I'm Not Sure I Wanna Know...

Today, someone told me I looked like a movie star.

I'm not gonna lie-I was flattered.

Then I started wondering just what the last movie he had seen actually was...

The IRS Is My Favorite...

Okay, so my friend Missy just gave me a blogging award. I would link to her blog but I don't know how which tells you just how undeserved this actually is but I love her to death and I haven't written in forever so I thought I should at least make a gesture...

Anyway.

Last night Guapo informed me that I was going to have to make a trip to the local IRS office on some business. To say I was less than thrilled would be a gross understatement.

Not because I resent paying taxes. I happen to believe that taxes are the price we pay for living in such a lovely country. Not because the IRS strikes fear in my heart. I have, in fact, met some very pleasant people there. (True, most of them were waiting with me, but... ) And not because I hate to wait in line (which I do). But I live conveniently close to the office and can manage to get there early enough that I don't usually have to wait at all.

No, I don't like going there because it forces me to come face to face with the fact that sometimes I am not very Christian in my attitudes. More specifically, about my attitude toward one particular man who works there.

He drives me batty.

He's not mean. Although he's been cranky quite a few times. In fact, he was even exceedingly pleasant. (Once.) And even moderately...moderate. (Three times.)

But really most of the time he just seems irritable. And frankly, like a little bit of a nitwit.(Thank you, Maren.)

Our history goes back years. Since Guapo owns a small business we have to pay quarterly taxes so I see more of him than you might think and he's been this way for as long as I can remember.

Let me give you an example. The last time I had to go there I was the first one in the office. The only other person there was the UPS man, whom I knew, and he was just finishing his delivery. We said hello to one another and I approached the window.

"You'll need to take a number and a seat, Ma'am."

Remember, there's no one there.

But, I did.

And then I watched him as he painstakingly unwrapped his package, divided it into sections, delivered each section to a different area of the office, returned to his desk, ORGANIZED it, and then pushed the button and called out, "Number one, please," in a chipper voice, and smiled as if he'd never seen me in his life.

And we were still alone.

(Have you seen Meet The Parents? The lady at the airline desk? Yeah, like her.)

Today when I went I took Buo. We were the first ones there and reached for a number. The security guard informed us that the two people in the office were training and they wouldn't be ready to help anyone for about forty minutes or so. Then he suggested we could step across the street for a donut while we waited.

Wha...?

We took the number, ran home, and made it back in fifteen minutes where we waited for another half hour with the nine other people who had since assembled. I'm glad.

Now I have witnesses.

We got to listen to my buddy who trained his co-worker while she explained to him just how faulty this new system was. How prone to errors it would be. How many SERIOUS errors were sure to happen.

All he could do was confirm that those kinds of errors HAD ALREADY HAPPENED. (No one in the waiting area can WAIT to get to the window NOW so we can be seriously fouled up by their new system. I can tell by the way the guy next to me is alternately shaking and sweating...)

Yes. It's true. That's what he said. At which point Buo turned to me and said softly, "Is he really that dumb?" (It occurs to me now that I may have passed on some of my LessThan Charitable world views to my offspring...)

FYI, friends at the IRS, your reputations are a little...well...cloudy, shall we say, anyway. You might not wanna put it all out there like this. Just sayin'.

Then, forty five minutes after they opened, he loudly and happily proclaimed, "Now we're ready to start the day. And all before 9:15."

Only forty five minutes after they opened.

Hoo-ray.


(P.S. I'm pretty sure they post that security guard there to protect that man from himself.)




(Missy's blogs can be found at glasseyedgradys.blogspot.com and bankburglarsdaughter.blogspot.com.)

Wherein I Rant and Rave and Get A Wee Bit Political

In general, I avoid political discussion. Not because I don't have opinions because, oh, I do. But because I know enough about myself to know that I don't like who I become when I am involved in heated debate. I have learned this in the School of Hard Knocks so to speak and I don't need any refresher courses, thankyouverymuch.

That said...

In January, in a small town in Arizona, a gunman opened fire in the parking lot of a shopping center. Multiple people were shot, injured and several were killed. The victims included a Congresswoman and a nine year old girl.

This morning it was reported that while formal charges on all counts had now been brought to bear on the man arrested, it would likely be years before he would be brought to trial. It seems he needs to be declared competent to face charges.

Competent to face charges. Competent.

And I thought, how much time would have been saved had he had to have been declared competent to purchase a weapon?

I know, I know, "Guns don't kill people. People kill people." "It's our right to bear arms. It's guaranteed in the Constitution." I've heard it all. But please, folks, a little common sense? I know common sense isn't written in there in the Constitution, (a fact I mean to bring up with the Founding Fathers in the next life if given the chance...)but I think it's implied, no? And if it's not actually implied isn't it implicit upon us as citizens to make sure issues are addressed that the Founding Fathers didn't foresee?

I just keep thinking, maybe if we fix this then that little girl's face won't haunt us all so much every time her picture is flashed across the screen. I doubt her parents will be so lucky.

Pride Goeth Before The Fall and....OOmpff!

I have absolutely wonderful kids...at least I think so. Ninety nine percent of the time I couldn't ask for one darn thing more but I have really failed them in the "teaching them to clean" category. Probably because I hate to do it myself. So imagine my surprise as I walked into the girls' room this afternoon and found this:


It nearly brought tears to my eyes I'm telling you. Really.


And then I turned around.

Kudos, Self

Can I just say that church ended at four, it is now five and we have all been fed a hot meal?

Yes, I think I can say it. In fact, I think I just did.

It would however, be completely not okay to fail to mention that this is the first time that has happened in about a year and a half.

Old Friends Are Lovely

Well, I haven't written in months.

Much has been happening, some good, some less so, all of it just part of life.

And I'm not going to write much now other than to say I'll write more soon and hope to have some lovely news by February.

I have a friend, Melissa by name, (Missy if you've known her as long as I have) and she also hasn't written in months. Much has been happening in her life too, some good, some less so. Life, you know.

Here's the good news...she's writing again. And she's having a little giveaway.

Here's the better news...she's funny. I mean REALLY funny. I mean, don't-eat-or-drink-while- reading-her-posts-'cause-they'll-make-you-choke funny.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Here's the address...glasseyedgradys.blogspot.com

(Sheesh. Still technologically challenged. Someday I'll get it...Maybe. Mutter, mutter.)

Into The Wild (Gulp)

Here's a little tidbit about me. I hate camping. Hate. It.

When I was eleven I was in Girl Scouts. The cookies were the main attraction. And even they were not enough to keep me there once I had been to camp. I was done after one trip and I never went back. Except once to pick up my sister. And I was stung by a wasp on my rear end within five minutes of setting foot on the property.

I knew then that camping and I were not meant to be. The only way I could possibly be more out of place when I am there is if I threw on a tiara and a feather boa.

Moving to Utah, land of pioneers and self-sufficiency, did nothing to change my mind. Instead, it only made it worse because now camping was combined with another of my major fears...heights. The only thing worse than camping is having to drive up the side of a mountain to do it.

When El Guapo was made first counselor the first thing that he was put in charge of was the activities committee. He came home and informed me that we were going to the ward campout. I informed him that I wasn't sure, but I didn't think our prenup had covered that possibility.

It didn't matter, we went anyway.

He came home, loaded the van and off we went, father-in-law in tow. When we arrived, the only place left to set up a tent was the parking lot. While Guapo did that, the kids and I ate buns (the meat was already gone by the time we arrived) and marshmallows. The ward sang a song, said a prayer, and it was bedtime. (We got there really late apparently.) We trooped back to our new tent, unzipped the "door" and stepped inside. There my sweetheart had carefully laid...a quilt.

No bedrolls. No pillows. No sleeping bags.

Just a quilt.

Papi took one look at the scene and muttered something in Spanish about sleeping in the car. Wise man.

The rest of us looked at our fearless leader. I had nothing left. The drive up had taken it out of me completely. We arranged the kids between us for warmth, pulled the quilt up to our chins and...laid there. The kids slept, they can sleep through anything, but no such luck for Guapo and me. About two in the morning I asked Guapo if he was awake. He was. I asked if he had had enough yet. He had. We disappeared into the night. The ward had no idea what had happened.

When Guapo was called as bishop in the Spanish ward my favorite thing about the ward, initially anyway, was that they didn't camp. I thought I was off the hook.

And then they made me Young Women's president.

I had to go to camp. Again. And I did. And there were parts that I loved...the parts that had nothing to do with camping.

But the part where I have to be dirty. Unh unh. The part where I can't wash my hair. Nope. Or the part where I have to go up the mountain. Or the part where I smell like smoke for days on end. The endless sun. Or rain. Or cold. Or hot. No, I still don't like it.

This year I was informed by the YCLs that we weren't supposed to wear make up either. (Stop laughing.) After five days in the wilderness the only thing that separates me from the potguts and other wildlife is my eyeliner and I am not going down happily.

Any prayers would be appreciated.

Random Things That Have Caused Me Frustration In Just The Past Three Days

1. Businesses that I owe money to who make me press three hundred and seven buttons to get to *Please Hold*. Really, how much do you want your money?

2. Stores that sell clothes but have no dressing rooms or mirrors. In my head I look good in quite a few things that don't really pan out in real life. Help a girl out.

3. Salesmen. Always. Just salesmen.

I Am Still Learning

Today one of my church leaders addressed mothers and daughters in our semi-annual general conference. As I listened, an interesting thing happened to me- I realized that I had ceased to think of myself as a daughter. Really, when a talk or an article addresses mothers and daughters I mainly identify with the idea of myself as a mother, and I'm not sure when that happened.

Certainly not when Dobbie was born. Or Buo. I don't think it was even when the girls were born. It must have happened sometime though because I was acutely aware of it at that moment. And I'm not sure it is necessarily a good thing. I'm really not sure that it is all bad either. I think I have decided that it just- is.

The church leader went on to give advice and counsel to young women in regard to their mothers and the wisdom in following their example. I think it was then that it really hit me. As always when I hear a talk like this I was uncomfortably aware of my own shortcomings as a parent. And then my mind wandered. I thought of my own mother and her shortcomings. They are, in the overall scheme of things, mild, but she too, is painfully aware of them, I know. I thought of friends who struggle with their relationships with their own mothers and, I must say, there is a great deal to struggle with in some situations. I know children who have suffered in the hands of abusive parents. I have friends who struggle even now, with the effects of their upbringing. I thought of people I know with mothers like this and how they have to move on and away from these ties to survive in their own skins.

But I also thought of this.

I have a great deal still left to learn.

And every day I learn it.

Some days I learn it from my neighbor lady. Some days I learn it from my daughters. Or my sons. Some days I learn it from my husband. A co-worker. The person who bags my groceries. Or a primary child. Even my tiny mother-in-law with whom I communicate in a mixture of Spanglish and hand gestures. And, yes, many days I still learn it from my own mother and father.

And always, always, I learn it from my Father in Heaven.

I have decided that I'm not done with being a daughter. And I don't think I want to be.

Pots and Pans and Other Stuff

Twenty two plus years ago when I got married my mother gave me a pot. It is large, oval, and made from cast iron. I use it every day. It is my favorite pot. (Have I ever mentioned that I hate cooking? Or that I'm really bad it? No? Not surprising...I don't like to remind Guapo and the kids of it because they have to deal with it every day. Why twist the knife?)

But back to the pot. It is very old. Many people have admired it and a few have even asked to borrow it but I have been forced to say no. It is, in truth, one of the few things that I don't happily loan out because I can't run the risk of not getting it back. ("Would you like to borrow the dog instead? I know you'll bring him back...") You see, the pot belonged to my grandmother who died in 1950, when my mother was four. This pot, and a bracelet I have on "loan" from my mother are all I have of her.

The idea that I am so attached to some THING is unsettling to me. It goes against my grain. I don't think of myself as a person much attached to things but when I thought about the pot the other day and how attached to it I was, I started to think of the other THINGS I am also attached to. It is quite a list.

I suppose we all have a few things like that-pots, bracelets, a blanket, a photo... And I think that's okay. But still I feel a little guilty because it's a THING. Am I materialistic? (Well, probably, and not just because of the pot but in theory, at least, I frown on this.)

Of course, if I lost all of those things in a fire or theft (really though, what thief would take a pot?) I could carry on. But I would carry on a little less cheerfully, I think. Because when I cook in that pot I imagine Grandma Audrey cooking for my mother in it too and I feel close to her for a bit.

And how can that be all bad?

New Fact (Maybe)

So here is an intriguing new fact that I learned this week...

The only time a man's eyes dilate independent of a light source are when they look at an attractive woman.

The only time a woman's eyes dilate independent of light are when they look at a baby.

I am not one hundred percent certain that this is true. (I mean, I haven't like, googled it or anything...) But I find it strangely fascinating. I find myself returning to it and pondering in odd moments. It seems to be sort of primal, doesn't it?

My Open Letter To NBC

Ahem.


Dear NBC,

I never watched Jay at 10:35.

I never watched him at 9:00.

And I will not watch him at 10:35 when he returns there -whenever that happens.



He is not funny.



Not at 10:35. Or 9:00.

In fact, this whole Time-Slot-Gymnastics routine only makes me resent him and makes the both of you seem as though you're chewing on sour grapes. (I should know, I'm chewing on a few myself.)

Just thought you'd like to know.

Sincerely, Me

Tender Mercies

I write this sincerely hoping that it doesn't come off arrogantly or "holier than thou" because...well, because I don't feel that way and because I look on this more in the vein of being a tender mercy of the Lord to me to boost my own deep-seated insecurities.

El Guapo and I are both converts to our chosen faith and as such, I frequently felt (feel?) like I was (am?) flying blind as a mother. As wonderful as my own parents are I didn't grow up in a home where things like FHE or family prayer and scripture study were put into regular practice. I really had no idea how to implement them. And consistency? Ummm...yeah...not really my strong suit...

And so sometimes I wonder. Did I do it right? Will they be okay? And the suspense is killing me. Because we're not there yet and I'm really bad with suspense.

Every once in a while though the Good Lord takes pity on me and gives me enough of a glimpse to keep on going. To at least keep making the attempt. And to know that even if I'm not firmly on the path it's still in sight.

Like when I go to tuck Maizie in at night and have to come back five minutes later because she is praying. And then I have to come back again.

Or when I walk by Petunia's door and find her with her head bowed over her scriptures, searching and learning nightly, more faithful than any of us.

Or when I go to the door to wave goodbye to my sons and find them in the car, heads bowed in quiet prayer as they leave for a road trip.

I don't write this because I want to be reassured that my children are wonderful. I already realize I have been blessed far more than I deserve. I write it because I imagine that sometimes you wonder too (and someday they will) and because I know with all my heart that Heavenly Father will show you/them the same tender mercies that he has shown me. And I don't want you/them to miss them or give up too soon.

UmmmHmmm...

Okay.

So.

Recently I've been having some...well, what was best described by my noble foremothers as..."female" problems. It's been a bit of a zoo here I'll tell ya. Pressure has been mounting. And I'm gonna get some of it off my chest right now. So if words like uterus, fallopian tubes or even stirrups distress you...move on now. You've been warned.

Let me begin by saying that I'm not crazy about my doctor. He's a nice enough man I guess, but I find our whole relationship awkward at best. This might be true of my relationship with any doctor of this type but I don't think so. This awkwardness can best be illustrated by the following story.

I once missed my yearly appointment with the good doctor by a few months. I eventually went in and after the ritual weigh in, blood pressure check, etc. was given my obligatory uniform and told to wait on the table. Moments later, in walks the doctor who sits down, asks the usual questions and then walks over to the table, looks down on me, and asks, "So, are you still married to that same guy?"

Now, FYI, future doctors...

Don't say things like this to a woman lying with her feet in stirrups clothed only in a glorified bib and a large paper towel. It's weird. (Trust me, I checked around just to make sure it wasn't me.)

I switched doctors the next time I had to go for the yearly thing. I called around and found a guy I'd been hearing about for years. I went in and during the course of my twentysomeodd minute appointment he made eye contact with me...zero...yes, ZERO...times.

Now, just another little piece of advice...if you are gonna get as up close and personal as an OB/GYN does with his patients...you had BETTER make eye contact at some point. Just sayin'.

Another year rolled around and I began the search again. Guess what I learned? All those doctors who went to med school for all those years, who I'd assumed really chose their profession out of a sincere desire to help and care for their patients, who I believed

had SOME interest in womens' health, who, after all, did take the Hippocratic oath...yeah, them.

Turns out? Only interested in making money.

Call me naive but I had thought they were interested in all their patients not just the ones with uteruses (uteri?) still planning on having babies. Could I find a doctor interested in me as a new patient? Nope.

Which is how I ended up back in the office Dr. StrangeBedsideManner. Just to be sure he didn't have to wonder about my marital status I took Guapo along this time. He really loves these kinds of field trips.

And there I have remained for the last several years, with a doctor I'm unsure of, participating in yearly, humiliating exams.

Until a few weeks ago when all manner of things began to go awry. I won't bore you with details but suffice it to say it ended in some outpatient, minor surgery and a great deal of angst.

And after all that? Well , they know some things it's not...

Today I went in and found out some of my options. There are several, among them a treatment whereby they run "scalding liquid" through my uterus and another where they just remove my uterus entirely. He gave me these options before (yes, before) he actually told me what was wrong. Which he doesn't actually know.

I love being a girl.

Just So You Know...

...According to Facebook, I'm still amazing.

And sometimes I'm also unbelievable.

Just so you know.

How Texting (And Other Technology) Has Changed My Life

When Dobbie came home from his mission a couple (?!?) months ago it quickly became apparent that he was going to need a phone. Buo had his old one and even Petunia had managed to talk her dad into one and really, even I, technological cavewoman that I am, recognized the need.

So off went the troops led by Guapo and sans me. (Otherwise known as the beginning of the end.)

Petunia was entirely too happy when they returned and here's why...

TEXTING.

I had stood firm against the institution. I had made my wishes clear. It was a RULE.

And Guapo caved.

I hate texting.

It is destroying our ability to interact with one another as human beings in a face to face way.

I have conversations with the tops of the heads of half of the people who walk the halls of the high school where I work. Even when they don't have a phone in their hands they don't look up anymore. I mean really, if you're going to pick up the phone anyway, just call. Talk to someone for real.

And it is not just teenagers. I have had conversations with adults (adults, I say) who sit with their purses open or their phones sitting on the table of the restaurant where we are eating and who actually stop our conversation to respond to the person who just texted them. I mean, I'm not a bad conversationalist overall. Occasionally, I've even been told I'm witty and moderately intelligent. Talk to me, please.

Also, yesterday, my daughter experienced uncontrollable tremors in her thumb for a brief period of time. Note I said uncontrollable, not unexplained. I know what happened.

But really, how does this affect me? I mean, I don't have to text, right? The old "if you don't like it, don't look" certainly applies here. And I agree. But it still hurts.

Let me explain.

Last night Petunia and I went to a band competition. It was raining and I nearly slipped several times. But I successfully managed to navigate both the wet stadium steps as well as the drenched aisles with only a few near misses.

I nearly made it. I rounded the final corner of the Jeep and reached for the handle when it happened. Complete wipe out. Both legs in different directions. Purse, keys, umbrella strewn all over. And I was too stunned to move.

I assessed. Nothing broken. But my knee hurt a lot. And my wrist. And my back. So I just lay there, on my back, soaking up water and thinking, "I don't want to fall again. Petunia will come pick me up. She'll help me."

Then, "She'll be here any second. Maybe she didn't hear me."

And again, "She'll wonder why I haven't gotten in soon..."

Finally, I hauled my own sorry butt up and, clutching the side of the car for support, I looked across at the top of my daughter's head. Bent over, fiddling with a machine.

She swears it was her IPod.

The Lap of Luxury

So, Petunia and I went to the Women's Expo last week and entered to win about a bajillion things. Everything from food storage to shoes to scrapbooking supplies.

And I won.

A four hour spa visit. Manicure, pedicure, facial and massage. An hour each. Whenever I want.

Lovely, you say. And I answer yes.

I decided to break it into small installments. Spread out the decadence over time.

On Saturday, I went for the facial. It was amazing, sheer indulgence.

Within two hours, I began to itch. By evening I had hives all over my neck. By morning they had spread further. Nothing stopped them, not Benadryl, not ice packs, nada.

This morning, seventy two hours in, I called the doctor.

Apparently, I'm allergic to luxury.

Oma's Book List or Homework #4- A Week Late

Books You Read Long Ago and It Is Now Time To Reread (In No Particular Order)

(I just picked these off my own bookshelves- I'm sure there are a hundred I will think of later...)

1. The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
"One of the strange things about the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and forever and forever..."

2. Peter Pan by James Barrie
"You see, Wendy, when the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies."

3. To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee (I just read this five months ago but I'm sure it's time.)
"Atticus is a gentleman, just like me!"

4. Charlotte's Web by E.B. White
" 'You have been my friend,' replied Charlotte. 'That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what's a life anyway? We're born, we live a little while, we die. A spider's life can't help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone's life can stand a little of that.' "

5. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
(No quote but I took turns imagining myself as every one of them at some time or another.)

Oma's Homework #3

Oma asked today what job you would be willing to do for free. I especially liked ~j's response which you can see if you click on the last blog on my sidebar. (And I also like that I knew that that was exactly what her response would be.)

I, not being as noble as my sweet friend, was thinking in a more "outside of the home" sort-of-way. And I am extraordinarily happy to be able to say that I would do the job I work at currently without any pay. In fact, I have often told my co-workers this.

"What do you do?" you might be wondering.

I am a paraeducator, a teacher's aide, at the local high school and I work with children who have a wide variety of disabilities.

I fell into the job by accident four years ago and I wasn't really sure how it was going to work out. But on the day I interviewed, another para told me, "I go home happy every day."

It has been four years and I can say the same thing. Still.

I smile...Every. Single. Day.

Those kids are wonderful. And funny.

Some days I cry.

But I still go home happy.

Homework #2- Books

Two days in and I'm already behind on my homework.

And the thing is, these are actually assignments I like. Especially this one. Because it's about books. And reading.

I have read for as long as I can remember. And I have reread for as long as I can remember. I have identified with more books than I can think of and have more quotes floating around on sticky notes than I will ever find. (I have a hard time desecrating a book with ink-or even pencil.) I have followed Elizabeth Bennett, Harry Potter, and Mary, Colin and Dickon far more closely than I ever followed The Brady Bunch, ER, or the exploits of The West Wing.

When I looked at Oma's assignment and saw Scout's smiling face my heart leapt. Somehow, through all my years of junior high, high school and the four plus years it took me to bring home a degree in, of all things, English literature, I had never read this masterpiece. I only discovered it this past spring and...well, words simply fail me. Suffice it to say, I think it should be passed out as a parenting manual with every new baby born. ("Car seat? Check. Diapers? Check. Copy of To Kill A Mockingbird?) We would all be better human beings if Atticus had been a part of our lives. (No disrespect intended to your parents or mine.)

But to narrow it down to just ONE book?

Sorry.

Can't be done.

I started instead, to think of books that I turn to for, well, I guess they could be called comfort books. You know, like comfort food...for the heart. And two leapt to mind...

Having Our Say
The Delaney Sisters First Hundred Years by Sarah and Elizabeth Delaney

and

A Year Down Yonder by Richard Peck

Having had a few unconventional older women influence who I am, I find something deeply satisfying in my soul is filled when I read these books.

I won't say anymore. I don't want to ruin the experience for you.

Enjoy.