before the holidays! [click me for fb link]

Craftering is hard.

2011-11-25T21:00:00.001-08:00

I'm crafty.
And not in the sneaky way. Wait...yes, in the sneaky way, but also in the Martha Stewart-y way. Except mine usually turns out like Stewart's prison years stuff. Anyway, I saved my Christmas cards from last year and made these this year. Super fun. and EASY. Easy even for a craft-gimp like me.

Christmas Card Houses

I think they look better with the longer roof.

Anyone recognize the card you sent me last year?

Looks kind like Mater is the angel. I'm sure that's just what God wanted this scene to look like.

Closed house

See. You can put goodies inside. Guess what your Christmas cookies are coming in this year, neighbors? THIS HOUSE!

My brain threw up some words tonight.

2011-11-19T18:49:00.001-08:00

(This is fiction. I was reading Uncoupling by Meg Wolitzer, and this just sort fell outta my head onto "paper".)

Jane reached her car, fumbled with the keys, and let her thumb hover over the unlock button. Her heartbeat drowned out the sounds of the street, masking even the faint rush of the ocean as it caressed the shoreline behind her. She knew she should leave. That her next move should be to get into the car, start the ignition, pull out of the parking lot and never look back. When she reached her destination (a ranch-style home, a pug, a wall of neatly framed pictures with the frozen smiles of people from her life, a husband, a job) she'd find a way to slip back into the routine of things. It wouldn't be easy. It would never be easy again, knowing that she'd chosen logic over passion. But what else could she do? She was settled.

She closed her eyes tightly, and inhaled. Their parting hug left remnants of his scent on her clothes; one part diner food two parts sandalwood.

Couldn't she somehow make a logical argument for the need to act on emotions? Emotions never got a fair fighting chance? Not for Jane. She didn't let emotions interfere with her choice of colleges. She didn't let emotions intercede when she allowed herself to courted by and later married to the firm's finest up-and-coming prosecuting attorney. She didn't let emotions butt-in when they decided not to adopt when natural-born children became a non-option. Didn't she owe it to herself to make at least one life choice purely on emotion? True, logic had provided a home and husband and dog and job, but not love.

What waited for her back behind the counter of the diner was a choice based entirely on emotion. After everything, he deserved better, Jane thought with certainty, but he still wanted her. She tried to remember the details of their final embrace, every nuance, how she trembled at the gentleness of his touch, his breath on her ear, the whispered longing, and that lump that rose from her gut into her throat and burned still.

She turned, looked over the tops of the cars lined next to hers and stared at the horizon. The sun dipped its toe into the ocean, and the water welcomed its touch, reflecting back crests of gold. As the two grew nearer, the water ignited streamers of fire, and it seemed as if they belonged together. The ocean was bland, tepid, and lonely until its lover returned to awaken a flame within.

Her eyes wandered to the diner. She could make out his figure, watching her from behind the glass. That stupid orange shirt. A name tag. Chocolaty brown hair spiked with reckless abandon. Two leather wristbands. There was nothing logical about him.

His eyes fixed on her, the pleading clear even from a distance. Jane slipped both hands into her blazer pockets and licked her lips. They felt rough, textured. Lonely.

It's no wonder there's lots of malpractice suits out there

2011-11-14T21:57:00.001-08:00

Think of your own caption. I just saw it and thought, "It's the Lego version of the opening scene of The Stand." I'm not sure how that fits with this post, but humor me.

I just got my records from the doctors. I needed them for research for my weight loss memoir, and I kid you not, that whole cliche about docs having really bad handwriting is a true story.

Here's my interpretation of one of the notes:

Repressive got gain since 1st pregnancy. [Could be "Progressive wt. gain", but it sure felt repressive.]
& aus when act fishy [I do tend to break out my Australian accent when I act suspiciously.]
OCS Nevier pregnancy.
Stings @ rm Ha non. [He's making this part up, right?]
I revived a hve sitreateion (analysis
and adenied against NRC for
a treatment of AUB fincially
on liyner of denic pregnancy.
Instead, I recommended reat
for insulin resistance-->see
actended cursity sheet fr details
of counseling ink. Spent 25 min
of a nun appt counseling
zp: 1. chis compler nener
2. ohevity [obesity?]
3. puhance insulin resistance.
Man: /fasting glucen/lyrics/cr + [I know what this chicken scratch means. He ordered me a nasty flat orange soda glucose test. Yeck.]

I can't wait to talk to the dr. who wrote all this. I can't take heads or tails of most of it. But apparently at one point I had some problems with "liyner of denic pregnancy." I don't know what that is, but it sure sounds bad.

A peek into my Christmas stash

2011-11-12T17:07:00.001-08:00

Layne's been really worried that Santa won't be bringing her anything this year, because of all the times she's been bad. (Seriously, she had a melt-down once because a kindergartener on her bus ambush-kissed her on the lips. She thought that made them somehow married. I don't where she gets this stuff. *cough* Disney.) We've talked to her about accountability and how if she's sorry for stuff that she did wrong (really wrong, none of this bogus 5-yo-kissed-me stuff) and makes amends, then Santa and God will forgive her. But alas, her severe anxiety keeps her up most nights. Usually she's freaked about zombies and vampires being real, but now it's Jolly old St. Nick who keeps her up at night. I say, she has a helluva conscious on her; it's like her Jiminy Cricket is trying to get his "Guilt Trip" merit badge.

That said, I think she'd be happy to know that "Santa" already got her one thing:

Photographer: "Show me tormented. Yes. Now pout. Perfect."

This super cute hat from Lettilu in hot pink. Also, I ordered it in kids' sizes b/c obviously Layne's bigger than the model in the photo.

They have some of the cutest friggin' hats. I was going to get one for Gavin too, but let's be honest, the boy won't wear hats to save his life. (Let's hope he doesn't have to work on a construction site when he grows up, b/c he prolly won't wear a hard hat either.

This is the Lettilu hat I wish he'd wear:

So cute you could die. I bet the model has a wingman named Goose.

"Who" is the cutest kid ever? Gavin would be in this hat. (Also applaud my "owlsome" owl-humor.)

Check out Lettilu's facebook page, and get some of your Christmas shopping done early. If enough of you like their page, I may be able to arrange a give-away.

I also bought myself some brown suede boots for Christmas at Head Over Heels. I'd show you a pic, but my friend convinced me to wrap them up for Christmas and wait like Santa expects me too. So I'm being a good girl this year, and you'll just have to wait to see 'em in December.

Pity Party! (and the bouncy-house of stress)

2011-11-07T13:57:00.000-08:00

This pressure crushes,
Emitting tears.
A dream dissolved
Like grey gelatin
In boiling water.

Nails driven into a coffin
Of baked goods,
Stern looks
And an endless battle
Of prattle.

Nails bitten to the flesh,
and a lump of regret
Lodged in the throat.
The lump grows,
Gaining strength from Bile.

Binge.
Binge.
Binge.
Binge.

Comfort food
Tastes salty.
Now the pressure
Comes from within.

Part 1: Take away my closure, why don't cha?

2011-10-27T06:05:00.000-07:00

I've been reading my old journals lately for a couple of reasons...

-- The main being to prove I was right about an argument that apparently had developed sometime over the past 12 years without my knowledge or participation, which is WRONG inasmuch as I was a key player in the event that the argument was constructed around. I mean when you find out that someone in your life blamed you for more than a decade about a situation that YOU thought was resolved, you tend to get a little miffed back. Especially when the accuser's details are TOTALLY off. Seriously?! I just...don't know what to say about this. It's so unbelievably NOT TRUE and it just feels like the closure I had was based on a foundation of half-truths and bitterness, rendering that closure invalid! How does that even happen? (whew what a rant, but that's not really what this post is about, I swear.) --

My expression upon hearing this irritating discovery.

and I realized after reading about moments in my life dating back to the early 90's that I've always been memoir-ing. The good news is that I have meticulous records of my life, and can use them to supplement and bolster the weight loss memoir that I'm writing right now. Down 65 lbs, btw. You can cheer and boost my ego in the comments (and also go ahead and mention how right I am about the confusing argument I mentioned earlier. I feed on validation.)

I even wrote out whole conversations word for word, like a script for a play. It's really fun to read the way I spoke back in high school. I am proud to say that I didn't use "like" in my writing as much as I did verbally. Although the habit might come back on account of how rattled I am. (Seriously, I'll get over it in "like" 2 days, b/c it's not that big of a deal. I was only taken off-guard, and once I chill, it'll be no biggie.)

Anyhoo, I gotta get to work. More on this later. I'll even give you an example of a chuck of dialogue that I wrote down from that time.

Top 10 Things I Love About My Friends

2011-10-22T21:55:00.000-07:00

10. Those who have more are always willing to share. I can't believe how generous and sweet some of them are. (Lisa, Kristin, Shan, and Texy, this one goes out to you.)
9. Debra just knows when I need Twizzlers.
8. I love that I think I know everything about my friends and then the dam breaks, and I learn SO MUCH MORE. (Oui, oui.)
7. When my best friend acts like a jackwagon, he more than makes up for it with a dozen post-it apologizes that make me smile all day long for several days.
6. Some of them are hilarious without realizing it.
5. Some of them get syndicated by BlogHer.
4. Bravery. I swear some of them have done some super brave things with their lives. I hope to have one ounce of their courage. (Nic, a shout out. I love your guts.)
3. Survivors. Some have survived some crazy shit, and I don't know how they do it. I wanna buy 'em all snuggies and hot cocoa.
2. They love a good rant. They can be the listener or the ranter. But either way they are always there for me.

1. They love me too.

The Thing Under the Bed

2011-10-15T18:00:00.000-07:00

(Brandi said I had to preface this story with this explanation: This is a 1st person fictional piece about a kid afraid of something under his bed.)

I knew something wasunder the bed because it purred when the lights went out as if the darknessstroked it’s tufts of fur, eliciting a meditative rumble in its throat. Thesound is soft at first, but grows as the blackness settles on my room.

I saw the creature’spaw once; a giant baseball mitt with talons that scratched scars at the end ofmy bed posts. But I’m not afraid, because I’ve learned to sleep with aflashlight ever since I noticed the purring. It doesn’t emerge when the beam ofmy flashlight pierces holes in the darkness.

Tonight, I hear a newnoise. Something rolling across my wooden floors. I clutch the flashlightbeneath my two quilts, and peek out over the layers. The rolling continues, itssource slowing. Unafraid, I ready my flashlight and squint into the shadows. Iflip the switch on my flashlight. But nothing.

Then, I made out theshape of the thing that rolled.

A battery.

The thing purrs.

Steve Jobs is Haunting My Laptop

2011-10-14T17:10:00.000-07:00

Iwrite in bed with exactly 3 pillows; two for my lower back and one for my upperback so that there’s a slight recline to the set up. I stick my feet out on thebed and rest my laptop on my lap and type until one of three things happen.

First,the noise from the other room becomes unbearable. My son has taken totormenting the dog with his interpretation of what Godzilla sounds like. Ametallic shriek. My husband attempts to correct the sound, to which I smile. Ionly taught Gavin how to do this horribly inaccurate sound because I knew itwould drive my Godzilla-fanatic husband crazy that Gavin is “doing it wrong!”Now, I’m paying for it, as I cannot concentrate with the sounds of garglinggravel, which is what my husband’s corrective version of Godzilla sounds like.I put in headphones.

Ipound out another 200ish words before my laptop, a 4-year old dinosaur (andmight as well be a typewriter for technology’s sake) burns a hole through myyoga pants. I cover up the scalding patch with pillow number 4, which I keepnext to me for this anticipated reason. Sometimes my archaic school-providedlaptop blacks out entirely, succumbing to heat exhaustion. Meanwhile Steve Jobsrolls over in his high-tech grave.

Irestart the damn thing and go again. Gotta meet that thousand word goal or thewriting gods or muses with abandon me for Stephenie Meyer. Again.

Then,when I’m at a word count of 891, my daughter bounds in onto the bed declaressomething inaudible, b/c all I can hear is Weezer’s serenades and the muted taptap tap of the keyboard. I can guess what’s she’s saying though. “I’m hungry,Mom.” Because even though we already fed her dinner, and she ate 2 fullhelpings and dessert, Elayna alwaysexpects Dinner 2.0.

Andthat’s it. Session over, whether I like it not. Because Hungry Elayna is worsethan if Godzilla had shown up at the back door.

I didn't get a photo of Wil Wheaton collating paper, but I got these...

2011-10-09T19:57:00.000-07:00

I went to two conferences back-to-back last week. Thursday was a writing conference called Book Academy at UVU, which was AWESOME. I meet some new friends, drank way too much free diet Mt. Dew, and got re-inspired to focus on my memoir.

Plus I got to meet some brilliant authors.

For example, I met critically acclaimed author, Dan Wells. If you've ever met me before, you know that you either love my personality or hate it. I daresay, in the 3 minute conversation I had with Wells, I was banking that he was member of the latter party. I thought that he tolerated me at best...until I saw this photo with his to trigger-fingers covering up the "Not" on his "I am Not a Serial Killer" folder thingy, and it changed my mind. I think we are kindred spirits after all. (either that or it was a msg for me to get the hell away from him. But I'm a barrel-half empty kind of positive thinker, so...kindred spirits we are!) Love you, Dan! heh. heh.[eyes diverted to a strange sound outside my window.]

Dan Wells and I hanging with the sequel to his I am Not a Serial Killer Series. The books are like Dexter for teenagers. Awesome series.

Kindred spirits or not, Wells recognizes Speed-Scrabble talent when he sees it.

Eat your H-E-A-R-T out, Brandi! That's a 8pt. word, btw. But I slapped it down on Double Word tile. BOOYAH!

And for Texy, a title commemorative of BGW 2011.

Here are a few other authors that I met...

Abel Keogh, author of memoir: Room for Two, which is about recovering from a traumatic event in his life (his wife's suicide). A truly inspiring story and man. He's overcome a lot of challenges and turned out to be an amazing writer.

I've followed Lisa Mangum's career for the past 5-6 yrs. She sent me my first rejection letter, in fact. (No hard feelings though. I TOTALLY deserved it.) Anyhoo, I got the 1st book in The Hourglass Door, a book I should've gotten a LONG time ago. I'm really happy for Lisa and can't wait to read her book.


This is Elana Johnson, author of Possession, which is supposed to be a really amazing story, but since I gave it away as a wedding gift [choke of regret], I'll have to wait until my friend loans it to me when she finishes it. Hear that, Kirsten?!

Then on Friday, I had the pleasure of going to the UCTE conference in SLC. I ran into some CUWP friends and met even more authors.

I read Unwind with my students last year and this year had the pleasure of meeting author Neal Shusterman. He was an excellent public speaker; funny, captivating, thought-provoking. The whole SHA-bang. So I bought another one of his books.

And what do you know, he made it out to my BGW nickname: Gams! I think we can add "intuitive" to the list of Shusterman's traits, right, Texy? Or at the very least, "observant".

Though, I've read Jeff Anderson/Write Guy's book, Mechanically Inclined, I had never met him until Friday. He is the most BRILLIANT public speaker! I'm not kidding. Jeff could easily cover for either Conan or Oprah without batting an eye, and the audience would thank him for it. Anyway, in an odd twist of serendipitous fate, I got to carpool with Jeff back to Utah County. We shared dog stories, recited Shel Silverstein poetry, confessed our texting-while-driving sins, and swapped Thanksgiving ideas. I think we're BFF's now. (That's my girl Chris on the right, btw. CUWPies For Life!)

Ally Condie, an excellent writer of Matched, which I just started and am totally LOVING. I'm a sucker for dystopian YA lit. And the guy is Jon Ostensen. He's vehemently apologizing for not giving me verbal credit for also being a co-editor for the Utah English Journal during the UCTE conference. He made it up to me by asking his friend Ally to sign my book so I didn't have to wait in the ridiculously long line at Ally's table.

Here's the journal, btw.

I got credit on the by-line, but during the conference, the guy in charge of thanking everyone only thanked Jon for the UEJ. I really didn't even notice until Jon mouthed "I'm sorry" from his table.

Wishful thinking! Wait, there's a bonus for that right?

Chris and Heidi, CUWPies!

The Aussie from another posse, CUWP Gary at the conference with us. I meant to get a pic with Debbie Dean too, but I spaced it.


Saturday morning, watching the Payson Temple ground-breaking in the rain. I'm furiously taking notes as I had a deadline a right after the event. [Click to read article.]

I've been really busy. Geez. I need a break.

(Oh, and if you don't get the title of this post, read the Bloggess already!)

How can you be a feminist and a Mormon at the same time?

2011-10-08T19:43:00.000-07:00

My feminist Mormon family (2008 - San Francisco, CA)

The title of this post is a question that a friend asked me recently, followed by "they seem to greatly contradict each other".

First of all, I'll address what kind of feminist I am.

I am the kind of feminist who hates that women didn't have a right to vote until 1920 in America.

I am the kind of feminist who hates that women get paid "only 77 cents on the male dollar [...]. (That number drops to 68% for African-American women and 58% for Latinas.)"(Reference from TIME mag, based on stats from 2009.)

I am the kind of feminist who wants women to have equal rights, but don't want to turn my bra into a pile of ash. I don't look at it as a "harness", I look at it as a tool to improve my posture (as well as other practical applications during the winter season).

I am the kind of feminist who values her role as a mother, but who doesn't want to teach her daughter that the only satisfaction in life comes from being a mother.

Gavin at 3mon. Authentic Mohawk.

I am the kind of feminist who wants her daughter to be educated and have a rich life, not necessarily dependent on the status of her womb.

I am the kind of feminist who wants her son to respect women, not only in the natural way in which all people should respect one another, but also respect the fact that women are pretty much superheroes for being able to grow a human being in the gut for 9 months, and when they aren't doing that they bleed for a week outta every month.That doesn't mean they deserve "special treatment", just respect and compassion for these unique traits.

I am the kind of feminist who wants to kick sexual predators of any kind in the balls/ovaries.

I am the kind of feminist who recognizes the innate biological differences between men and women, but who doesn't let those differences stop me from reaching my goals.

I am the kind of feminist who can open and close her own damn door, (unless I'm pregnant at the time, and in that case, I still can open the door, I just am probably too lazy or tired.) but I respect that "chivalrous" tradition, and I guess you can open and close my door on special occasions. But in daily life if I wait for you to open/shut my door that means we're two-and-a-half more minutes late to work/school/church. UGH.

Tackling obstacles already!

I am the kind of feminist who likes to work outside the home, but respects that some women don't and that they stay home because they want to. I'm not the kind of feminist who feels that my religion forces me to be a stay-at-home mom; although Mormonism does get flack for that by people who assume for a woman Mormonism means being a slave to motherhood. But really stay-at-home mom-ery is just a major suggestion for the benefit of the children. They need daily care from someone who genuinely loves them.

I am not the kind of Mormon who feels threatened that men get the priesthood and major callings in the church.The priesthood is equivalent in importance to child-birthing and rearing in my mind. Also, anyone who has spent anytime as a Mormon, realizes that women are literally "priesthood partners" from shoving our husbands out the door to do home teaching to waving a lesson manual between the flat screen and our husband's eyes to planning major events, functions, fund-raisers. And we do it with flair AND in heels. We're the Hillary to our Bill. The Buffy to our Angel. The Zoe to our Wash.

Zoe and Wash from Firefly

And if this isn't enough to satisfy your curiosity, maybe you should consider your motives for asking. All religions are faith-based. I have faith in mine. You have faith in yours. We can still be friends.

But anyone out there who thinks Mormons can't be feminists or believe in equal rights, you are mistaken. The proof is in the prose-spective.

Magnolias, the Kool-Aid man, and The Grinch

2011-09-29T20:51:00.000-07:00

I scribble when my students scribble. Here's a few nuggets of prose from the past term. They are fictional...ish. We worked mostly on imagery this week.

She has a mass of strawberry curls, a gentle voice, but a grin that matches the Grinch in sinisterness. [side note: I have a Grinch grin, and I'm pretty darn proud of it.]

It's not my Grinch grin, but it'll do.

He has a buzz cut straight out of Top Gun, and an explosive personality, in that it seems dormant and harmless much of the time, then explodes at random intervals, sometimes with elementary-leveled insults like shrapnel on my board. [I heart this kid. Makes me laugh everyday. Today he wrote "underwear" on the paper under the doc. camera. That's what I mean when I say "elementary-leveled insults", b/c he always writes something funny like "bottom" or "barf".]

She has a sunny disposition...like the Kool-Aid man, but without the creepy crashing-through-walls and frightening small children way, and her charisma and modern bohemian style is infectious.

She is a red-headed hairdresser from the Deep South with a sweet drawl and a booming glare. She reaches my shoulders in height, and either smells of magnolias or shrimp, depending on the time of day.

I once thought it would be a good idea to reconnect with a friend from high school. I met up with her for a bagel at Einstein Bagels. She came...late, waltzing in like a glamazon in 5-inch leopard print Jimmy Choos and a tangerine trench.

I had already ordered and waited a good 20 minutes for her to finally decide on lox and bagel. Gross. Who eats that? Raw fish and capers on an Everything bagel? It smelled like salmonella. Then, I had to listen to compliment the cashier on her "wicked piercings". That's just the way she talked. [eyes rolling] I started to remember why we weren't friends anymore. Maybe I felt like I had to compete with her personality too much. There was nothing muted about her. Her brown hair was teased and loud, and her voice boomed like a megaphone.

It was going to be a long lunch. [all fiction]

That was fun. And I didn't mean any offense.

Folios, Persians, and Cheese Curd

2011-09-25T14:00:00.000-07:00

I'm back now from my creative writing conference in Cedar City, and I've returned with a few more poems, teaching strategies, and more fresh cheddar cheese curd than one person can consume. No, really.
Here's a photo of me taking my first bite EVER of cheese curd. Our colleague Dean, born and raised in Delta, UT insisted that we stop in Beaver, UT for this infamous cheese curd. Despite that the food has the most inedible sounding name on Planet Earth, I'd say it was pretty darn tasty when it was fresh. But a couple hours later, curd cheese is rubbery at best.

Dean insisted we stop, and, really, how does one say no to reputable cheese?

Here's a photo of me in front of the glorified cheese store. You know how you go into a 7-11 and find a wall of soda and booze coolers? Glass doors and the whole bit? This place was the same way, but with cheese. You could get any kind of cheese from the "wall o' cheese" on the side of the store. I've never seen anything like it.

I actually had to ask someone what DFA stood for. Oops. heh. heh. I guess this "farm-girl"missed that day in 4-H.

One of the coolest experiences, aside from the royal cheese, was viewing the original Shakespearean Folios on loan from Washington, D.C. held in the gallery in the basement of SUU's campus library.

The other corner of the case has a censor that apparently alerts Washington if anything fishy happens with the case or texts. I dared Mike to lick the case, but he wouldn't do it. I just wanted to see if saliva would bring down the cavalry. P.S. the big one is the folio.

For those who may not know, folios are the "complete" works of Shakespeare, the 1st ever to be published as an omnibus. (It didn't actually have all of his plays, but close.) We got to look at them in a glass case and smile at how all the lower case s's looked like f's. It made reading Shakespeare even more challenging.

Mini Shakespearean plays

Additionally, I got to meet and plug my blog to author, Firoozeh Dumas, who wrote Funny in Farsi in addition to other things. She is a beautiful Iranian American woman with sharp features and the best taste in violet billowing scarfs. In a side note, I had been deemed the friendliest member of our party at this conference (by other colleagues), and ironically, I forgot to ask Dumas if I could take a photo of us for the blog. Damn. (Here's one I found online though.)

Ah well. Instead you get the traditional feet photo and this story about Dumas. Her favorite word in the English language is "serendipity", which apparently gets it's name from an island called Serendip. Never does one plan to land there, it only happens on accident. She told it much more beautifully and with a humorists flair of course.

Teacher feet.

Then back at the conference...
Here's a poem I wrote that was inspired by this line of a poem called "You Begin" by Margaret Atwood:

"Then the world which is round and has only the colors of these nine crayons."

The red crayon of absolutes.
The black of cultural misunderstanding.
The white of superior blandness.
No grey.
The blue of sadness but not the depths of sorrow, depression, and melancholy songs.
The yellow crayon of childhood innocence.
No grey.
The pink of feminine constraints and societal demands.
The green of the earth, cordoned off on the globe by blue globs; a simple division.
No grey.
The brown of dirt, of filth, of muddy waters...and minds.
The orange of sunsets, a color that bleeds emotions and hope. Orange is the mother of new colors.

It's still pretty raw, but as we were taught this weekend, writing isn't always about perfection.
Fun conference.
And...done.

My mom will probably not like this post very much.

2011-09-23T23:22:00.000-07:00

An original folio on loan from Washington, D.C.

I had another post planned, but...

I'm at a conference again! A sweet creative writing conference at SUU. I got to meet poet, J. Allyn Rosser, and after a sordid affair with diction and imagery and 5 versions of a Russian poem about a panther, our love child (this poem) was born. And here it is presented to you without swaddling clothes, without the amniotic fluids swiped from it's face, and cord still attached. (Man, this metaphor is gross.)
I hope you enjoy.

It's like if pecan pie and ice cream were lovers, and I, a food voyeur.

When she spears me with an you're-an-idiot look over the rims of her glasses,
and I end up at home hours later,

Frowning naked in the mirror while finishing off a bag of peanut m&ms,

My chocolate fingerprints evidence for a diet forensic pathologist,
I slide to the bottom of the tub,
Let the water rain down on my convulsing body to bathe my tears.
Yet, the pain remains and now I have a stuffy nose.
Then, mentally, I finger my goals,
My dreams deferred and I curse aloud.

Damn! Flannery O'Connor and her Southern genius on the human condition.
Damn! Meg Wolitzer and her Jewish feminist brilliance.
Damn! Damn! Damn! Stephenie Meyer for being a fluke success.

Buried beneath the weight of words;
I take heart, wipe away black tears,
Kiss my daughter, the next generation feminist;
A Buffy...not a Bella.
A Buffy battling the Bella's of the world.
A roundhouse kick to her pining female foil.
An uppercut to Her male-dependent prose.
Because my daughter deserves an example of me.
She needs to know how to defeat the enemy,
And stake inferiority,
While wearing stylish shoes.

Next up, I'll divulge the AWESOMENESS of the play, Noises Off! and dish all about my encounter with the bestselling author of Funny in Farsi, Firoozeh Dumas. (Spoiler alert: Dumas likes her scarfs and serendipity.)

Ash and I at the sandwich "pub".

Brad talked a big game, but we never played cards. Still we toasted at a "pub".

Did you leave a lingering impression? Yes.

2011-09-23T06:52:00.000-07:00

I've known a lot of people over the years. Growing up my family moved just about every 5 years, and I'm not talking moving from one end of the town to another or even moving from one end of the county to another; I'm talking moves across the United States. I've lived in Missouri, Texas, Nevada, Missouri again, Mississippi, and Utah. Over the years, I've had a chance to meet some pretty incredible people who have had a lasting impression on me, and in some cases I don't think I've ever told some of you just how much you blew my mind.

So here it goes, the first part of a series of thank yous.

Part 1:

(The following nick-names only have relevance to the people involved.)

Alien and Dill, respectively. Jk, they are real people with pseudonyms.

Dear Dill and Alien,

I think you're the first boys to show an interest in me after a tragic childhood experience that changed my perspective on men forever. (I couldn't be more vague, I know, but I don't like to focus on the a-holes in my life; they don't deserve any attention unless it's a swift kick in the balls.) Both of you played a major role in my recovery even though you probably have no clue.

Dill, we were never right for each other, that's obvious EVERY time we have a conversation now, but what you taught me that fateful summer evening (Was it summer? I don't even remember) was that I could be attractive again. I realize your actions following that day were LAME almost beyond redemption, but to be fair, you didn't know how damaged I was. And we were teens so...[shrug.] Anyway, thanks.

Alien, my first crush who reciprocated my feelings in earnest and dedication even though I moved 2 states away soon after we became an item, I think you helped re-establish some of the confidence I had lost as a young girl. You might even have helped sow the seeds of the current feminist me. We too would never have lasted, but it's not really about that. I'm grateful that you were in my life for that short period of time.

Sincerely,

Disco Queen

Stay Tuned for part 2: Where I thank people for being jack wagons to me.

Can't get much more real than this...

2011-09-20T19:10:00.000-07:00

We've seen a lot of posts about getting real and sharing our imperfections for the greater good, especially from Single Dad Laughing and Brandi Douglass's blog, and as heart-wrenching and strangely uplifting it has been, I decided to take it one step further.

I'm going to show you a picture of me really drawing out my blackheads with a cleansing mask.

The face I really make to my kids when I put on a mask. Gavin used to get scared, but now he just laughs. Cole said, "You look like Michael Myers." I responded accordingly...with a giant butcher knife.

I was going to post a photo of my bathroom right this second so you could see just how gross it is (it would be symbolic of how terrible my housekeeping has gotten in the last few months) but the pictures just didn't capture the dog hair on the carpet or the toothpaste splatters on the mirrors or the ring in the toilet well enough, so all you get is this awesome picture of me doing something real.

I also really shave my legs and pits everyday or every other day. (Depending on whether I have to work the next day, if I feel like it, or if I am having a fat day. Fat Day = shave legs to feel better about appearance. Heels required too.)
I really pluck the brows, but not as often as I should.
I really use skin firming moisturizer that reduces (or at least claims to reduce) the appearance of cellulite on the backs of my legs.
I really clip my toes nails.
I really blow my nose.
I really would get a nose job if I could.
I really yell at my kids when I lose my temper.
I really don't vacuum.
I really would rather watch the Kardashians instead of vacuuming and any other housework.
I really never plunge; I leave that job to the hubby.
When the dog has an accident, it is really all-of-a-sudden my husband's dog, not mine.

I really wanna be a full-time writer.

Are you brave enough to get this real on your blog? C'mon. Post a real picture, and then tell me so I can link it here.

Most days, I'm barely hanging on

2011-09-17T13:37:00.000-07:00

I have a slew of imperfections.

A slew.

A blogger once said that if we spent less time building a ruse of "perfection" and more time sharing our imperfections with the idea of helping others with similar buried struggles, everyone will see that there is no perfect person and the real perfection is likely accepting ourselves for what we are, and eliminating that guilt we feel from our constant failures, whether in our heads or not. He did not mean to say that we shouldn't try to get help, but stop trying to paint your life as perfect to the people around you. It takes too much energy and it's not helping anyone, least of all yourself.

In the spirit of divulging the truth about what may look like "perfection" to the casual observer (see this blog post), here's what my life is really like: (It's REALLY going to help and make more sense if you read that other blog post first.)

I sit in bottom of my shower and sob about once a week.
I work out to clear my head and sometimes work out so hard that the pain I feel in my legs and body is strong enough to distract me from the pain in my heart. I suppose it's better than how I used to self-medicate with food.
I take on too much, but I have trust issues and that's why I don't delegate much.
I may seem outspoken in public, but at home I eat my words and swallow them into a pit of bitterness and resentment. It's a coping mechanism that I'm aware of now and am trying to work on.
I lack faith and hope when I need it the most.
I curse.
I alienate my friends and husband and blame them for what was probably more my fault than theirs. But I never have the guts to actually bring up my problems in a conversation.
I doubt myself ALL THE TIME.

Kristen Bell

I may be a size 10 right now, which is the smallest I've ever been since 8th grade, and people tell me all the time that I look great, thin, awesome, cute, whatever. It makes no difference, b/c I feel fat and I don't know if I have a complex or what, but I want the exact body of Kristen Bell. Yet, I'm scared that if I had that body, I still wouldn't be satisfied. And I think I am fat and ugly and completely unattractive about 90% of the time. The compliments feed me for a moment or two, but then I see a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The wrinkles. My wide, dough-y thighs. The dark circles under my stressed eyes. It's not pretty.
I often wonder if this is it for me.
I never fully understood "A Dream Deferred" by Langston Hughes until this year.
I don't take enough responsibility for the problems in my life.
I don't love teaching sunbeams.
I don't apologize enough.
I sacrifice a lot for my kids, but I don't think it's enough. I think they'll end up damaged somehow b/c of me.
I feel strangely satisfied when I learn that other "perfect" people have problems worse than mine, and then feel resentful when they figure out how to fix those problems, when meanwhile I'm still treading water. I hate that I do that, and I'm so so so sorry.
I'm a terrible person.
I'm extremely hard on myself. (Ask Shan. She has a firm testimony of this.)
Most days, I'm barely hanging on.
I can't afford a lot of things, but mostly, I can't afford to get the help I need.

Even as I write this, I can't imagine how it's supposed to help anyone. I just feel like I broadcasted my dirty laundry for all the world to see so that everyone could be present for my pity-party. But the thing is pity-parties are not so helpful, if you ask me. I've never been the kind of person to tell anyone--but my closest friends--about my issues, b/c of that stupid "perfection" front that I've tried to cultivate in the past. Plus I don't wanna bother other people with my stuff.
And I'm freaked that someone will use it to attack me, silently and passive-aggressively judge me, or do that self-satisfied thing that I'm guilty of. Or worse...pity me.

In any case, this is hands down the scariest blog post I've ever written.
I hope it can help someone.
Anonymous (or not) comments are welcome.

Taxidermied Newborns

2011-09-15T09:07:00.000-07:00

I frequently have bad dreams, but never as bad as when I was pregnant with my 1st kid.

Once I dreamt that I was in a movie like "Along Came a Spider" and I was an FBI agent investigating a string of kidnappings that raised the hairs on the back of the Bureau's neck. The victims were pregnant women in their last days of gestation.

As I interviewed people in the vicinity of the last known victim, who was of course the Senator's daughter (which is how the FBI became involved in the first place), I knocked on this guy's door and smelled something acrid and foul. Using that as reason enter for "probable cause" I busted that door open and then discovered that he was a taxidermist.

I thought "oops", and started to leave when I heard a thumping and a muffled cry. The guy, a tall lanky fellow with unwashed hair and ruddy grime under his fingernails, looked panicked, so I hand-cuffed him to a radiator and went into the guy's basement. At the bottom of the dark stairwell, I squinted to see a large chain-linked dog kennel. Inside sat a pregnant woman, cradling the swell of her belly and rocking to the sounds of her own sobs. Despite her matted swath of blonde hair and the filth camouflaging her face, I knew that she matched our victim's description. Behind her the walls of the perp's "work room" were lined with a creepy menagerie of plump gnomes, dressed and posed like dolls. One step closer and I realized they were taxidermied babies.

My lungs became a vacuum and I gasped, feeling as if someone were squeezed my airway shut. I clutched my own gut, reminding the audience of the subplot, which was that I had recently discovered my own pregnancy. [Because, yes, my nightmares generally have full plots and subplots. It's a blessing and a curse.]

And then I woke up.

I had to turn on Spongebob for like 2 hrs. to forget that dream.

It has been said that I inadvertently gave my child her first encounter with severe anxiety with that dream. I only have pregnancy to blame. And if one you dares to blame in on the amount of spicy foods I ate during my pregnancy or some other nonsense, you'll be getting narrowed eyes and an e-flip off from this momma. Obviously, I didn't mean to dream this.

Notes to my 20 yr old self...

2011-09-13T09:42:00.000-07:00

Wear flip-flops on your wedding day.

Don't work at a pizza place or anywhere that enables you to gain weight or causes you to be wrongfully interrogated by the police.
You are not immune to diabetes.
Consider taking more writing classes...or a double major.
When you get pregnant with Layne in a couple years, don't assume "eating for two" means "eat whatever the hell you want."
Follow Shan's advice. Always. Period.
Don't pine. For anyone. It's a waste of time and energy. Especially boys 1 & 2.
You'll save money and weight-gain by avoiding Olive Garden for 5 yrs.
Try out for soccer at UVU. You'll never know if you don't try.
Travel more.
Don't have kids until you're 30.
Save money and listen to mom when she says, "don't get a credit card."
Don't lose confidence when someone doesn't value you the way you should be valued. It's not you, it's them.
Treat everyone like they are having the worst day of their life. (But not with the intention to make it worse.)
Write furiously and often. You'll make it.
Live in a dump for a longer period of time so that you can save more for a house and vacations, etc.
Become BFF's with Dave Ramsey and follow all of his advice. End of story.
Recognize the symptoms of ______________early. And don't go it alone.
Layne will have anxiety. That's why she can't sleep. It's not because you're a bad mom.
When you think that guy at Wendy's is cute...walk away. He's trouble. Three words: Britney Spears posters.

Look, I got a new header!

2011-09-10T14:32:00.000-07:00

Brandi inspired me when she challenged me to a Scrabble thrown-down next March. It's the first of a series of Scrabble-inspired headers that I'll cycle through as needed. (Plus, Brandi, you're going down!)

Plus, update on the Morford family's efforts to adopt: I got this email today.

Rena,
I was so moved by the post you shared with us, I don't know what to say. I really can't put into words what all of this has meant to me and how it is affecting me as a person. With how exhausted I am by everything that is going on right now, I feel like I am missing the depth and breadth of all of it. Perhaps one day it will all sink in.
I have to update you again...we had $500 donated today by someone we don't know. With the way things have gone the last two days, we know these donations are all due to your article. This brings it up to a total of $900! Thank you again, Rena!
Alisa :)

I am so happy that they are getting the help they need to achieve this goal.

9/11: Even the reporters sobbed

2011-09-09T17:14:00.000-07:00

My sister was the first person to tell me about the twin towers on Sept. 11, 2001.

We were roommates at the time, both in college, so rolling out of bed in the mid-morning was habitual. My sister had gotten up earlier than me and snagged the shower before I could even rub the eye boogers away. I was barely up and about when Bennet started screaming at me to come in the bathroom and listen to what she just heard on the radio. I burst in, and we listened, a backdrop of water spraying from the showerhead and the radio host, Jimmy Chunga, a virtual comedian of radio tried to explain what happened, but kept pausing. These long pregnant pauses. Pausing to catch his breath. Pausing out of shock. Stumbling over his words and grasping for coherency, yet all the while the hesitations in his breath and speech marked a rise in the body count.

Unable to piece together the events with Chunga's choppy description, I fled from the bathroom and switched on the TV in the next room, then stared in horror at the scene.

Two towers in New York City. One smoking like a thick match.
The other sturdy, untouched.

The camera capturing the visage shook like a scene from the Blair Witch Project. Suddenly, my sister was beside me, bathrobed and dripping wet, her face a stone carving of dismay as victims flung themselves from windows and fell like rag dolls to an off-camera destination.

Whatever words we might have said at the time didn't capture the fear and anguish we felt for those poor people. Anything we might've spoken was hardly an epitaph for that moment.

I knew what I was seeing, but I didn't understand it. I tried to wrap my mind around the tragedy, helplessly watching the the fire devour the building. We both watched powerless, thousands of miles away, wondering if it could get any worse in NY.

Then, a second plane flew out of the corner of the screen, tilting slightly to the left, and plunged into the other tower, striking the match with a plume of flames and ash.

Even the reporters sobbed.

And yes, we decided, it could get worse.
And it did.

I'm humbled...

2011-09-08T19:16:00.000-07:00

The Morford family: Angels among us.

As a correspondent for the Daily Herald, I get to interview all kinds of people. Some with harrowing survival stories, noble causes, inspiring life-stories, and others who are the warm fuzzy blankets of our community.

With every article I write, there's a piece of me who realizes how selfish I am, and that I ought to be out there doing something better for the community or doing more for my students or more children across the world. Writing these stories gives me a simultaneous feeling of gratitude for the people in my community and sadness that I'm not helping as much as I could be...as much as the people I write about are.

Then, this week I was given a story to write about a Genola family who is trying to adopt 2 children from Russia, a task that will ultimately cost them $55,000, which will all have to be raised in one way or another as they are not a family of great financial means. As I read Alisa Morford's blog about her attempts to raise the money and her gratitude for even the smallest contributions, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude and love for this family. They have unfailing faith that this is the task they are supposed to accomplish, and even though it seems as if it could be the equivalent to Noah's task of building a boat, the Morford's plunged in with feet. And they had only met one of the Russian kids for a week before they KNEW he and his sister should be a part of their family.

Here's the link to the actual article: (click me).

The story made the front page of the paper today. Something, I have never been able to accomplish prior, but I know why. Those kids belong with the Morfords. Here's the letter I received in an email sent to both the friend to told me about the Morford's plan and me.

Dear, dear ladies...
I only have a moment so I'm emailing you both at the same time. I am not quite sure of your connection with each other, but I do know that you both have made efforts that have already been so beneficial that I wanted to thank you both and give you an update!
First of all, Rena, the article was so, so very well written! It included the feeling I had hoped would come across...your focus and wording conveyed those things I wanted addressed in my concerns about how people would react to a family our size adopting two more children. I really feel that all of this was the Lord's will and that there is a work to do here. I didn't realize it as fully until I read your article! Thank you both for being so inspired!
I want you to know that we have had at least 100 views of our blog already today, most of which are coming through the Herald's website. The other wonderful blessing is that your efforts have already been worth over $400 to our fund. People have been donating to UCCU and through the blog...more than has happened yet. So, this is all due to your efforts, the focus of the article and how well it communicated that which needed to be.
Thank you, thank you, thank you! We are anxiously brainstorming ways of thanking anonymous donors on our blog. But, I'd like to thank you both personally for what you did today!
Much Love and Gratitude,
Alisa :)

[www.twomore.blogspot.com]

P.S. I have to add that we were absolutely floored that we were on the front page. What an incredible thing! What a memory maker! We have obtained enough copies for all the childrens' albums...including two for Ruslan and Nastiya. :) Thank you for blessing us in so many ways.

I'm so happy that I helped make a difference in this small way.

I heart you, Morfords, and I hope your family is whole soon.

Sincerely,

Rena

Romantic Comedies are Liars

2011-09-06T08:53:00.000-07:00

Nothing ever happens the way they do in love stories or romance comedies, and people who do think their love-life is like a flipping Matthew Maconahay and Amy Adams whirlwind romance, are in for some tough times.

"I'm going to ignore the fact that you wanna be with me just for an apartment and dump you b/c of your ug hair. Plus I wanna be with the guy who has to save the bar he let go to hell b/c he has no financial smarts whatsoever. But it's ok, cuz we're in love."

Maybe some married couples have an unbelievable first introduction on an elevator where both were awkwardly singing the lyrics to the Boni Jovi muzak playing in the elevator speakers. Or maybe they met when "future-husband" bumped into "future-wife" while rushing around the corner on the way to the office. His brawny shoulders knocking the files from the Guentenburg case (cuz she's a lawyer in this scenario) from her arms in a slow-motion tornado of attorney-jargoned papers, whilst a one-handed tune on the piano catches the drama of the moment as she sees his wry smile and the freckles on his nose for the first time. But the way a romance starts is not the climax of most people's lives. It's pretty much the exposition.

"Allow me to dump you on your wedding day. I've been fornicating with another woman anyway, so this will be better for both of us. Plus she's J-Lo, so...really there's not even a choice here."

And I hate how romantic comedies always break-up the main characters prior to them actually taking the plunge. They break up, because one mistakenly cheated on the other. Or they break up, because one didn't stand up for the other's convictions. Or they break up, because one chooses to take a job away from the other. What I hate about that is that in real life a break-up like that wouldn't be "magically" (with the help of a mariachi band and an outdoor ice skating rink in the snow) reparable. Because it's a red flag. People who break up just before a wedding, don't get back together, generally. Too many red flags.

"I ditch men at the alter...a lot. Plus, I'm a chameleon who becomes what you want, when you want it. But it's ok. We are meant to be together forever, since you are only after my story anyway. That's a match made if I ever saw one...And, hey! I have seen 3 others!"

Or maybe they do.

Did you?

We never spooned. I swear.

2011-09-05T09:24:00.000-07:00

This weekend turned out to be a girls-only weekend. Not only that it was a English Education majors weekend. And 66.6% of it was a English teachers weekend.

What do 3 English Education majors do on a 3-day weekend?

run a Big Foot 5K (see link for full disclosure)

BIG FOOT Blood-run 5K. We walked it.

Sasquatch hanging out by our trail.

I heart Big Foot. And apparently, so does Nic. hehehe

cough up dust from the run
wash grime from our legs and feet after the run
eat steak
munch on loaded potato skins
chow on loaded sweet potatoes
stuff our faces with rolls with cinnamon butter
down 3 bacon and onion ring sliders
consume spinach artichoke dip on pitas
devour caramel waffles and fresh fruit
ingest apple brie omelet with fried potatoes
and have hand-to-mouth "relations" with pancakes for good measure
watch romantic comedies and throw pillows at the TV in disgust.
swim
lay out
nap
hot tub
"J-Dub" (Shan's abbreviation for Jehovah's Witnesses.) We met a few who were in town for a convention. We are not converted, however, as the one dude from the hot tub kept saying "I seen" instead of "I saw" or "I've seen". For English teachers he might as well have spelled "college" wrong (like "collage"). Otherwise, we'd be card-carrying, wet from dunking "J-Dubs" by now. Plus we learned that "J-Dubs" aren't opposed to having a poolside Bud Light. Did not know their policy on drinking, and now we know.
blog
facebook

The thinker.

watch Planet of the Apes
nap some more
shop.

Obi belt

meet cool people. Other than the "J-Dubs", we met a lady in a boutique who lived in Egypt for many years, and she had some rad rings and a belt that I wouldn't pay $25 for but I'd sure as hell buy a knock off here for 10 cents cheaper. No, seriously, that's the cheapest one I could find online. Granted, I didn't spend too much time looking for it.

not purchase things and then regret it later. I found a coat that I MUST have. I couldn't afford it, however, but when I'm famous enough from writing this blog or from my second novel, they'd send me the coat for free like swag to Angelina.
purchase things and not regret it later
drink copious amounts of Diet Mt. Dew and vanilla root beer.
text
talk
chat
On a completely unrelated topic, remember that time I dragged a cat under my car on the interstate for a mile without realizing it? No? Well, I explain it later, but it did happen. The cat lived. If that instance were a metaphor for other mistakes in my life, I'd sure hope that the cat would survive every time.
spill guts
gossip
share "vault" stories
not-share "vault" stories
compare teaching stories
compare student stories
try to stump our Linguistics Ph.D candidate from the University of Georgia with sentence diagramming Click on this link. It's worth it.
....twice.

(The linguist won. Twice.)
sing
share favorite songs about hotels
share favorite songs about love
meet ma'am/the guy at the front desk whose name we can't remember and somehow settled on ma'am. I can't remember why, but it's a fair bet that I can blame Shan.
have thumb wars

Ten bucks on the red watch.

trade SLAP watch innards
purely platonic snuggling. No spooning
made a cricket out of cheap silverware that wasn't stolen from a Greek restaurant. Cross my heart.

Not a cricket, but fun with forks anyway.

kissed a horse with a newspaper face

Can I get some action from the equine section?

Creepy looking bottom half if you ask me. Both me and the horse.

questioned whether the morbidly obese homeless man holding a BIG GULP cup outside of a restaurant really needed money for food. If ever the term "belly spilling out to his knees" applied, this would be the time. I'm quoting Shan. (Uh-oh. Brandi might have something to say about this. But if you were there, Brandi, I swear you would've been a little hesitant to fork over some cash.)
acquired our fair share of mini bottles of orange ginger Bath and Body Works lotion, shampoo, and conditioners
watch E! news
share make-up and lotion
make duck faces

"Duck face"

I'd vacation with these girls any day. I heart you guys.

I couldn't think a metaphor for my life that involves a rubber chicken...

2011-08-30T11:27:00.000-07:00

...so you get one about my garden.

My life is a lot like my garden right now. And not in a good way.
School started, which is actually a good thing.

1st day of school photo. That's how we roll.

What? That's what my face looks like.

So when you give a kid a camera, not all photos will be of the floor.

And I started kid-swapping with my friend on my off days. Also not a bad thing. Keeps my son entertained better than Spongebob, so it's a win-win. It does make me busier, but there's a little money in it, so...

Still seems like summer.

Gavin in all his Capt. Underpants glory is in his "space-ship". Again...that's how we roll.

But how does this fit into the garden metaphor. It seems like my life is overrun with weeds. As much as I try to keep those little buggers out, they are taking over. And I just don't have the time to really nourish it the way it deserves.

Can't tell weed from plant? Sometimes I can't either.

I should be getting baskets full of tomatoes, corn, pumpkins, carrots, onions...

...potatoes, herbs, green peppers, jalapenos, raspberries, beans...

...cantaloupe, watermelon, peas...

...zucchini and squash.


But I I'm getting mostly weeds. (And that awesome shadow.)


Instead, I get this every couple of days. It's barely enough to feed one person, much less my family.

I feel like those weeds have taken over my whole life. Sometimes I think, "if only I had enough time to weed more, I'd be able to save it." But I don't have the time. I can't give up the other things in my life for reasons that I can't divulge. Everything is necessary. Nothing expendable. (OK, I guess if I had to, I could give up Dexter.)

The responsibilities seem overwhelming. A burden I bear with a tangible weight. I can't keep up with the weeds. They are suffocating my garden and my life.

But what can I do? Give up on my garden? on my life? Cut out something? What? Tell me. What in my life is absolutely unnecessary? (And if you say "this blog", I'll punch you in the e-kidneys.)

But what do the students think of me?

2011-08-27T07:20:00.000-07:00

I've often wondered what my students, past and present, think of me as a teacher, mentor, and Weezer aficionado, and I suppose asking them is one way to find out. However, Bri, a former student and official member of my zombie apocalypse survival team (according to a facebook), really let me know what she thought of me when I showed up as the "magical pet" to her Disney Princess on another awesome and completely accurate facebook list. I told her that if I had to be anybody's supporting character [psh], much less a "magical friggin' pet", then I better be as awesome as a liger.

Here's what Bri responded with:

It's good to know I'm an impact on these young people.

‎"The underbrush rustled as something prowled through it, disturbing the peaceful scene laid out before the beautiful punk princess. The birds and woodland creatures flew in haste from the being approaching, too frightened of what was coming to stick around. The curtain of forestry seemed to part, making way for a Smithey. A Smithey was a rare creature with deep blue eyes that were large and luminous and a screeching wail that sounded like a Weezer song gone wrong. Elongated claws stretched out of hands and feet and looked like they were used for piercing through the hearts of students and feasting upon them; for a Smithey has no heart of its own. After obtaining a bachelor's degree and signing themselves away to a lifetime of servitude, they devil stole it and turned it into this unholy creature of awesome proportions. This was the princess's talking magical pet."

The accuracy is uncanny. My talons are totally long and affixed with red-inked pens.

I'll have to scan the pic that Bri drew of my doppelganger, Ms. Mithey. (She's the fat one.)

PS. What do you other former students think of me? Or maybe I should stop while I'm ahead. I mean, really, who can top Bri's description?

Top Ten Teaching Moments of the First Week

2011-08-25T09:53:00.000-07:00

Having 2 "Brandon"s and 1 "Brendon" in a class. Confusing.
Having 3 Caitlin/Kaitlyn/Katelyns in a class. I'll never get them all down. Maybe I should put 'em all together in a group then, I'd wave a hand in their direction and mentally be like, "That's the KATE-Lin group", and worry about spelling later.
Explaining why my school insignia-ed beer mug (what? that's what it is. I use it for pens.) is faded, antiquated if you will to 3 classes. It's because my colleague put it in Jell-O after I stole his bathroom pass and wrapped it up for the "white-elephant" gift exchange at the faculty Christmas party.
That one girl who understood my "Plums defy" reference. I heart her.
Already getting into an argument with 3 boys about who would win in a fight: superman, wolverine, or Darth Vader. (Vader would be dead in 2 seconds, Wolverine would lace his adamantium skeleton with Kryptonite, and...you know where this is going. My money's on the hot one.)
Forgetting my lunch twice. That's what my stash of popcorn is for.
Explaining that I am a "real writer" whatever that means.
Explaining that my name is hyphenated and that the maiden one isn't French; it's Spanish. And then explaining that I'm 1/4 Mexican, which everyone always assumes is sarcasm. It's not. I am...or uh...soy? Is that "I am" in Espanol? I should probably sabo that.
Already losing my temper with a class, but mentally blaming it on my period. Hopefully, they are forgiving and never read this blog and bring that up in class. AWKWARD. P.S. estudiantes, if you are reading this, and have a sneaky suspicion that it's written by your English teacher, know this... Your teacher has a doppelganger with...the same name as her and everything. Which is me. The blogger. Yah. Not your teacher. I swear. [Sidebar: Wouldn't the bloggelganger be a kick-a name for a blog? Wonder if it's already out there...I checked. It's not. dibs.]
Accidentally cursing. Already. It was a minor one, and under my breath, so I don't think anyone heard me. [fingers crossed] and if so, it wasn't me, remember? or her. Ah, geez. Now, I've confused my alter-ego.

What's your personal reading history?

2011-08-19T12:34:00.000-07:00

At first, I read to catch up.

I heart my kindle.

As the youngest child of 2 highly educated readers and a sister to several card-carrying, glasses-wearing, inside "Narnia" joke-telling siblings, I read to keep up. I had to know why the number 42 was a hilarious response to the question, "What's the meaning of life?" I had to know what was in that paperback whose cover was so worn that the title was nearly illegible. I had to know who Vorkosigan was and why he came up at every meal time. I had to know.

Once I did get caught up and understood all the jokes and conversational allusions, I found my own reading niche. So, at first, sheer anxiety that I was "missing something" fueled my desire. Now, my desire is fueled by the craving to produce my own smirks at a weathered page in one of my favorite books.

Bloggess convert number bazillion

2011-08-18T08:17:00.000-07:00

This post was my first trip to the bloggessverse [click on blue words], and I have mixed feelings.

Sure I laughed my ass off, but thanks to the bloggess, I now have puffy eyes. People will think I have been crying. That's the last thing a woman needs is for her male (and female) colleagues to think she's weak. Some will just assume "period", while others will mistake my tears for the stress of having a new dog (and they wouldn't be too far off).

BUT alas, how do I explain that it wasn't tears of the hormone pin ball game going on in my body, nor the shedding and frequent "accidents" of my new pooch [hahahaha...didn't mean for that to sound like I was still talking about my period. oops. And eww.], but rather a photo of Nathan Fillion and his jock strap o'twine. or Nathan holding the "Christ-child of twine", all framed with the glorious, hilarious prose of one BLOGGESS.

I heart you, Bloggess.

Rena

Legacy of Writers

2011-08-17T13:52:00.000-07:00

My principal asked each of us to write what we wanted our legacy to be (as teachers). Here's mine.

Other than becoming the next Flannery O'Connor and/or Meg Wolitzer...
I want to leave this earth knowing that I helped my students discover their voice.
I want to reacquaint them with "writing for pleasure", until the two are inseparable.
I want to students to recognize the written word as one of the most universal and transcendent vehicles of communication, and then for them to participate and share.
I want students to drive their voice into the map of shared human experience, not like a pin, but a railroad spike.
I want them to know why a sentence can be as profound as a novel.
I want them to use words as a release.
I want them to use words as therapy.
I want their words to heal.
I want to produce Martin Luther Kings, Hemingways, Dickens, Wells, Hawthornes, Poes, and Woolfs.
I want to create writers.

Either that or have the largest collection of shoes in 3 counties.

Bear Lake. Check.

2011-08-14T21:42:00.000-07:00

Gavin is locked and loaded.

With summer at a close, I feel the trip to Bear Lake was the perfect (too cliche, I know) ending to a BUSY summer. I'm not kidding when I say "busy". I went to 3 conferences this summer, which ate up 6 weeks of my 2 1/2 months of summer. Not cool. (Yet cool on a ton of other levels.)

Traditional vacation recap blog posts are kind boring, so I'm trying something newish.

Thoughts I had while vacationing at Bear Lake this summer.

Yes! Our campsite is right across from the bathrooms.
Ew. Spider in the toliet. I wonder if I can get my 3 yo son to aim for it when he pees.
Why is the water all gunky? I bet it's cause the lake is so much higher/fuller this year. But it sure is gross for about 10 feet out from the shore. I can feel the grass tickle my calves and feet. It has a thin quality like damaged hair. I suppose there could be a body down there. Last year, you could've seen a corpse for a quarter-mile out, but this year, any local guido could drop off a "package" at the lake and safely have a month before anyone discovered it.
When we were out kayaking, Molly told me about some scary vombie facts that I'd never considered. Did you know they don't breathe? They could just walk along the bottom of the lake and reach up and ravage your brains before you had the sense to knock em in the head with an ore.
The sand is nice. Beachy. Some shells. Imported? Not really sure how that works.
Layne has a new swimsuit. Black, pink piping, and a pattern of spiraling hearts in neon colors, straight outta the Lisa Frank design catalog.
Cole and Gavin just left. It only took a few minutes to pack up their stuff. A Buzz Lightyear sleeping bag, some pillows, a bicycle with training wheels. 2 sippy cups, snacks for the road. Both seemed ready and pleased to hit the road. To get back to the comforts of society: electricity, hot water, a microwave.
I could sit out on the water for a week.
The beach has a soft breeze blowing in from the Northwest. It makes kayaking challenging, but tones the arms nicely.
The sound of the waves nudging the shoreline is repetative and real. Not like some cheap CD with ocean and rainforest sounds. It's cadence isn't overbearing, and I feel coaxed to it's siren whisper. (too cheesy?)
I should flip to tan my back now.
I should work on the next section of my weight loss memoir. It's titled, "Just a girl"
I was "just a girl" for my youth. A girl was something that wasn't isolated to gender. In my childhood home it was a role. It was cooking, cleaning, gardening, weeding, sewing, baking, care-taking, teaching. It was child-rearing. I was made to make babies.
In later years, I discovered this as one of the most divine roles ANY person can fill, but as a teen and girl in my twenties, I treated this "role", not with respect, but rather as a job I was forced to take. I'm sure my mom tried to explain it to me with the same fervor as a priest explaining confession, but all I hear was, "You have to be a mom. If you fail at that, you fail at life."
I approached this with both rejection and earnest panic that I might never achieve this goal.
OK. That's good for now. My back is toasty anyway.
Do other people sit in front of a body of water and muse that they might have the words to change the world? That somehow if they could piece together the right combination of words and phrases that their ideas would be transcendent? universal? unifying? A female voice breaking the shakles of "role" bondage?
Why is it that everytime my family gets together, we come up with some great family business idea? I'm starting to think that my ambition is not my own, but that each member of my family is plagued? with it. The Bear Lake idea sounds pretty darn cool, however, so be watching for that launch.

Layne's new suit.

[When trying to use a bathroom in the back of a mini grocery a mile away from camp.] Ew. Why is that urinal taped up? Where is the toliet paper? Is that an earwig? Is it supposed to be mutant-sized. [then the sound of the door shutting as I fled the scene. I also made a pool of hand sanitizer in each palm to clean the ick off.]

There's more, but that about covers it for now. Hope you enjoy the photos!

I built a lot of sandcastles with Layne.

Not sure what she's saying, but we can safely assume it's, "I'm hungry." The girl eats constantly.

More sandcastles.

PS. These are my new shoes. Better pic to come.

[sigh.] See you after school starts.

What would you do...

2011-08-06T20:28:00.000-07:00

Laurie Halse Anderson posted a writing prompt about self-sabatoging ourselves as writers. She encouraged us to think about what we would do if we became wildly successful, what would be the worst thing that would happen if we did, and who benefits if we don't become successful?

I pretty much loved the prompt, because I love to fantasize about my future success. But I shoot myself in the foot by fantasizing more about what my success will be like instead of actually writing to succeed. I do the same thing with exercise and weight loss. I set a goal, but set myself up to fail by eating crappy foods.

In any case, here's what I'd do with my wildly successful writing paycheck: pay off my school-loans. Strange how my plans have become less elaborate over the years. I used to want a speed boat and wake-boarding equipment and a summer home on a sandy coastline. I bet if I dialed it back far enough, I'd recall the time I wanted my own amusement park and a unicorn.

I haven't thought much about the whole "who would benefit from my stunted creativity?" concept. Obviously no one. Least of all me.

I also haven't thought of the worst thing that could happen if I did become successful, and I'd have to say that as a writer, I doubt I'll ever have enough fame to a) get a stalker [but I'm hoping you'd fake it, Texy.] or b) be forced to make my children wear Presidential masks in public. However, I bet it would suck to have pressure to write a best-seller every year.

Still...
I'd take it.
And I'm off to write.
Thanks, Laurie.

P.S. I'm off to Bear Lake, so I'll see you all in a week! e-hugs and e-kisses.

Bear Lake last year.

Write for 15 minutes a day

2011-08-04T11:01:00.000-07:00

I'm doing a challenge this August called "Write fifteen minutes a day" or WFMAD, inspired by the lovely and talented Laurie Halse Anderson (author of Speak). I'm only on day four, but I'm happy to announce that I am knocking this challenge outta the park! I write 4 times the mininmum required 15 minutes on a good day.
Anyhoo, a lot of what I write is either too personal to post or is work on a current project. I don't feel good about posting it now, cuz I have hopes that it will be published one day.

In any case, I figured I better take a few of these 15 minutes to blog.

So here it goes.

My first kiss. HA! Just kidding. Not telling you that story, e-peeps.

I think I'm just going to write a scene from a story I am making up on the spot...

The corn stood a full three feet higher than his head, and the limbs of the corn stalks slapped him fives on his outstretched arms and palms as he ran. His forearms would be red when he got home, maybe even a little bloody. Mom would ask what happened. He would explain, and she would understand the "how", but not the "why".

Danny closed his eyes and ran. If the corn field were a green map of Kansas, Danny was a spot of orange running across the state.

Instinctually, he slowed. The corn became less dense, and less welcoming; their limbs seemed to droop. Behind him wind rustled the corn, but one step more and the wind stopped as if an invisible threshold around the creature could halt Mother Nature. A crow cawed a warning to his left, but Danny raised his chin and stepped over the unseen barrier.

The creature welcomed Danny with outstretched arms, blackened straw piercing the stitched cuffs of the plaid shirt. Giant overalls whose color had long since been bleached by the sun were cinched at the waist with strip of leather. Its gunny sack head slung forward, hiding its face, but revealing it's support.
A cross.
A Cross like Jesus, thought Danny.
A small placard nailed beneath the creatures feet had some hand-painted letters. Squinting, Danny sounded them out. "Wish I had a brain".

Danny bent and craned his neck to see the face of the creature. No eyes. No nose. But an off-center smile stitched on with black thread. Danny felt his balance teetering, and stood straight to steady himself.

From the left, a discordant chorus of crows broke the silence, and Danny remembered the wind. He glanced behind him. The stalks danced and whispered to each other, and Danny breathed.

Then, he heard a sound that didn't make sense. That sound that a person makes when jumping off a bail of hay and onto the ground. Or out of the truck bed and onto the driveway. But Danny was the only person around, and his feet were firmly on the ground. He hadn't jumped.
Had the creature... Danny thought.
Wind blew at his turned cheek. But it wasn't the wind, it couldn't be. Wind didn't exist on that side of the barrier. What then?, Danny thought.

Another breath on his cheek, and Danny froze.
Not like Jesus, he thought. Jesus didn't snarl.

Signs of Stress

2011-08-02T16:07:00.000-07:00

jagged fingernails
a spoon and carton of ice cream (eliminating the middle-man: bowl)
snacking when appetite-less
fetal position in the shower
black tears
screaming
silence
running to the serenades of Coldplay or the Killers or Snow Patrol
Fingers aching from writing in excess; words that will never see the corneas of another living human being
raccoon eyes
a forehead that cannot relax
restless sleep
sleepy during the day
carb-fest at every meal.
getting reacquainted with my old BF: peanut m&m's.

PS. It's been rough.

My Thoughts While Listening to Joss Whedon's Q & A at Comic Con: San Diego

2011-07-28T22:40:00.000-07:00

I'm watching a Joss Whedon interview at Comic Con: San Diego that I found at BuffyFest.

Here are my thoughts while viewing and listening to the Whedonverse puppet master, Joss Whedon.

I've decided that I am one day going to comic con, only the biggest friggin' comic nerd conference ever.

I wanna push my nerd limits.

and co-author something with Joss.

that's another goal.

Is that like "crossing the streams"?

These people asking Joss questions are so nervous! It's hilarious. I wouldn't be such a nerd if I was having a conversation with Joss.

...

OK. Let's be honest...

...I'd pee a little.

But at the advice of my friend, Shan, I'll just wear Poise.

Joss just said he would take buffy to broadway.

if possible.

and Dr. Horrible in adjacent theaters.

My life just got 97% better.

I'd totally fly to NY for Buffy, the Musical.

twice.

thrice.

Joss just said he wrote Alien Resurrection. I didn't know that. Or maybe I did. I suppose there was a dusty spot in the very corner of my mental Whedonverse file cabinet.

I know he wrote Toy Story. Or was a writer for it.

Really Joss??? Another Dr. Horrible?

Dr. Horrible II!

I don't think two double blinks is enough excitement!

He has to revive Captain Hammer!

Joss has no plans to turn Dawn into a superhero.

Which is good, because if she were, she'd have the ability to yell "GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT" at shrill tones.

...oh wait...

WTW? Xander and Dawn are together! I have got to read more of the comics. I'm way behind. ugh.

And ew. Xander! Dawn? She was like 5 when you became a teen. icky.

A series about Ripper would kick vampire ass!

Someone just asked Joss if he'd ever written anything awful.

After insisting with feigned (not-so-feigned) arrogance that everything he writes is gold,

He went on to say that a few scripts were by a young Joss. And some letters to his mom were pretty "self-indulgent".

Hahahahaha, Joss. I am laughing out loud.

It seemed to merit spelling those words out fully. High accolades, indeed, in today's world.

Do you think HA is really just short for "High Accolades"?

It is now.

Ooh Ooh! End with the "Dance of Joy".

Good-bye, Joss.

~~godspeed~~ gloryspeed!

Double-Dutch for Adults

2011-07-24T21:31:00.000-07:00

You wouldn't know it by looking at them, but they're on to you.

Remember when you were a kid and you wanted to have a conversation about how "cute Sam Waterman's butt looked in those jeans" or how mad you are at mom because she made you stay home from the jr. high dance because of a little fever and mild case of botulism? But you didn't want any adults in the vicinity to catch onto your really important, perhaps life-changing prepubescent conversation?

Enter "double-dutch", a type of language that takes regular English and injects it with the "I-bee" sound after the first consonant in every syllable.

Here's a sample 7th grade statement:

"Ask your mom if you can come to the sleep over, but don't tell her it's a boy-girl party."

And here's the double-dutch translation:

"Ibask yibour mibom ibif yibou ciban cibome tibo thibe slibeep ibover, bibut dibon't tibell hiber ibit's iba biboy-gibirl pibartiby."

(Some 35 yo dude just broke away from World of Warcraft and nodded slowly at this pronouncement, as if the secrets to the female gender had just been unlocked, only to have his reverie broken by a knock at his bedroom door. It was his mom bringing up a soy peanut butter and banana sandwich--crusts removed. Phew. Our secrets are safe.)

My point is that we need a double-dutch for adults. I've discovered this recently when my daughter, who will be going into 1st grade next year, listened with her head cocked like a canine during a conversation between my husband and I about the possibility of taking the kids to the p-o-o-l, and that I might take them to mc-d's afterward. She perked up and said, "I wanna go to the pool and mcdonalds!" (I know. How ever did she crack my code. I mean, I put Langley-ish effort into spelling those 2 words.) Of course,my 3 yo was then on the bandwagon and there was no way we could back out of it then. We were pool and McDonald's bound whether we liked it or not.

So here it is. Double-dutch for adults.

If you wanna say:

"I'm thinking of taking the kids to the pool. Whatcha think? "

Here's the adult double-dutch version:

"I'm pondering transporting the progeny to an aquatic recreational facility. Do you concur?"

Instead of saying:

"I don't feel like making dinner tonight. Should we order pizza instead?"

say:

"My culinary prowess is retired. What about circular leavened bread layered with pressed curd and ground swine and bovine slices."

Don't try mouthing this behind your hand:

"I'm gonna sneak out for a few hours to get Christmas presents for the kids. Keep 'em distracted for me."

Just blurt:

"I'll be abandoning this structure for a few 360's around Father Time's face in order to procure latter-day frankincense, which is traditional in celebrating the evacuation of Mary's uterine phenomenon.
Divert the offspring.

Don't whisper:

"I can't find the boy's Buzz Lightyear action figure. Do you think he'll still be able to sleep tonight?"

Candidly say:

"There is an absence of a plasticine protagonist whose moniker implies an altered consciousness and 365 days of electromagnetic radiation traveling in a vacuum. Do you think REM will be achieved?"

OK, that last one is a bit confusing. But I say the more riddle-esque, the more fun!
Can you think of some too? The more the merrier.

(inspired by an episode of How I Met Your Mother, but I can't remember which one, otherwise, I'd have linked up.)

Metaphors for Student Motivation and Engagement

2011-07-23T17:38:00.000-07:00

CW shows six steps to keep "clock watching" students motivated and engaged.

Inspired by a Strainer

"Students’ brains are strainers. They catch the bigger, more important and relevant bits, letting the little things, the ones that don’t matter to them, flow into the garbage disposal. Of life."
--By Timbre, Penny, Jon

Columbo with a magnifying glass

Inspired by a Magnifying Glass
"When someone forces their interests on us it can magnify our reluctance. There are times when someone else’s enthusiasm can excite us. But often at school, a teacher can be fooled into thinking that just because he loves A Tale of Two Cities (or zombies) or she is passionate about conjunctive adverbs, his or her students will become English majors through osmosis. We can’t see how our own individual interests fit our teachers’ so we feel blinded to possibilities. If we can focus students’ interests they will catch fire."
--Sarita, Debbie Dean, and Chris Crowe

A Measuring Tape is a Motivation Inhibitor (Click me)

What is wrong with the world?

2011-07-19T21:14:00.000-07:00

True story:
I got onto youtube to look up something (I can't even remember what) and I started typing my question...

"What is the..."
Here's what was automatically filled in as, I'm assuming, the most popular searches on youtube. I daresay, I'm a little dumbfounded.

what is the illuminati [Did a new Dan Brown book just come out?]
what is the best gun in black ops [I'm picturing the trench-coat mafia looking this up on youtube whilst picking his teeth with the bones of the neighbor's cat.)
what is the difference [between... TOP 3 from this were: 1. dr dre 2. between speed and velocity 3. between me and you dr dre.]
what is the gospel
what is the most viewed video on youtube [Intrigued? I'm betting it's the Rebecca Black video. But didn't they pull it?]
what is the best [...TOP 4: 1. class for black ops 2. hunter pet 3. way to get your ex back and 4. cure for a yeast infection. My thoughts: Yeesh. What does "hunter pet" mean anyway? My second thought: Hopefully that wasn't the same person with all of those inquiries.]
what is the meaning of life [We're looking for this on youtube now? hmm...times are a-changin'.]
what is the internet [Really? (pause. head cocked to the side.) Really?]
what is the problem with your dog [Mine is barking at a DVD of 101 Dalmatians right now, so I get this one.]
what is the love [Song title, right?]

The other day I did this with "How to use a..." and the most controversial (and 7th) auto answer was "How to use a comdom male" (spelling error intentional.)

That makes my heart sad.

Welcome to our lives, dog.

2011-07-15T13:20:00.000-07:00

Spike hiding under our bed.

We got a dog two days ago, a cute medium sized chihuahua terrier mix named Spike. I love dogs and have personally wanted a chihuahua for a number of years. I remember being a child and visiting a relative with a chihuahua. I loved how much energy it had, how it would chase its own tail until it got dizzy and fell over.
Spike has half that much energy, which--now that I'm mother--is a good thing. I think a pure-bred chihuahua would give me too much anxiety with all that yapping and hyperactivity.

However, Spike is flawed. Having been a rescue, it has fear issues. He's trained to scratch on the door when he needs to go to the bathroom, but when you pull out the leash to take him out, he flees the scene like animal control just showed up. Then, you have to retrieve him from his hiding spot with coaxing and treats (and brute force if that doesn't work). That is if you can find him.

I've discovered Spike wedged between the couch and the wall, between the loveseat and the wall, under my bed in a nest of lost popsicle sticks, crayon drawings, and matchless socks. Once he hid on a bookshelf. Another time he squeezed between the fridge and the wall. But my favorite was when he managed to sneak into the garage and somehow got into the car (probably a door was left open by my 3 yo).

All this avoidance only increases the urgency too pee or worse, and he has already had 3 accidents in 2 days. [sad face]

In addition to having the fear factor, Spike is a licker. He waits for you to nestle on the couch or in bed and then wiggles his way into your lap or the nook between your neck and shoulder and proceeds to lick you until you have a tongue burn on your skin. He could be hired by Neutrogena as a new facial cleanser. (That is if they could get past the smell).

"I pee on the carpet. So what?"

And then there's the shedding. My husband assured me that Spike barely shed, but I when I came home that day and somehow--before even meeting Spike--ended up with a dog hair in my mouth, I drew my brows together on the "no-shedding" claim. Later that day I went upstairs to work out to my Jillian Michaels Last Chance Workout DVD. One part in the routine requires up-downs, where you get in plank position and then one at a time ease yourself down on your elbows, then back up. As I'm moving up and down, I'm noticing a fine layer of fur on the carpet. Scattered bits here and there, light enough to disappear into the carpet unless you are looking inches from the floor. I got down to get a closer look, and before I knew it hairs from floor stuck to my sweaty arms and legs like I was made of Velcro. My gag-reflex activated, I abandoned the rest of the workout and jumped in the shower.

And the worst part about it is that since we rolled out the welcome mat for Spike, I've noticed an increase in itchy eyes, headaches, and that crummy feeling I get when my allergies are going haywire.

I might be allergic to him.

Forrest Gumption

2011-07-14T17:05:00.000-07:00

I realize that Forrest Gump won some Oscars back in the 90's, and that this post will be like poking the bear, but here I go...

Forrest Gump had some challenges of the mental variety, true, but he is a symbolic representation of people who lived during that time period who in the swirl of movements, didn't thoughtfully pick up a torch. He is juxtaposed with people who do pick up a torch, take an active role in fighting for their goals or convictions, only to FAIL horribly. If we are to find FG the hero of the story, we would need to accept that he is a static character with no growth. He remains the same throughout all his years. I am not contesting that he isn't a good person. He obviously has good qualities, but like the feather, FG floats through life. He has no anchor. Jenny and Lt. Dan are the products of their choices by the end of the film, and FG is the product of his non-choices. Most of his decisions were made for him or were made by accident. Is this the example we are meant to follow. Is he the hero we ought to emulate?
My friend Gary, added his perspective. After reiterating the part of the movie where people started following FG on his continental run, one follower asked him why he ran, and FG responds with "I just run". or something to that effect. Gary uses that example to support the idea that the film is poking fun of people who follow leaders blindly, without substantial reason.

But mine is not the only opinion.

This isn't the same article that I had, but it's pretty close to what I was trying to articulate.

This is an article that I agree with partially.

Here's an argument that hasn't been fully developed and has some grammatical errors, but has clear voice and some valid points. (beware of the cursing.)

This probably the popular opinion on FG. (click me)

Here's another point of view on FG. Kinda sappy. But some good points.

I'm starting to realize that there are a ton of points of view on FG, as there should be. It solidifies my theory that there are more than "one right answer" to a question.

What do you think?

Is there only one right way to view FG?

Award-Winning Author

2011-07-14T11:55:00.000-07:00

Today's Scribble prompt at CUWP: Write about your good and bad experiences with writing.

Hmm...

They happen to be within the same experience.

I entered my first and only writing contest back in 2004 when I was 8 months pregnant with my first child. The contest was in Helper, UT, and they were offering a cash prize of $300 for the first prize winner; $200 for 2nd place, and $100 for 3rd. Excited to try out my new found talent for the written word, my husband and I booked a hotel in the Price area and I entered the contest.

At registration, the contestants were given an envelope with a photo inside that would be the inspiration for a story. Any story and any genre we wanted to write. The story was due 24 hours later. It would then be reviewed by a panel of readers, ranked, and judged. The top 5 stories would be posted in the window of the small town theater.

I was exhilarated that my story, a piece about a woman who makes literal pact with the devil to save her marriage, was on the window! I read all of the other stories, and felt confident that I would at least place in the competition.

A few hours later, the award ceremony began.
Third place winner was announced.
Not me. Phew.
There was still a chance.
Second place winner... my heart pounded, anxiety rising. If it wasn't me, I could still be named the winner.
I took a breath. Waited.
And my name was called.

I used the $200 bucks to pay for the hotel we got in Helper.
But the plaque still hangs proudly on my wall.

A Poem Inspired the Logan Huntzbergers of the World (Gilmore Girls reference)

2011-07-13T09:02:00.000-07:00

He's reserved,
     strategically.
Luring in the prey with cool indifference.
     Saying little.
Using the rhetoric of silence
     and nuances.
Leaving crumbs like jewels
     to the masses.
Confidence emanates like
     the subtle fumes
     of gasoline.
He shrugs off failures
     and scrapes the gum from his loafer,
     raising his chin.
He buries his insecurities
     under
the UVrays of fluorescent bulbs,
     under
a million dollar home,
      within
the breasts of a
     million dollar wife.
Success defined
     in the number of zeroes after that "one".

I Have a Crush on CUWP (& a limerick by Chris Crowe about me)

2011-07-12T08:41:00.000-07:00

(Inspired by "Knoxville, Tennessee" by Nikki Giovanni)
By Rena

I always like CUWP best
you can eat fresh fruit
and cinnamon glazed doughnuts
from the corner bakery
and write
and read
and talk about writing
and reading
By then it's lunch time
and if you're not too grossed out
by Jon's "spit"
you could eat again.
a Cafe Rio green chili verde salad
with mango salso
or pizza
and micro-brewed root beer.
CUWPies talk about Zombies
and Kewpie dolls
and cops and cats
and Brazilian men
shirtless.
We make blog posts
and comment on blogs
and make new blogs
and pour out our e-hearts.
but not the story about--
            HUSH!
or the one with the--
            Shhh!
We become a community of friends
of colleagues
of writers.
           See you at the book signing.

Ironically, I had this photo of me from
2 years ago in D-Block in Alcatraz.

(Below is a limerick that Chris Crowe wrote about me today. What do you think it means? Who does his think I am? Maybe I shouldn't ask him to write me a letter of rec for grad school...)

Chris Crowe to me:

There once was a teacher named Rena

Who dodged a pending subpoena

The cops were aghast

But caught her at last

And she now works a different arena

(Here's a the limerick I wrote about Chris Crowe:)

There once was a man from London

He thought that we all knew of him.

We all knew him well

But still no one cared

Still Crowe's ego's as big as a melon.

(hehehe. Good times.)

No Man is an Island, Unless the Island is Full of Bikini-Clad Women

2011-07-11T09:46:00.000-07:00

Is humankind a rational entity? Does he or she act mainly on the basis of thinking something out or does he or she act on impulses which may be based on emotions, instincts, or biological drives?

I ponder this question every time I learn of a someone in a seemingly awesome marriage having an affair with a cliche. The hot secretary. The nurse with the tight bod. The McSteamy Doctor. The rough-and-ready blonde bombshell. [eyes rolling.] Learning of these affairs leads me to believe that men and women are often minions to their biological drives, and that logic either a) doesn't have a place in the pleasure center (PC) of the brain, or b) that somehow the PC has rewired the brain to create its own logic regarding the acceptability of having an affair. Little loin-shocks whisper to the brain: "I'm in love with this person (not my spouse), and love is the only truth worth living for" or "My own spouse doesn't understand me, and this other person does. I need to be in a relationship that makes me happy" all the while smothering the cries of real logic (and it's concerns regarding children, finances, and the emotional well-being of all affected parties) with the fevered dreams of sexual rediscovery.

I won't be the first person to say that the institute of marriage doesn't have its speed bumps and potholes in the road. You'd be a fool to believe that the "happily ever after" scenario isn't fiction. The Disney movies tend to leave out the scenes where the Little Mermaid has to go to therapy to for postpartum when her first born is born with webbed feet and gills or how Jasmine prays to the gods that Aladdin will stop playing Xbox long enough resolve the peasant uprising crisis or how the prince realizes he ought to have gotten to know Aurora a little bit more prior to marriage, instead of basing a whole relationship on a few campy duets and a comatose kiss.

I'm not an expert on marriage or anything, and I only have 9 years of matrimony under my belt, but I'd say the "safer" marriages are the ones that were carefully selected. Both partners chose each other based on a recipe of 2 parts logic, 1 part biological attraction, a dash of instinct, and a sprinkle of emotion. And if you really wanna avoid getting cheated on, make sure to marry someone who is a logical person, one who reasons things out extensively. I'm not saying you'll be completely safe from abandonment, but it'll help your odds. A logical thinker rarely chucks reason and years of fidelity for a roll in the hay with Capt. Pheromones.

Zombie Haiku inspired by Chris Crowe's bad poetry collection (his words, not mine)

2011-07-08T11:05:00.000-07:00

Yes. I found a Zombie Lego photo.

(syllables counts off, because they were lost in translation. ...I swear.)

2 Zombie Haiku

By Rena

Zagat's Guide for Zombie Dining

I eat at College.
I think he is a professor.
Sophisticated dining.

Zombie Cautionary Tale

Beware of shot gun,
Don't eat Psych patients.
At first "tap", play dead.

3 Zombie Haiku

by Jonathan Ostenson

Undead Dr. Fred,
a famous psychiatrist,
gets inside in your head

Apocalypse comes,
Most popular house in town:
Tom the embalmer's

Hands smeared with grey brains,
Mom says "Wash up for dinner!"
Now hands smeared with mom's.

3 Zombie Haiku by Chris Crowe

Slick shiny jiggly
and red, is it jello or
a snack for undead?

Foggy night, London
Dickens stumbles, zombies lurk
Great Expectations!

"I'm having a brain
freeze," I said. "I'll have one too,"
said thirsty zombie.

A Haiku by Deborah Dean

Crowe's zombie poetry
Brainless lines eaten alive
By drooling students.

A Haiku by C.C. Thompson

Insecure Zombie
Even though I ain't wrapped tight
You still love me, right?

Top 5 Reasons why you shouldn’t judge me (and sometimes why you should):

2011-07-07T11:02:00.000-07:00

(Spoiler alert: Beware of Guacamole loogies and leather-clad push-overs)

I like America’s Next Top Model, but mostly because the industry fascinates me. I know that many models have eating problems—once I heard a common trick they use is swallowing an orange juice soaked cotton ball, which, if you could get past the idea of eating a cotton ball soaked in citrus, it allegedly curbs the appetite for days. Seeing these on the big screen is sickly captivating. And even though it’s been preached to me in a million ways that the models “don’t really look like that”, seeing models with dark circles under their eyes and snaggle teeth still has shock value to me. I’m like “Whoa. They really don’t look ‘beautiful’ all the time.” Maybe you should judge me based on how naïve I am.
I hate Harry Potter. The predictability makes me crazy. I read the first few books back in my early 20’s and I remember being on the last page of book four and thinking, I just read the same book 4 times, such is the cookie cutterness of HP. Everyone assures me that book 5 will change my perspective, that the story really kicks off there, but I’m am too jaded at this point. So my HP prose-spective remains unimpressed. However, I fully support my students’ obsession with YA literature. I say “Go for it. I don’t really care what you read, as long as you’re reading.”
I wear ridiculously tall heels. I do. I wear heels so tall that when I walk down the stairs, I have to grip the handrail with white knuckles and take the staircase one step at a time. Heels aren’t always comfortable, but I have new legs. I used to be 60 lbs heavier and now I have new athletic, limber legs which deserve to be put celebrated. I’m proud of them. You don’t put your wedding photos in a shoe box or a trophy in a closet, do you? No, you put your pics up on the wall in a fancy frame and your trophies in a display case or the mantel. Legs = trophy. Shoes = mantel.
The lyrics may be catchy, clothes retro, and sideburns of one John Travolta dreamy, but Grease is a feminist nightmare. Sandy is glorified for changing her core beliefs for a man and mistakes sexual dominance for independence. In the beginning, the audience traipses through the film witnessing Sandy stand her ground about her beliefs and refusing to change for her summer love, Danny. Perhaps this doesn’t serve the sexual revolution, but as a feminist, I was proud of Sandy’s resolve all the way until the final scene; the scene in which Sandy transforms herself…for a man. It’s not as if she swapped out bad habits for good, which might be an acceptable transformation even if it was for a man, but no. Sandy demoralizes herself into a sex kitten with a smoking habit to appease Danny’s burning loins. You can tell by the way he devours her with his eyes while crooning:

I got chills.
They're multiplyin'.
And I'm losin' control.
'Cause the power
you're supplyin',
it's electrifyin'!

What power is Danny referring to? The tangible sexual vibe Sandy now emanates with sewn-on leather pants and an off the shoulder top? Even if Danny and Sandy’s relationship did result in a marriage, an institution that should foster equality, Sandy submissively caved at the pleading, manipulation, and peer pressure of her “friends” and boyfriend. The foundation of that hypothetical marriage would be built on Danny’s ideal of “if I push you the right way, I’ll get what I want. And what I want is you to be sexually appealing at all times”. Sex shouldn’t be the compass with which women use to navigate through life. It can be harbor on the journey (that’s up to you), but not the very compass. I suppose if I could change one thing about Sandy’s character, it would be that I wanted to see her voice become more powerful. I wanted her to be dynamic by breaking up with Danny, rattling off a Martin Luther King Jr. type speech on the acceptance of differences to Rizzo (maybe throw in some startling statistics about STD’s and a visual presentation of genital warts), and then removing herself from the toxic situation. Sandy could’ve been the epitome of an independent woman. Instead, she morphed into a sexual icon who will not be remembered for her hard work, intellect, aspirations, and sincerity. Sandy is remembered for her sexual prowess.

5. I hate guacamole. It’s deceptive. It starts out a pleasant green, the kind of green that if it were craft paint it might be called, “baby cartoon frog”, but if you leave it out for a Mexican minute (this is a new term I invented that means for a short period of time. I don’t mean this derogatorily. It only refers to the way the Spanish language is quick and fluid to the ear…eh? Eh?) it turns into swamp monster green. And the texture! Guacamole slides across the tongue like a chunky loogie, invoking an involuntary retch. So next time you buy me Mexican food, order extra sour cream and no guac.

Your Insect Inflection

2011-07-06T10:22:00.000-07:00

Your Insect ~~Reflection~~ Inflection
(Name that show, and if you do know the show, then you probably get how it applies to my post. If not, bear with me.)

You know how someone can make you feel stupid not with their words, but by the tone of their voice? They don't actually say that you're stupid, but their voice has that inflection that seems to say, "You're a big stupid dummy head." I bet you have an image of a person in your head right now. I know a few people like this.

One of these mean people could be literally saying, (this is a "for example" not a real situation) "You spend all your time counting calories," but the subtle message, heard only by the trained listener really says, "You spend all your stupid time counting stupid calories, and it's such a waste of time. I could never do that so therefore it is stupid."

Roswell's ~~Bella and Edward~~. I mean Max and Liz.

Twilight's Bella and Edward.

But how do you call someone on this? The tone of a person's voice wouldn't hold up in court. If you tried to call someone out on their tone, the response is usually denial anyway. So my defensive response tends to be "snark for snark". Kinda like how I not-so-secretly despise Stephenie Meyer for her break out fame. I usually mask my irritation with flippant comments about her glittery vampires and characters ripped off from Roswell, a show that used to air on the CW about a teenage girl saved by a teenage Alien boy with beautiful hair and abs like an EXTRA-terrestrial. It's chock full of sophomoric swoonage. But the truth is I am just jealous of Stephenie's success.
I'm sorry Stephenie Meyer. You are [long sigh] a good writer. I've read almost all of your books, and they are good. (~~Except for the Book 4 of the Twilight series.)~~ Geez, I'm terrible at apologies.

The point is I hate that I return "snark for snark". And I'm not doing it anymore.

Know this, mean-toned people of the world, I'm on to you. And from now on, when you say regular things snarkily, like "You spend all your time counting calories," all I hear is...
"You are skinnier than me now and I'm bitter, and since I have no will power, no consistent desire to change my habits, I'll simply mock the fact that you are successful doing it."

Wait. Is this whole post falling back on my "snark for snark" philosophy? Dang it. Well then after this post, I'm not doing it anymore.

Mean people suck. And I don't wanna be one.

Stereotypes

2011-07-05T11:22:00.000-07:00

It was the second to last week of school. I wore a modest pencil skirt, a bright red "power" top, and 4-inch brown leather slingbacks. A typical outfit for me. I like to command the classroom verbally and aesthetically, I guess. I strode into the school, passed the office. Nod to Mr. Tuffle. Wave and smile to Sue from the copy room. Then down my hallway.
There next to the slab of blue lockers on the right wall was a cluster of "emo" kids. Three boys, and a girl. All with shocks of black hair, combed fiercely over one eye. One boy changed it up a little with a bleached streak in the front and a buzz cut behind his sweeping bangs. The group looked as if they'd all borrowed the same charcoal eyeliner. All were aminme thin. All were wearing black print tees with strategically ripped jeans.

See any similarities of these two photos?

Some of you maybe wondering where my snide remark is going to fit in. What cruel, ignorant thing am I going to say about these "emo" kids?

Nothing.

Rayanne Graff from My So-Called Life.

I don't care what they wear. They're teenagers. This is one of the only times in their lives where their profession won't dictate apparel. Some of them will be able to dress the exact same way their whole lives depending on what they wanna do as adults, but right now they can wear whatever the hell they want (within school mandated dress code rules, that is.)

Besides, when I walked by, that group gave me the world's longest up and down examination; blatant with disgust and scoffs all around. If eyes could flip me off, theirs were. When I was a safe 5 feet way, one boy made fake retching noises. Audible. Unmistakable.

I felt my stomach fold into itself. This group who demands that people don't judge them based on their appearances, didn't practice what they preached.

Morpheus and Death; siblings.

I wanted to tell them how I love Pearl Jam and Nirvana, how I'd seen Smashing Pumpkins in concert twice for grunge's sake! And even now, my MP3 might be known to host a Muse or Fall Out Boy song. I wanted to whip out old photos of me in flannel and combat boots from 13 years ago. I wished I were wearing my "Strongbad" tee or could profess my close personal relationship with Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Tim Burton, and Weezer. If I had my copies of Neil Gaiman's Sandman graphic novels, that would surely attest to my emo-worthiness, or at least would have enough symbolic weight to metaphorically slap the sneers off their pale faces.

To what end? Why did I feel the need to defend myself in 4 teenagers with black eyes? What did I care? I looked professional and damn good that day, and I don't need 15-year-old approvals for my daily injection of confidence. I could self-administer it with one look in the mirror or a lingering kiss from my husband. So, I walked to my classroom, aware and proud of each melodic heel-click on the tile.

But did I also flip my bottle-blond hair and tap my "Disciple of Aphrodite" red nails on the door just for a reaction?
Guilty.

But I made up for later. I taught a chapter of Elie Wiesel's Night, an autobiographical holocaust novel about a teen who survived the murderous and prejudicial practices of Nazi Germany, with more fervor and intensity than I usually do. After all, the seeds of hatred which bloomed into Nazi concentration camps began with judging others. Perhaps it spread almost as simply as a sneer, scowl and mock-puking.

Fortunately, most of the emo kids that I have taught in the past have not shown such outright negative judgement (at least not to my face.) I respect all of my students, and expect the same respect in return.

Demonic Duck on a Bike

2011-07-05T09:38:00.000-07:00

Herein lies a scary story writing exercise, where a group of writer’s turned a perfectly normal children’s story (Duck on a Bike by David Shannon) into a scary story:

The boy grinned, with narrowed eyes, and gutted the duck from abdomen to gullet.

It fell limply in a pile.

“D’oiseaux vivants de l’enfer [Live, bird of hell]”, chanted the boy. A thunder cloud boomed in the distance.

The duck wriggled, its guts spilling as it rose. The boy gestured toward the bike, and duck with red eyes mounted the boy’s bicycle. Down the dusty road, the demon duck screeched at other farm animals as it passed. They followed in a trance. First a cow, then a sheep, a dog and cat followed like zombies toward a brain buffet.

“Wait,” squawked the chicken in resistance. “Stop. No!” At the boy’s wave, the duck craned its neck slowly toward the chicken.

“Vous ne pouves pas resister a la poule faible. Devenir un oiseau de l’enfer. [You cannot resist feeble hen. Become a bird of Hell,” it shrieked and pedaled after the dissident.

(That’s as far as I got, but fun. fun. fun.)

Fun with Appositives

2011-06-28T12:58:00.000-07:00

We had a teacher demonstration today, where we were given a photo and a sentence. We then had to add in an appositive to the sentence. Here are 2 of mine: (photos aren't the exact ones used in the presentation.)

The crane, a dormant beast with rusting corrugated scales and teeth of glass shards, sat in the abandoned rail yard.

The climber scaled the wall, a vertical wedge of ice framed with a mass of frozen hair.

Did I mention how much I love this conference, yet? Well, the secret's out.
I heart CUWP.

If I had to pick one...

2011-06-28T08:51:00.000-07:00

If I had to pick one Weezer song and call it my favorite, I'd have to say "Miss Sweeney". If you're not familiar with the song, it's a narrative in first person about an office romance (Nothing shady, so ignore the part of your schema that first thought that.) The boss of some company is having a conversation with his secretary when he blurts out that he loves her. It sounds gushy, I know, but Weezer rocks the story (as always).

I thought it'd be fun to write Miss Sweeney's response to his advances. I chose the romantic route, which if you know me will baffle you a bit, but I hope you enjoy it despite it's lack of my signature humor.

(The white text is Weezer's lyrics, and the red is Miss Sweeney's thoughts, dialogue or perception of events.)

[Also, if you wanna hear the song go to my friend's blog, it'll just start playing]

Bzzz... Bzzz...
Hi, Hello, Miss Sweeney?
Could you please come in my office for a second?

Wearing heels and my Navy business suit.

A touch of crimson lip gloss.

Push back my glasses, then enter your office.

I'm heading home for the day
And I thought it would be good for you and me to check in
I met with the gal from Expo
And they do have the "slab" cabinets in white
She thinks we can take the measurements
Down at the site

If we do that, we'll be just fine, Miss Sweeney

Nod. Twice.
Tuck a loose chunk of hair behind my ear.

Look up over my notes.
A half smile.

That's all I've got to say to you at this time, Miss Sweeney.
Actually there's one other thing on my mind

Girl, you make the rain clouds disappear

You're gripping my shoulders.

My legs wobble, like licorice whips.

The sun always shines when you're near

Heart palpatations.

Breath on my cheek.
I'm waiting until you love me

You release me.You look away, fists clenched.

Longing pierces my core.

I'm so sorry Miss Sweeney
I don't know where that came from
I think I was overcome by a spontaneous emotion

“I want…”

Don’t speak. Don’t say it.

Anyway, the cash deposit of $5, 000 will need to be sent to the property owner tomorrow
If there are any problems with the deposit or contract

“But…”

The fire flickers. Threatens to extinguish.

“I…”

Don't be afraid to holler
I don't want to have to approve each stinking dollar
That we borrow
Aww forget it, Miss Sweeney

You, you make the rain clouds disappear

In your arms again.

Enveloped by your hands.

The sun always shines when you're near

Body pressed to body.
I'm waiting until you love me

I love you.

Miss Sweeney, I got to admit the truth
I am totally head over heels in love with you
Every day you come to the office looking fine
Navy business suit clinging tightly to your spine

“Your laugh. The light in your eyes. In your smile...”

You ask me if I'm ready to get down to work
Sweeney, baby, I'm ready... be my...

“I…”

Girl, you make the rain clouds disappear
The sun always shines when you're near
I'm waiting until you love me
Girl, you light the skies of my life
I swear I will make you my wife
I'm waiting until you

“I love you.”

love me

Miss Sweeney.
Miss Sweeney.

Eyes searching.

Electricity clinging tightly to our spines.

Put your lips on mine.

As writers are we "praise sluts"? [yes.]

2011-06-23T12:28:00.000-07:00

One of my reflections while on the writer's marathon:

I started sewing when I was 10 yo, I think. Mom took me to a local fabric shop in Fallon, NV where I learned to sew and stuff a pillow. 2' x 2'. I got to pick any fabric I wanted. (From the sale rack) in any pattern I wanted. (except the ones my mother sneered at.)

I picked a white fabric with concentric torquise squares. Very geometric. Very 1991. If the fabric had a name, I bet it'd be called the Fresh Prince of Belaire.

The second sewing class I got was from the female version of Skeletor. Mrs. S. She was very very old and had no business teaching 7th grade girls in rural Missouri (which is where I moved in 1992).

Mrs. S. did know how to sew though. Like a champ.

She taught us to make boxer shorts. I made pink pig shorts and soccer shorts and sunflower shorts.

It was the year of shorts.

AND FOR FUN...

My favorite quotes from CUWP today:

As writers are we "praise sluts"? [yes.]
Stacy climbed through a window.
Move everything below the "but". [When you hear this out loud, it's hilarious.]
Sarita rode a chicken named the colonel. [This is not a metaphor. Wrap your mind around that.]
Is that the word that means no penis? [the Indonesian word for this sounds a lot like "no thank" you, btw.]
Do not make me call my flying monkeys. [something to tell little children.]
Children left unattended will be given an espresso and a new puppy. [something to tell parents.]
Chaos, panic, and disorder. My work here is done. [and...scene!]

True Story

2011-06-23T08:14:00.000-07:00

Since all of his kids were off to college and no longer living at home, my father thought it was a good time to visit us here in Utah. When he got here, he wanted to spend time with individually, take us each out to a restaurant of our choice and discuss what our futures, our goals, essentially what was “next” for us. He’d give in his two cents, and guide us along the path to our goals.

He went in order, first taking out the eldest, my sister Michelle who had finished law school at was working at Utah Legal Services.

“Being a lawyer is not enough,” he said. “You need to be a judge!” Then walked her through the steps of how this could be done.

Next was David. He had finished his Bachelor’s in English at BYU and was working at the BYU Library while doing artistic things on the side.

“Think about your family,” said Dad. “You can’t live on a library salary. You need to go into Intelligence, like me. Work for the DIA or Customs.” I imagined he pounded his chest as he said this , though the gesture wasn’t common for him.

Third was my sister Sarah. She was on her last semester at BYU and majoring in history. “Have you thought about grad school?” he asked, then continued to show her the research he’d done on schools that had programs she would excel in.

My turn. I was thrilled at the idea of hearing what grand plans my father had for me. My siblings filled me in on all the details of their meetings, so I was psyched, anticipation pumping through my veins.

“Rena,” he said over a pasta salad, “What are you doing about dating? You put on what…” he eyed me, “10-15 lbs. since you came out to school? You do want to get married, right?”

My sandwich tasted like bile.

Pretty as a Picture

2011-06-22T12:36:00.000-07:00

At our conference today we talked about using paintings to inspire writing in your students. I was given a picture similar to this one, but from a much older time period. Think A painting of a mother and two daughters around the dinner table in a setting more akin to The Crucible.
Here's the dialogue I wrote with it.

MOTHER: Eat your porridge, Sariah.

SARIAH [older daughter]: Yes, mum. For I know that money for this porridge does not grow on trees. I also know that if I please you, there’s more of a chance that will be able to play my drum later.

…

Outside.

MOTHER: True, dearest. And, Madeline? How do you like your porridge?

MADELINE [younger daughter]: I hate it! I don’t want it. It looks like mucus.

MOTHER: Now, Madeline. That’s all there is. We’ll have roast when you father gets well. I don’t know where he picked up the disease that resembles syphilis, but which he assures me is not.

SARIAH: [picks up spoon. Porridge slops back into the bowl.] This is gross, mother. I don’t want it either.

MADELINE: It’s sick! Did daddy puke this up earlier? [In her examination of the gruel she manages to get it on herself, the table, and the floor.

MOTHER: “Just lie back and think of France.” “Just lie back and think of France.” [She recites. Picks up plates and makes a new meal.]


This painting better captures the juxaposed frustration and joy of motherhood.

The Stench of Poetry

2011-06-21T08:09:00.000-07:00

Inhale the small

Words. Fragrances

Sweet and Spicy like

Thai food. A putrid rank

From another. My senses

Titillated. Sucking in meta-

Phors, nostrils flare like a

Singer in the climb of a

Song. The Bard breaks

Free of the pages.

Love

Not

Love

alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests

and is never shaken;

My Fight with the Fires of Mordor

2011-06-20T09:09:00.000-07:00

I can’t remember why she got into trouble, but my best friend in the world, Kristal, sure was in deep water. We were at a softball game. Don’t ask me why. I can’t remember ever liking baseball or softball except for that one time I dated that guy on the baseball team who had the same name as my dad. It didn’t last.

I couldn’t let Freud win that round.

But anyway, huddled by the concession stand, Kris told me she was in trouble. Her dad was mad. The kind of “mad” with two syllables. Mah-ad. I glanced over at him sitting on the stands. His round face, which extended all the way to the middle of the top of his head on account of his receding hairline, was pink. He had the kind of complexion that you read like a thermometer.

Pink = bugged.

Coral = miffed.

Red = MAD.

Fire Engine Red = Furious, and borderline crazy.

“He’s threatening to not let me go on the temple trip,” Kris said.

“What?!” I said feeling the infinite superiority of fourteen year old wisdom blossoming in my chest. “That’s just not fair.” I bit off some courage and chewed slowly. Kristal rocked from one foot to another.

“I’m gonna go talk to him.”

“No, Rena!” But I was already marching his direction.

“Brother Z,” I said, sucking the juice out of the wad of courage still safely in my mouth. “You can’t punish Kris by taking away spiritual stuff,” I said, my litany taking shape.

The words aren’t what I remember after that. I’m sure I laid out my case with proper evidence and reasons, but all that stands out is the change in the color of his head. It changed from pink to the Fires of Mordor red in less time than it took me to finish my argument. The thermometer boiled. He started to look like a Ute fan on game day.

I tapered off the last few words and stepped off the bleachers, backing away like the prey of a feral beast. He said something to me, but the words melted into the heat emanating from his fury. I dodged out, before he erupted on the spot.

Kris did get to go on that temple trip, but I am 100% sure that it had nothing to do with me.

Sorry, Bro. Z.
There's no excuse for my ostentatious-ness.

Half-Assed: A Weight Loss Memoir

2011-06-12T12:55:00.000-07:00

Words are my thing.
It's what I do.
Weave the written language into a tapestry of intrigue piped with humor.
There are very few times in my life where I couldn't express how I felt about something with words...or at least to the degree it merited. The first time was when I tried writing a few words to read to my husband at our wedding reception. Trying to tell the man you love just how much you love him, while including all the nuances, inside jokes, isolated moments, tender embraces, sotto voces, in a few little words seemed an impossible task. I fumbled something out, but it will never entirely cover all the bases of my love for him. Which is why I affectionately inscribed, "Words Can't Describe" on the inside of his wedding ring. Seemed fitting. And it's high praise to stump a writer with a concept that can't fully be developed in writing.

The second time this happened was when I read Half-Assed: A Weight Loss Memoir. Now, I'm not catagorizing my love for Jennette Fulda's book as the same love as I have for Cole, but I heart it. A lot. (See how simplisitic I get when I can't think of the words?)

Below are some of my favorite lines from the book. (PS I'm reading it on my Kindle, however, and the page numbers are not reflected on my digital pages.)

"Ever the overachiever, I gained the freshman fifty."
"In German, the word kummerspeck is used to describe the weight you gain from emotional overeating. It literally translates to 'grief bacon.'"
"You are almost never as fat as you think you are. If I could teach the fat girls of the world one thing, that would be it."
After a life-threatening surgery, Fulda decided to get thin. Then, "Only I didn't. I stayed fat for at least another year. Wake-up call recieved. Snooze button pushed."
"It was supposed to shock me into realizing I was consuming the gross national product of Ecuador daily. Mostly it made me crazy trying to remember if I'd had a soda with lunch."
"The more likely you were to actually use health ins. the more likely you were denied it."
"I hoped I wouldn't find myself holding up the local Krispy Kreme in a sugar-crash psychosis, wielding a grapefruit spoon like a shiv."
"My gynecologist had told me I had a pelvis, but I thought she was just starting a rumor."
"After taking a blood pressure test in a pharmacy, "The display read: 122/71. Woo-hoo! I wanted to take a victory lap around the feminine hygiene aisle, throwing tampons in the air like confetti."
"Good clothing injected tiny moments of joy into my life at the most unexpected times."
"She must not want that fine culinary creation, I thought. She got a different piece of cake instead. It would be a shame to waste a piece of cake. It would make baby Jesus cry. For purely religous reasons, I leapt up, snatched the plate, devoured the cake, and shoved the empty plate onto my uncle's place setting. Fat girls first rule of stealing food: Always get rid of the evidence. Second rule: If necessary, frame someone else."
"My weight loss was a cross-country trip, not a race across town."
"...a wall of casseroles and baked goods lined the counter like the Great Wall of Carbohydrates."
"It did seem strange that the price of admission to a house of admission to a house of mourning was baked goods. Didn't ppl usually lose their appetites when they were in bereavement?"
Upon running into a pack of thin girls in the stairwell, "Don't be intimidated, I told myslef. They are not better than you just b/c they have 15 percent body fat and skin as smooth as goat's milk. Yak's milk is what it's all about this year.

I'm only half way through Half-Assed, and I feel like Jennette is a kindred spirit. Wanna be BFF's Jennette? Selling points:

I use capitalization.
I use punctuation.
I spell relatively well.
I'm not snarky, unless I'm cleverly snarky.
I won't ever tempt you into stealing cake at weddings.
and I won't judge you if you do.

I heart you, Jennette.
Words can't describe how much.
You are my "thinspiration".

Plus you've inspired me on my next writing project. (My first book is called One-Armed Freak and is available at Amazon for Kindles only.) I'm gonna do a weight loss book too. Granted my 60 lbs is nothing in comparison to your feats in Weight Loss World, but my journey could inspire someone too.
Check out my weight loss blog: www.theredbookexperiment.blogspot.com

I can't wait to finish it.
May the flax seed be with you.
Drink water and prosper.

Phased Out

2011-06-05T14:11:00.000-07:00

Set Friendship Phasers to Stun

Have you ever been phased out of someone's life? (or maybe you're the phaser. )

Here's what it looks like:

First something life changing has to happen to either you (the phasee) or your friend (the phaser). Examples include: a new job, new spouse, new baby, and/or a significant move.

Next, is sort of a subtext to the first step, because whatever life-changing event occurs, it has to greatly diminish the quantity of time the two of you used to spend together.

Third, the phasee feels like the change that occurred will not interfere with the friendship, and goes on as if all is normal, making weekly phone calls, texts, emails, fb msgs, and/or carrier pigeon msgs to the phaser.[The carrier pigeon is an exaggeration. No one is that needy, and if they are then they should be phased out.] These are nothing unusual, given that the phasee is simply continuing traditions that already existed prior to change.

At this point the phaser too keeps up the ruse that the friendship means something. Most calls are reciprocated. Visits are had. Conversations regular. But after several months, the phaser is starting to realize that he or she can live without the phasee.

Soon, phaser realizes that proximity is highly important and without it, the friendship seems a lost cause. Phaser begins to stop answering calls, texts, and carrier pigeons. Email is their main source of communication at this point.

Phasee walks around with a big question mark above his or her head. "Is it something I said?", phasee wonders. "What did I do wrong? Is phaser mad at me?"

Then the emails go unanswered.

Approximately a month later, the phasee realizes just how unimportant the phasee and phaser's friendship was to the phaser when a simple life change could crumble what was once considered solid.

The phasee is flummoxed, while the phaser doesn't seem to notice the change.
...
....
.....
If you haven't cracked my code yet, I was just phased outta someone's life.

It hurts. If I've ever done that to you, I'm really sorry.

Larry King and Animotion

2011-05-29T15:03:00.000-07:00

Jamming at Larry King's

I have a friend who has a blog with an epitaph that states, "proof that crazy attracts crazy". Now, I've only known her for a couple of months and "crazy" wasn't the first adjective I thought of in reference to B. However, I think that if my blog had an epitaph, it'd be "proof that stories find the writer".

Proof is in the following pudding:

LK's house

A friend invited me to a luncheon/pitch for the latest miracle diet food (Xocai chocolate--which tasted like dark chocolate. YUM. Even the shake was de-LISH), which happened to be held at the famous talk-show host, Larry King's house.

It's one of 4 homes across the country and I daresay you could fit 5 of my house in it. It had 7 bedrooms that I counted, a great room with draperies the size of a small football field, manicured lawns and landscaping.

I saw rooms with photographs of Larry King with famous people, like George W. Bush and his wife, and a 1/2 dozen awards for his talk-show and other things.

LK's backyard

I played the gaping, bug-eyed fan like a pro. I don't even really have any specific reason to be wow-ed by Larry King, I mean, sure he's excellent at what he does, but I am not his number one fan or anything, and yet I couldn't help but turn into a darn tourist in the man's home. I couldn't even help but check out the storage closet. (Hey, don't judge me! The door was wide open and the light was on and we had permission to check out the house.) The King's have the coolest decorations. Plus, I found my 2nd husband, so...bonus.

My back up plan...

If only I had been smearing on lipstick too. Then I would really be a CRAZY FAN.

So we (a group of about 7 ladies and the 2 guys who were pitching the biz) sit down to lunch and I had my first sushi ever. AWESOME! During the meal, the 2 guys introduce themselves as Paul, former lead vocals of Animotion, and Jared, Larry King's brother in law. Inasmuch as we couldn't let the Animotion thing go, Jared whipped out his laptop and played us the youtube version of one of Paul's hits, "Room to Move".

Paul's hair looks way better now, btw. He still looks like he's got some show business in him--with his long-sleeved blue pattern shirt, jeans, and narrow Buddy Holly glasses. Later, I youtubed Animotion and found this popular song. (This song I knew.)

Paul also told us that he wrote the song for the opening credits of Scarface. I told him he should've led with that, and in my head, I kept repeating "say hello to my little friends" at various points in the conversation. Example:

PAUL: Here's a variety of chocolates; an orange flavored one and the nugget.

MY HEAD: Say hello to my little friends.
------------------------------------
PAUL: That was Kim Bassinger and Dan Akroyd in the music videos.

MY HEAD: Say hello to my little friends.
-----------------------------------------
PAUL: If you don't get enough fiber in your diet, the chocolate is full of fiber. And if when I started taken it...we'll lets be real. I fart.

MY HEAD: Say hello to my little friends.
----------------------------------------
Oh boy, did I have fun.

Paul and Jared were a riot. They sure know how to deliver a pitch. I mean Paul said he was a millionaire now, and both pulled up in twin Mercedes. It was very James Bond...if James Bond were a performer from 1984 or a fit golfer in a past life.

I think I will be trying the chocolate. I mean how do you say no to charisma like that? You don't. Plus...it's diet. Chocolate.
Sold.