Monday, November 4, 2013
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Giving Thanks--3
Conveniently it is J's birthday, so it's an easy pick.
I am grateful for my oldest son, J.
J is easily the most handy of all my kids to date. He can fix the computer or a bike or the leaky faucet. He built me a big fence around my yard this summer. (His summer construction job was a bit of a flop, not nearly enough hours, so I hired him. I have yet to pay him, because I have no gates yet and I learned my lesson about paying contractors before the work is completely done. That's a story for a different day though.) He's an easy kid to brag about (just click "J" at the bottom of the post and it will take you to many a brag-fest). He's self-motivated and smart. He inherited his dad's natural musical ability. He left the nest in September and I miss him horribly, but he only went to UCDavis, so I can retrieve him when I begin missing him too badly.
I've got too much to do today to write an essay about his strengths and weaknesses, but trust me, he's a kid to be grateful for.
I am grateful for my oldest son, J.
J is easily the most handy of all my kids to date. He can fix the computer or a bike or the leaky faucet. He built me a big fence around my yard this summer. (His summer construction job was a bit of a flop, not nearly enough hours, so I hired him. I have yet to pay him, because I have no gates yet and I learned my lesson about paying contractors before the work is completely done. That's a story for a different day though.) He's an easy kid to brag about (just click "J" at the bottom of the post and it will take you to many a brag-fest). He's self-motivated and smart. He inherited his dad's natural musical ability. He left the nest in September and I miss him horribly, but he only went to UCDavis, so I can retrieve him when I begin missing him too badly.
I've got too much to do today to write an essay about his strengths and weaknesses, but trust me, he's a kid to be grateful for.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
Giving Thanks--2
I wonder if it would be cheating to list my family one by one. Maybe, but what are they going to do, revoke my thanking privileges? Where to start, oldest, youngest, the one making the most noise right now? I think I'll start with my oldest daughter, E.
I am thankful for E.
I remember when E was about five months old a friend asked me how being a mother was. I answered that it was so much better than anything I'd imagined, so much easier than I was expecting. She was beautiful, brilliant and a delight to be around. I think I raved for a good ten minutes which in retrospect was certainly bad form, but I'd fallen in love, so deeply in love that all manners had been thrown to the wind. And of course I hadn't hit potty training or learning how to do fractions or hormones or learning to drive or teenage rebellion or her completely backwards sleep schedule yet, all of which confirmed that parenting was not easy-peasy.
Nevertheless, my relationship with E continues to be one of the biggest blessings of my life. She's brilliant and resourceful. We geek out on Doctor Who together. We laugh at the same things. We enjoy similar books. She helped me raise and slaughter the meat chickens (and promptly became vegan). In consequence, she's voted most likely to help me through a horrible project without whining. If I had to be stuck on a desert island with someone, she would be in my top five picks.
She ran off to UCBerkeley this summer. Letting her be her own grownup person has been so much harder than I was expecting, but so much more rewarding. Last night I went out to dinner with her and just stared at her beauty and absorbed her light, and I realized that as deeply as I loved her as a baby, I love her more now, so much so that sometimes I throw manners to wind and write a whole blog post about her.
I am thankful for E.
I remember when E was about five months old a friend asked me how being a mother was. I answered that it was so much better than anything I'd imagined, so much easier than I was expecting. She was beautiful, brilliant and a delight to be around. I think I raved for a good ten minutes which in retrospect was certainly bad form, but I'd fallen in love, so deeply in love that all manners had been thrown to the wind. And of course I hadn't hit potty training or learning how to do fractions or hormones or learning to drive or teenage rebellion or her completely backwards sleep schedule yet, all of which confirmed that parenting was not easy-peasy.
Nevertheless, my relationship with E continues to be one of the biggest blessings of my life. She's brilliant and resourceful. We geek out on Doctor Who together. We laugh at the same things. We enjoy similar books. She helped me raise and slaughter the meat chickens (and promptly became vegan). In consequence, she's voted most likely to help me through a horrible project without whining. If I had to be stuck on a desert island with someone, she would be in my top five picks.
She ran off to UCBerkeley this summer. Letting her be her own grownup person has been so much harder than I was expecting, but so much more rewarding. Last night I went out to dinner with her and just stared at her beauty and absorbed her light, and I realized that as deeply as I loved her as a baby, I love her more now, so much so that sometimes I throw manners to wind and write a whole blog post about her.
Friday, November 1, 2013
Giving Thanks--1
November is my thankful month, not that I don't give it a solid shot at being thankful other months, but November is the month I consciously decide to count my blessings one by one. It helps me in so many ways, lifts my mind toward God, and opens my eyes to things I take for granted.
Today's Thankful: I am thankful for God's love. I am grateful for my mother and grandparents teaching me of his love when I was very young and for all of the teachers and missionaries who also testified of that love throughout my life, but most of all I am grateful to God for revealing that love to me as I've prayed.
Today's Thankful: I am thankful for God's love. I am grateful for my mother and grandparents teaching me of his love when I was very young and for all of the teachers and missionaries who also testified of that love throughout my life, but most of all I am grateful to God for revealing that love to me as I've prayed.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
The Ice Queen
"Sarah Byrd, Riverside, California," said the card BYU had sent. Sarah, nice name. Riverside, nice town. Oh God, plesae let her be a nice girl. In three weeks she would be my roommate. I was nervously curious. Luckily, Sarah's phone number was included on the information sheet. I called immediately.
Mrs. Byrd answered the phone. I quickly told her who I was and asked to speak to Sarah. Mrs. Byrd enthusiastically introduced herself and began to detail Sarah's lineage. The Byrds, it would seem, were an important family in Southern California, very successful, spiritual, wealthy, and very well-known. For a half an hour, she recited the family résumé. Eventually, she sidetracked to the decor of our dorm room. Matching bedspreads, she thought, would be charming. Purple, that was Sarah's favorite color. On and on she babbled. I listened, amazed that anyone could talk so long. My brain calculated the cost of a daytime rate call. My mother would kill me. Our budget simply wouldn't cover the unexpected expense.
After what seemed to be hundreds of costly minutes, Sarah got on the line. She sounded normal, a great relief. We chatted amiably, shallowly, for a few minutes. Then, out of necessity, I mentioned my budget situation to explain both the impossibility of buying matching bedspreads and the necessity of ending the conversation. She understood completely. She was thrilled I was from California. I was thrilled that she was thrilled. Our conversation lasted for about five minutes. I hung up delighted (despite the phone bill) to have met the girl who would soon become my friend, roommate, and confidante.
The next time we spoke to each other was at BYU. I arrived after Sarah. Her belongs lay in neat piles on her bed. A dozen red roses sat on her desk. I dumped my things on the bed, the floor, and my desk and headed for freshman orientation. That evening I returned to find my room half immaculate. My side of the room sharply contrasted with Sarah's neat, organized side. Scenes from The Odd Couple flitted through my mind. I made a mental note to straighten things up as soon as I could.
Sarah matched her side of the room, very neat. She looked like a Sourthern Californian. Her body was a curveless size five, her clothes neat, pressed, flattering, and very expensive. Her face was neither gorgeous nor plain, merely passably pretty. Her hair feathered back from her face in perfectly uniform sheets of layered, over-processed hair.
We said our hellos, tacitly decided each other trustworthy, and began to share details of our high school love lives and tidbits of our family lives. The next day we ate all our meals together and went shopping. We could tell we were going to be the best of friends.
School started and our differences became apparent. She was a business major. I was a theatre major. Our schedules differed greatly. Rehearsals often kept me out past eleven while Sarah went to sleep at nine-thirty. Unfortunately she was a light sleeper; I always woke her up when I came in late. No matter how quiet I was, no matter how dark the room was, I was always greeted with a snip of a rude, sleepy remark. And since I interrupted her sleep every night, she mutilated mine every morning in retaliation.
At six every morning, she awoke, showered , and came back into the room to blow-dry her hair. The hair ritual lasted forty-five miutes. Then for twenty minutes she would stare into a lighted mirror applying layers of expensive cosmetics to transform herself into a moderately pretty girl. Overall, we shared more than an hour of loud, bright would-have-been sleep together every morning.
During the days she made her displeasure clear chiefly through the skillful use of silence. She had perfected the art of icy stares in response to greetings, comments, or questions. The room began to develp a noticeable chill. My friends and I dubbed Sarah "The Ice Queen," and I began to spend the night elsewhere whenever possible. I would come home, change clothes, and leave as quickly as I could.
One of the more noticeable results of this tendency to leave was the development of an enormous pile of dirty clothes on my bed and floor. Sarah broke the icy silence to complain about "the stench," with a meaningful look at the conspiciously piled clothes. I was offended. The stench, in fact, came not from my mess, but from the vase of rotting slime-water and the remains of her once-lovely roses sitting on her immaculate shelves. An arched brow and a silent removal of the offending flora was her only response to this discovery.
Shortly after the rose incident, a series of misunderstandings, which neither of us could have coherently related a week later, occurred. The situation exploded. Our silence was broken by a torrent of accusations. Through tears of anger and of frustration, Sarah told me of her dream roommate. She had wanted a Californian, a real Californian. She wanted a friend who would shop with her, double-date with her, share expensive, size five clothes with her. Visions of summers of dashing back and forth between Sourthern Californian hometowns, hitting the beaches, and breaking hearts, clashed with the reality of a slovenly Northern Californian roommate. She wanted another roommate, another chance for fun that coming summer.
She demanded that I move. The phone was in her name: I was to move. My stubborn streak flared; I refused to move. Sarah's carefully lined eyes narrowed and she softly growled, "If you think I've been a bitch so far, just wait . . . I'm going to make your life a living hell." I did not care to take her up on the offer. She was more stubborn than I; I had no doubts of her abilities to carry out the threat. I was gone by that night.
Periodically, I saw her during the next few weeks. We passed by each other as if we had never met. She left in the middle of the semester. I did not miss her. Still, I think about her every now and then, and about how childish we were. And sometimes when someone is from Riverside, I'll even ask if she is familiar with the notorious Byrds. Amazingly enough, sometimes someone is.
—1992
{My oldest daughter has just gone off to Berkeley and I told her I'd post this twenty year old essay in honor of her own, much more pleasant, roommate experience. If I had been tempted to use Sarah's real name, the temptation was squashed by a Google search that revealed that she is unmarried, still living in Riverside, and a lawyer—part of a family with an infamous estate feud. Yeah, I think I'll pass on naming her. Twenty-eight years later, I still wouldn't want to cross her.}
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Rules To Live By
Once upon a time, I read a little book of advice from a father to his son. It got me thinking about thinking about things I want to pass on to my kids. As my forty-sixth birthday is coming up, I thought I'd cough up forty-six pearls of wisdom for my posterity. Some clearly apply to my daughters more than my sons. Use your best judgement in applying these babies in your own life.
1. If you are already in the shower, shave and shampoo. You'll never be sorry you did.
2. Don't pull on loose strings.
3. Floss.
4. Do one generous and one ridiculous thing when you get a windfall.
5. Remember birth control doesn't work sometimes. Don't have sex with anyone you are unwilling to have a child with.
6. Date someone for at least a year before getting married.
7. Live in the worst house in a nice neighborhood. Make it better.
8. Never buy a refrigerator without shelves.
9. Always try to go to the funeral of someone you love.
10. Children are not grownups, but they are people, full-grown souls in little bodies. Be respectful.
11. Do not induce labor if you can help it.
12. Treat people as you would like to be treated.
13. If you think something nice about someone, say it to them.
14. Tell people you love them if you do.
15. Don't tell people you love them if you don't.
16. Bills don't go away if you ignore them.
17. If you need to throw up, just do it. Stressing about it and trying to stop it just results in constant nausea and puke coming out your nose.
18. Parents get grouchy and tired. Offer them some time off sometime if they seem to be losing it.
19. If you swear around little tiny people, you can expect them to parrot it back in their cute little lispy voice. Chances are this will not make you feel warm and fuzzy.
20. If you plant something, water it, or it will die.
21. If you plant something, don't water it too much, or it will die.
22. Don't name chickens you are planning on eating.
23. Anything is easier to wash right away. It gets harder the longer it sits. (Except oatmeal. Don't know what's up with that.)
24. Buy the best knives you can afford.
25. Don't cheat. It makes you feel bad and it gets you in trouble.
26. Don't hit people. Even when--especially when--it seems like a good idea.
27. If you are going to have more than one kid buy good quality clothes second-hand. For you and for them.
28. Nursing costs a heck of a lot less money than formula. Spend some of that saved money on yourself.
29. Read widely. Read about ideas, people that appall you as well as those that uplift you.
30. Most friends will grow distant eventually, even ones you think will always be there. In the end, your family is still there. Invest the most in those relationships.
31. Visit lonely people.
32. Never take sides in a divorce.
33. Do not argue with the police. Use your nice words.
35. Treat your mail carrier well.
36. Wash your can opener.
37. Never say "uh-huh" absentmindedly to a child. They will remember that "promise" forever.
38. If you get an epidural and then you get a horrid headache afterwards, they will suggest you wait two weeks for it to heal on its own. It will not. Just get the "blood patch" that they will offer you in two weeks right away. It's really low risk and it works instantly.
39. When someone talks about suicide take them seriously. So what if she is just seeking attention? Give it to her.
40. Do not love other people's children as if they were your own. Your heart will break if they leave.
41. Pray. No one loves you more than God. No one deserves your love more than God.
42. Lay down for a full week after you have a baby. Your body will make you pay if you try too much too soon.
43. Be careful with bleach. A little goes a long way.
44. Play the Glad Game.
45. Give people the benefit of the doubt.
46. If you lend money, consider it a gift. Do not borrow money from friends or family.
1. If you are already in the shower, shave and shampoo. You'll never be sorry you did.
2. Don't pull on loose strings.
3. Floss.
4. Do one generous and one ridiculous thing when you get a windfall.
5. Remember birth control doesn't work sometimes. Don't have sex with anyone you are unwilling to have a child with.
6. Date someone for at least a year before getting married.
7. Live in the worst house in a nice neighborhood. Make it better.
8. Never buy a refrigerator without shelves.
9. Always try to go to the funeral of someone you love.
10. Children are not grownups, but they are people, full-grown souls in little bodies. Be respectful.
11. Do not induce labor if you can help it.
12. Treat people as you would like to be treated.
13. If you think something nice about someone, say it to them.
14. Tell people you love them if you do.
15. Don't tell people you love them if you don't.
16. Bills don't go away if you ignore them.
17. If you need to throw up, just do it. Stressing about it and trying to stop it just results in constant nausea and puke coming out your nose.
18. Parents get grouchy and tired. Offer them some time off sometime if they seem to be losing it.
19. If you swear around little tiny people, you can expect them to parrot it back in their cute little lispy voice. Chances are this will not make you feel warm and fuzzy.
20. If you plant something, water it, or it will die.
21. If you plant something, don't water it too much, or it will die.
22. Don't name chickens you are planning on eating.
23. Anything is easier to wash right away. It gets harder the longer it sits. (Except oatmeal. Don't know what's up with that.)
24. Buy the best knives you can afford.
25. Don't cheat. It makes you feel bad and it gets you in trouble.
26. Don't hit people. Even when--especially when--it seems like a good idea.
27. If you are going to have more than one kid buy good quality clothes second-hand. For you and for them.
28. Nursing costs a heck of a lot less money than formula. Spend some of that saved money on yourself.
29. Read widely. Read about ideas, people that appall you as well as those that uplift you.
30. Most friends will grow distant eventually, even ones you think will always be there. In the end, your family is still there. Invest the most in those relationships.
31. Visit lonely people.
32. Never take sides in a divorce.
33. Do not argue with the police. Use your nice words.
35. Treat your mail carrier well.
36. Wash your can opener.
37. Never say "uh-huh" absentmindedly to a child. They will remember that "promise" forever.
38. If you get an epidural and then you get a horrid headache afterwards, they will suggest you wait two weeks for it to heal on its own. It will not. Just get the "blood patch" that they will offer you in two weeks right away. It's really low risk and it works instantly.
39. When someone talks about suicide take them seriously. So what if she is just seeking attention? Give it to her.
40. Do not love other people's children as if they were your own. Your heart will break if they leave.
41. Pray. No one loves you more than God. No one deserves your love more than God.
42. Lay down for a full week after you have a baby. Your body will make you pay if you try too much too soon.
43. Be careful with bleach. A little goes a long way.
44. Play the Glad Game.
45. Give people the benefit of the doubt.
46. If you lend money, consider it a gift. Do not borrow money from friends or family.
Friday, April 12, 2013
The Hard Part
Wise words from the Parents’ Tao Te Ching:
When your children behave,
give them respect and kindness.
When your children misbehave,
give them respect and kindness.
When they are hateful,
love them.
When they betray your trust,
trust them.
Believe this difficult truth:
Showing respect in the face of disrespect,
love in the face of hate,
trust is the face of betrayal,
and serenity in the face of turmoil,
will teach your children more
than all the moral lectures
by all the preachers
since the dawn of time.
Source: "On Soft Discipline": http://www.positivelypositive.com/2013/04/08/on-soft-discipline/
When your children behave,
give them respect and kindness.
When your children misbehave,
give them respect and kindness.
When they are hateful,
love them.
When they betray your trust,
trust them.
Believe this difficult truth:
Showing respect in the face of disrespect,
love in the face of hate,
trust is the face of betrayal,
and serenity in the face of turmoil,
will teach your children more
than all the moral lectures
by all the preachers
since the dawn of time.
Source: "On Soft Discipline": http://www.positivelypositive.com/2013/04/08/on-soft-discipline/
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Neighborhood Blessings
As I think I may have mentioned, my kids lost both their grandmothers in 2011. It's been a bit rough on them. We prayed for the blow to be softened, and the Lord answered our prayers. About two years ago a very friendly person moved in down the street, a grandma who had no grandbabies to love. My kids adopted her. She adopted them.
Not that long ago, V wanted to go down to June's* house. I reminded her that it was a school day and V begged to be able to go read out loud to June, a thing she detests doing for me. "It makes her happy, Mom!" So I gave permission and V ran down. A couple of hours later I got a call from June telling me how she had gotten up that morning and wondered why she even bothered getting up every day. And then V came down and read to her. And it gave June such joy.
My kids still are a bit death obsessed. C told June that she loved her so much she would go to her funeral. June laughed, hugged her, and told her that she loved her too. V has told her how much she's going to miss her when she dies. L (my money-obsessed rude monkey) suggested that he'd be happy to have some of her money when she goes. (They have a long-standing joke where he teases "Give me all your money," and she laughs and swats him.) June lost her husband a few years ago and just lost her mom last month. She understands. She responds with love.
June comes by for holidays and birthdays. She made all of her kid friends in the neighborhood a fleece blanket for Christmas. She took the kids shopping to pick out the fabric and then had them help her. (They all wore them as capes on Christmas day as they visited around the neighborhood, even the big tough kids.) She gives them a piece of candy from her candy bowl each time they visit. (One piece, don't even try to take an extra!) She has them weed for her. She chews them out if they sass her, use bad language, or treat each other poorly. She takes them to the ballet, takes them grocery shopping with her, and just spices up their lives in general. Like a grandma.
We needed a grandma and the Lord gave us June who as it turns out needed us too, and strangers turned into family. It's a tender mercy that boarders on miraculous to me that the Lord chose to bless all of us in the same move.
*Name has been changed to protect her privacy.
Not that long ago, V wanted to go down to June's* house. I reminded her that it was a school day and V begged to be able to go read out loud to June, a thing she detests doing for me. "It makes her happy, Mom!" So I gave permission and V ran down. A couple of hours later I got a call from June telling me how she had gotten up that morning and wondered why she even bothered getting up every day. And then V came down and read to her. And it gave June such joy.
My kids still are a bit death obsessed. C told June that she loved her so much she would go to her funeral. June laughed, hugged her, and told her that she loved her too. V has told her how much she's going to miss her when she dies. L (my money-obsessed rude monkey) suggested that he'd be happy to have some of her money when she goes. (They have a long-standing joke where he teases "Give me all your money," and she laughs and swats him.) June lost her husband a few years ago and just lost her mom last month. She understands. She responds with love.
June comes by for holidays and birthdays. She made all of her kid friends in the neighborhood a fleece blanket for Christmas. She took the kids shopping to pick out the fabric and then had them help her. (They all wore them as capes on Christmas day as they visited around the neighborhood, even the big tough kids.) She gives them a piece of candy from her candy bowl each time they visit. (One piece, don't even try to take an extra!) She has them weed for her. She chews them out if they sass her, use bad language, or treat each other poorly. She takes them to the ballet, takes them grocery shopping with her, and just spices up their lives in general. Like a grandma.
We needed a grandma and the Lord gave us June who as it turns out needed us too, and strangers turned into family. It's a tender mercy that boarders on miraculous to me that the Lord chose to bless all of us in the same move.
*Name has been changed to protect her privacy.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Moffat's More Death Obsessed than I Am.
If I haven't outed myself as a nerd yet, allow me to do so. I am a Doctor Who fan. A big one. I have no TARDIS mugs or sonic screwdiver pens. No posters all over my rooms. Nevertheless.
Anyhow, I'll post a huge picture for those of you who need protection from Season 5, 6, and 7 spoilers. Here you go. Now go away or your life will be spoiled. (Also—move it along, time to catch up on your Who.)
Steven Moffet is just messing with us all. As I'm sure most people who've watched New Who can tell you, Moffet is mean and more than a teensy bit morbid. People die and then live. Then die again. (Lather-rinse-repeat.) Rory-and-Amy's deaths have became a running joke. Apparently Clara is going to follow suit. So here is a post that is really just for me to keep score. I'll be adding to it. [Don't flip out if it takes me a bit. "Just for me" means I am not trying to write the authoritative death lists for Whovians. Also I am not touching the Jack Harkness deaths, too many, too grotesque.]
Rory's Deaths:
1. Amy's Choice—Mrs. Pogett
2. Amy's Choice—Blown up when the doctor blew up the TARDIS.
3. Cold Blood—Shot by the Silerian Restac (intended for the Doctor) and body absorbed by the light, erased from time.
4, The Curse of the Black Spot—A toss up between drowning, and being vaporized by the touch of a stroppy homicidal mermaid, one of the two got him.
5. The Curse of the Black Spot—Appears to drown when taken off life support.
6. The Doctor's Wife—Died of old age in the TARDIS, driven to insanity by House.
7. The Angels Take Manhattan—Died from old age at Winter Quay.
8. The Angels Take Manhattan—Jumped from roof of Winter Quay.
9. The Angels Take Manhattan—Lived to death in the past, died for real at age 82. (This time they really mean it. Ten points if you can guess the show that's from.)
Amy's Deaths:
1. Amy's Choice—Drove van into wall.
2. Amy's Choice—Doctor blew up the TARDIS.
3. Hungry Earth—Amy appears to die when she gets swallowed up by the earth.
4. Girl Who Waited—Older Amy killed by the kindness of hand-bots and simultaneously wiped from existence.
5. The Angels Take Manhattan—Jumped from roof at Winter Quay.
6. The Angels Take Manhattan—Lived to death in the past, died for real at age 87.
Clara's Deaths:
1. Asylum of the Daleks—Blown up.
2. The Snowmen—Fell to death.
3. The Bells of St. John—Soul sucked out by a little girl spoon-head at the base of the stairs.
4. The Bells of St. John—Soul sucked out by a doctor spoon-head at the café.
5. Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS—Melted into a lava monster thingy. (I believe they are known in certain circles as "ossified creatures.")
6. The Name of the Doctor—OK, Clara officially wins most deaths of anyone in Who, old or new. How can you even count after that?
If, by chance, you are not a Doctor Who fan, I suggest that you try it out. Get ready for cheesy special effects, some over-the-top moralizing, some melodrama, and some good clean fun. In theory, it's a children's show, but it's too scary for my littlest who is six.
As an aside, I must admit that I had a very good time double checking my list.
Anyhow, I'll post a huge picture for those of you who need protection from Season 5, 6, and 7 spoilers. Here you go. Now go away or your life will be spoiled. (Also—move it along, time to catch up on your Who.)
Steven Moffet is just messing with us all. As I'm sure most people who've watched New Who can tell you, Moffet is mean and more than a teensy bit morbid. People die and then live. Then die again. (Lather-rinse-repeat.) Rory-and-Amy's deaths have became a running joke. Apparently Clara is going to follow suit. So here is a post that is really just for me to keep score. I'll be adding to it. [Don't flip out if it takes me a bit. "Just for me" means I am not trying to write the authoritative death lists for Whovians. Also I am not touching the Jack Harkness deaths, too many, too grotesque.]
Rory's Deaths:
1. Amy's Choice—Mrs. Pogett
2. Amy's Choice—Blown up when the doctor blew up the TARDIS.
3. Cold Blood—Shot by the Silerian Restac (intended for the Doctor) and body absorbed by the light, erased from time.
4, The Curse of the Black Spot—A toss up between drowning, and being vaporized by the touch of a stroppy homicidal mermaid, one of the two got him.
5. The Curse of the Black Spot—Appears to drown when taken off life support.
6. The Doctor's Wife—Died of old age in the TARDIS, driven to insanity by House.
7. The Angels Take Manhattan—Died from old age at Winter Quay.
8. The Angels Take Manhattan—Jumped from roof of Winter Quay.
9. The Angels Take Manhattan—Lived to death in the past, died for real at age 82. (This time they really mean it. Ten points if you can guess the show that's from.)
Amy's Deaths:
1. Amy's Choice—Drove van into wall.
2. Amy's Choice—Doctor blew up the TARDIS.
3. Hungry Earth—Amy appears to die when she gets swallowed up by the earth.
4. Girl Who Waited—Older Amy killed by the kindness of hand-bots and simultaneously wiped from existence.
5. The Angels Take Manhattan—Jumped from roof at Winter Quay.
6. The Angels Take Manhattan—Lived to death in the past, died for real at age 87.
Clara's Deaths:
1. Asylum of the Daleks—Blown up.
2. The Snowmen—Fell to death.
3. The Bells of St. John—Soul sucked out by a little girl spoon-head at the base of the stairs.
4. The Bells of St. John—Soul sucked out by a doctor spoon-head at the café.
5. Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS—Melted into a lava monster thingy. (I believe they are known in certain circles as "ossified creatures.")
6. The Name of the Doctor—OK, Clara officially wins most deaths of anyone in Who, old or new. How can you even count after that?
If, by chance, you are not a Doctor Who fan, I suggest that you try it out. Get ready for cheesy special effects, some over-the-top moralizing, some melodrama, and some good clean fun. In theory, it's a children's show, but it's too scary for my littlest who is six.
As an aside, I must admit that I had a very good time double checking my list.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
For My Daughter
By Sarah McMane“Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be.” – Clementine Paddleford
Never play the princess when you can
be the queen:
rule the kingdom, swing a scepter,
wear a crown of gold.
Don’t dance in glass slippers,
crystal carving up your toes --
be a barefoot Amazon instead,
for those shoes will surely shatter on your feet.
Never wear only pink
when you can strut in crimson red,
sweat in heather grey, and
shimmer in sky blue,
claim the golden sun upon your hair.
Colors are for everyone,
boys and girls, men and women --
be a verdant garden, the landscape of Versailles,
not a pale primrose blindly pushed aside.
Chase green dragons and one-eyed zombies,
fierce and fiery toothy monsters,
not merely lazy butterflies,
sweet and slow on summer days.
For you can tame the most brutish beasts
with your wily wits and charm,
and lizard scales feel just as smooth
as gossamer insect wings.
Tramp muddy through the house in
a purple tutu and cowboy boots.
Have a tea party in your overalls.
Build a fort of birch branches,
a zoo of Legos, a rocketship of
Queen Anne chairs and coverlets,
first stop on the moon.
Dream of dinosaurs and baby dolls,
bold brontosaurus and bookish Belle,
not Barbie on the runway or
Disney damsels in distress --
you are much too strong to play
the simpering waif.
Don a baseball cap, dance with Daddy,
paint your toenails, climb a cottonwood.
Learn to speak with both your mind and heart.
For the ground beneath will hold you, dear --
know that you are free.
And never grow a wishbone, daughter,
where your backbone ought to be.
[Thanks to A Mighty Girl for sharing this with me.]
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
The [Pie Crust] Recipe the World Has Been Waiting For
This is my pie crust recipe. It is easy and not persnickety at all. Unlike most "never fail" recipes this requires no ice water, vinegar, delicate fork tossing, or pixie dust. You can re-roll it. You can touch it a lot. You can stir it too much. It still turns out well. The only note I have is don't get creative with the mixing method as that's where the magic lies.
Never Fail Pie Crust
2 1/2 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
4 pinches baking powder (not soda)
1/2 cup water
1 cup shortening
Mix flour, salt and baking powder. Remove 1/2 cup of flour mixture and mix with water [makes a paste]. Set aside. Cut in shortening to flour mixture.* Pour on paste. Stir until blended. Roll out on floured board. Bake single shells in 400 degree oven 11 minutes.
Yield: 2 good sized pie crusts.
Original source: Janet Chance in The Pedalin' Gormet, a ward cookbook
* Personally I use a pastry blender I bought ages ago to cut in the shortening. I recommend buying one if you make pie crust or biscuits very often, but here's how to cut shortening in with two knives.
Exhibit A, a pastry blender:
Never Fail Pie Crust
2 1/2 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
4 pinches baking powder (not soda)
1/2 cup water
1 cup shortening
Mix flour, salt and baking powder. Remove 1/2 cup of flour mixture and mix with water [makes a paste]. Set aside. Cut in shortening to flour mixture.* Pour on paste. Stir until blended. Roll out on floured board. Bake single shells in 400 degree oven 11 minutes.
Yield: 2 good sized pie crusts.
Original source: Janet Chance in The Pedalin' Gormet, a ward cookbook
* Personally I use a pastry blender I bought ages ago to cut in the shortening. I recommend buying one if you make pie crust or biscuits very often, but here's how to cut shortening in with two knives.
Exhibit A, a pastry blender:
Saturday, September 15, 2012
What We Take With Us
My mother used to say that every time she saw chickens she thought of
me. As an afterthought, she would add how much she hated chickens. This didn't happen once. It happened repeatedly. "Every time I see
chickens, it just makes me think of you. Ug, I hate chickens!" It made
me laugh every single time. One time I repeated it to her verbatim. A
horrified look crossed her face as the she heard those two ideas
side-by-side for the first time. "I suck. I am so sorry!" I laughed and
explained that I understood. I loved my chickens. She saw chickens and
thought of my love for chickens, then the thought of how much she hated
chickens. A perfectly logical thought progression.Recently, I've been thinking of my mom every time I see oleander. I loathe oleander. It's pokey and huge and poisonous. Terrible to try to eradicate. But my mom loved it because her mom loved it. It thrives in drought, a bright spot the drab brown of our Northern Californian summers. But man, I hate that stuff.
At the beginning of August, my yvil sister and I buried my mother's ashes. Y had collected a batch of little trinkets to bury with her, the dogs' name tags, little charms with all of our birthstones, a rainbow girls thing-a-ma-bobber, and a Starbucks latte, prepared just the way my mom liked. I brought nothing.
She placed the plastic box of ashes in the hole and scattered her meaningful trinkets over and around the box, and wedged the latte in there. I went to the edge of the cemetery, picked some oleander blossoms, and placed them on top of the other things. They were lovely: poisonous, pokey and lovely.
They reminded me of my mom, of my relationship with my mom. Are there two different ways of looking at something? We'd take opposite stances. Sometimes that could get a little impassioned, hating something the other person loved. But always we loved each other, even when we were so angry (or hurt) we could hardly speak to each other.
When we had only days left, did we talk oleander or chickens? No. At the beginning of the end, when her capacity for speech was really winding down, she had one thing to tell me—I love you. When she was signing Christmas cards, she could hardly write her name, but she wrote IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou all joined together. She loved me. She hated chickens, homeschooling, attachment parenting, home birth, and the Mormon church, but she loved me. In the end, that love was all that mattered.
Friday, September 14, 2012
What We Bring With Us
Yesterday, Jacob's math teacher called home. I was rather surprised that anything Jacob did would warrant a call home. He's kind of perfect at school. In fact, that is what the call was about. A kind teacher called to tell me that my son was acing his AP Calculus assignments, that he was well-behaved, and insightful, an asset to the class. Needless to say, I love hearing that. I should probably write her a thank you note.
There is nothing in Jacob's genetic make-up that would give him a natural edge in math. Certainly, his elementary teacher was only middling in math and not enamored of it. (In fact, my limitations as a math teacher are why Jacob chose to attend public school as a sophomore. "Math books and CDs only explain it one way, Mom.") Neither nurture nor nature should have produced my math boy, but Jacob has excelled from the very beginning. He has both love and aptitude for the subject. This talent as much as anything else convinces me that children developed as individuals with their Father in Heaven prior to their birth.
It's interesting to see how the attributes that my children showed so early on are developing. Elaine was an observant baby. She watched people, listened to them, absorbed. Now she is one of the most insightful people I know. She notices nuances in people's words and body language. She finds people fascinating. I always ask her to tone-check sensitive emails (things that might easily blow up) before I send them off. Invariably, she catches subtext. Not surprisingly, psychology is the field that fascinates her. Gifts.
My husband is a talented musician. From the time he was a wee child he knew he wanted to play the trumpet. Nothing in his family would have taken him that direction. It just was part of him. His family thought he was just being a kid and it would pass. When he was five, they gave him a toy trumpet which was greeted with joy, quickly followed by disgust as he realized that it was a fake. Seven years later his parents got him the real thing and a teacher, a great teacher. Music still feeds his soul.
I myself was a born reader. My mom tells the story of finding me teaching the neighborhood kids to read when I was four. No one taught me to read. I had "Sesame Street," "The Electric Company," and a gift from God. My Natalie similarly began to read early with very little instruction. Just a gift and a passion.
I love this stanza from Wordsworth's Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.
At one point, I believed I would shape my children to be what they ought to be. Now, I know better. Yes, I do influence them, but they are vehemently their very own selves, formed before they gained physical bodies. I'm blessed to be able to watch them blossom into those selves.
There is nothing in Jacob's genetic make-up that would give him a natural edge in math. Certainly, his elementary teacher was only middling in math and not enamored of it. (In fact, my limitations as a math teacher are why Jacob chose to attend public school as a sophomore. "Math books and CDs only explain it one way, Mom.") Neither nurture nor nature should have produced my math boy, but Jacob has excelled from the very beginning. He has both love and aptitude for the subject. This talent as much as anything else convinces me that children developed as individuals with their Father in Heaven prior to their birth.
It's interesting to see how the attributes that my children showed so early on are developing. Elaine was an observant baby. She watched people, listened to them, absorbed. Now she is one of the most insightful people I know. She notices nuances in people's words and body language. She finds people fascinating. I always ask her to tone-check sensitive emails (things that might easily blow up) before I send them off. Invariably, she catches subtext. Not surprisingly, psychology is the field that fascinates her. Gifts.
My husband is a talented musician. From the time he was a wee child he knew he wanted to play the trumpet. Nothing in his family would have taken him that direction. It just was part of him. His family thought he was just being a kid and it would pass. When he was five, they gave him a toy trumpet which was greeted with joy, quickly followed by disgust as he realized that it was a fake. Seven years later his parents got him the real thing and a teacher, a great teacher. Music still feeds his soul.
I myself was a born reader. My mom tells the story of finding me teaching the neighborhood kids to read when I was four. No one taught me to read. I had "Sesame Street," "The Electric Company," and a gift from God. My Natalie similarly began to read early with very little instruction. Just a gift and a passion.
I love this stanza from Wordsworth's Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
At one point, I believed I would shape my children to be what they ought to be. Now, I know better. Yes, I do influence them, but they are vehemently their very own selves, formed before they gained physical bodies. I'm blessed to be able to watch them blossom into those selves.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
In Which I Attempt to Convince Myself of a Truth
Yesterday, I was feeling yucky. I looked up at my daughter and said, "I don't know what's wrong with me. I just feel so bad."
"You're kidding, right?"
"No, what happened? Oh . . . right."
Then I remembered what I'd been distracting myself from all week. Something yucky had happened, something that blew me out of the water, something I didn't want to deal with. And I buried it. Under distractions: being busy, being mom, watching SciFi, reading everything I could get my hands on. It worked, I forgot the problem. I was sort of dazed this week, unable to concentrate, and whenever I got a minute and my mind began to focus on the issue, I shoved myself head-first into something that would make my thoughts SHUT UP.
Distraction worked and it didn't work. The pain was still there. My subconscious was picking at the scab. I had symbolic nasty nightmares all week. I still felt like crap; I just wasn't as sure why.
I know I need to write. Some people need to run. Or to paint. Or to dismantle a car engine and put it back together. I need to write. Writing is the way my brain processes yuck, takes my issues, those chaotic feelings, and forms them into sense. Then my psyche lets the problem go. When my thoughts threaten to drown me, if I write them out then I clarify those thoughts, work through them. I have a journal entry or a bad poem or blog post instead of free-floating anxiety. Seems like a fine idea.
But I've been avoiding writing. Because the clarity hurts. Writing hurts. But after I write, the things stop killing me. My subconscious lets them go. When I wrote about my mom's death I sobbed through the process. I sobbed as I read the post twenty times, then I moved on. The nightmares stopped. I could think about what happened in passing without being thrown back into the situation. There's hundreds of instances on my blog, in my journals, in my correspondence of times when this process has happened.
With distraction, I feel better in the short run. With writing, I feel better in the long run. Like exercise and good nutrition, like getting enough rest, like the golden rule, like reading the scriptures daily, the easy way is the wrong way. And not easier. Truly.
"You're kidding, right?"
"No, what happened? Oh . . . right."
Then I remembered what I'd been distracting myself from all week. Something yucky had happened, something that blew me out of the water, something I didn't want to deal with. And I buried it. Under distractions: being busy, being mom, watching SciFi, reading everything I could get my hands on. It worked, I forgot the problem. I was sort of dazed this week, unable to concentrate, and whenever I got a minute and my mind began to focus on the issue, I shoved myself head-first into something that would make my thoughts SHUT UP.
Distraction worked and it didn't work. The pain was still there. My subconscious was picking at the scab. I had symbolic nasty nightmares all week. I still felt like crap; I just wasn't as sure why.
I know I need to write. Some people need to run. Or to paint. Or to dismantle a car engine and put it back together. I need to write. Writing is the way my brain processes yuck, takes my issues, those chaotic feelings, and forms them into sense. Then my psyche lets the problem go. When my thoughts threaten to drown me, if I write them out then I clarify those thoughts, work through them. I have a journal entry or a bad poem or blog post instead of free-floating anxiety. Seems like a fine idea.
But I've been avoiding writing. Because the clarity hurts. Writing hurts. But after I write, the things stop killing me. My subconscious lets them go. When I wrote about my mom's death I sobbed through the process. I sobbed as I read the post twenty times, then I moved on. The nightmares stopped. I could think about what happened in passing without being thrown back into the situation. There's hundreds of instances on my blog, in my journals, in my correspondence of times when this process has happened.
With distraction, I feel better in the short run. With writing, I feel better in the long run. Like exercise and good nutrition, like getting enough rest, like the golden rule, like reading the scriptures daily, the easy way is the wrong way. And not easier. Truly.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Wonder What Brought That To Mind
Elaine and I were walking tonight, chatting away, when she mentioned that she didn't like the creepy aspects of Dr. Who. Perfectly normal things suddenly were creeping her out. Things like statues. And shadows. We both glanced back at the driveway we had just passed. And saw. . .
No sign of the Doctor though.
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