Must Supress The Cravings

New Red Thing readers click here.

I thought it was time for my ever impressed husband to appear in another Red Thing shot. The following photo shows just how versatile the Magic Scarf can truly be. We've appealed to infants with the use of the fuzzy diaper. We've appealed to women across the globe. We've appealed to men with the tie. (And by we I mean, of course, The Red Thing and me.) Now we are showing you that even old men, who would probably not be caught dead in the boutiques that these are often found in, can effectively wear the Magic Scarf. All hail the suspenders:

So, not only are these great for your average suspender wearing man of any age (also, they match the tie and cummerbund) they are great for someone who has recently become memory challenged. If your friend, spouse, or great-grandfather has been diagnosed with Alzheimer's simply shove him into Red Thing Suspenders or, as I like to call them Magic Scarpenders. This way, when he wanders off and Search & Rescue tries to locate him, he'll be helping them out by proudly displaying his humongous, bright, fuzzy suspenders.

It should be noted that it is not the intention of this blog author to make light of Alzheimer's or any other disease which effects the memory.

********************************************************************

Dang it stays light here for a long time now. Being that I now live more north than I ever have before and we are pretty close to where Mountain Time ends and Pacific Time begins and we just leaped forward, it was light last night until sometime after 7:30. It's March! I don't know what the summer will bring other than a later bedtime for Garrett or some kind of black paper on his window so that he can sleep when it's still light out at 10 pm. (Exaggerating, I hope!)

My brother called last night and left me a nasty message about how he was eating white sauce from Miguel's. I didn't think it was a very nice thing to do to his best and only sister. Three and a half months must be the point in a move where you start longing for specific restaurants not found in your new neck of the woods because additionally, I'm craving a tostada from La Cocina and a piece of boysenberry apple pie from The Julian Pie Company. I'm sure I'll live through the cravings. Other than the yummy Cafe Rio, living out here is like Mexican food detox. I'm just a bit afraid of trying Comida de Mexico so very far from the border. I'm spooked that it will be Tex-Mex masquerading as authentic Mexican food. Or, more accurately, Tex-Mex masquerading as the exquisite California-food-with-its-heritage-rooted-in-Mexico that I know and love.

Eastern Apparel (UPDATED)

***Scroll to the bottom to read the update!

If you're new to Livin' In A Fishbowl, read this first.

Secondly, for those of you who were appalled that I put my offspring in a fuzzy diaper, you join the ranks of my father who called last night insisting that I take it down. Something about, "No self respecting grandson of mine, etc, etc..." I did hear him but, much like some of the decisions I made as a teenager in his home, I decided not to listen. Loincloth Garrett is still happily gracing the March 8 blog.


Now on to today's Red Thing.

I don't encourage anyone to actually wear her Red Thing or Magic Scarf in the following way. I am just attempting to be multicultural and show the rest of the world that this wonderful accessory is not limited to Westerners. Behold, the burqa:

The burqa is a garment worn by women in some Islamic traditions for the purpose of cloaking the entire body. It is typically removed once the woman has reached the sanctuary of her home. It was a good thing that Troy and I were laughing pretty hard whilst trying to take this picture because otherwise I might have puked or gone into a temporary nervous breakdown over the situation. I pretty much want to rip these off the heads of the women I see wearing them and scream something along the lines of, "With Jesus you are free!" Actually, there's no "pretty much" about it. I definitely want to rip them off. It's not that I don't understand the call to modesty but I think it can be done in a way that allows for identifying who's who in a family picture. I mean, see below:

Can you even imagine this? Okay so, one day, ten years from now, a woman will say to her little girl, "Look, there's mommy, the second burqa from the left. And that's your auntie there on the end. I know because I recognize her purse. And that one next to me is...is...is. You know I can't remember. I can't tell us apart. We all look so much alike." It's ridiculous.

I know that if I had been born as a Muslim in Afghanistan I wouldn't know any different and I would think that bikinis were of the devil and I would maybe even be happy to just live my life behind my mask. But I would like to think that I would still be the strong-willed woman that I am today. I mean, I was born stubborn so I suppose that they would have had to beat it out of me in the Middle East. I hope that under my burqa, even if there was nothing I could do about my place in life, I'd be giving some abusive and controlling man in my life the finger. I mean, as a pastor's wife I don't flip the bird. Ever. But if I had grown up under the oppressive weight of the burqa I wouldn't be a pastor's wife and I think I would consider my middle finger a great deal more of an asset than I do now.

But I totally digress. The Red Thing can be used as a burqa so yay for that, right? In fact, it would be an alternative to the traditional blue and black that they typically wear. I'm all for integrating color into people's wardrobes.


****A comment by anonymous wondered if that was entirely Red Thing or if, perhaps, a red sweater accompanied the Magic Scarf. It is, in fact, entirely the wondrous Red Thing.

Oh The Versatility

First time readers: Find out more about The Red Thing here.

Have you ever noticed that it seems the cloth diaper has been done away with? Gone are the days of scrapping fecal matter into the toilet and then doing a load of laundry encrusted with dried crap. Oh sure, it costs boatloads more money to purchase disposable but what price are you willing to put on not playing with poop, right? Well, I wanted my boy so very desperately that, truthfully, I don't really care how much of his feces I end up handling. So luckily, as it turns out, my awesome Red Thing doubles as a diaper:

Or a loincloth. Really you can take your pick. See, not only can my kiddo use this soft and fuzzy Thing as a diaper--which I am sure would cut down on diaper rash--he can also be Mowgli for Halloween. Or he can wear it to Show & Tell in kindergarten and give his fellow five year olds a titillating speech on the clothing customs of the South African bushmen. Or he can take up sumo wrestling. The possibilities, along with the uses of The Red Thing, are endless.
*********************************************************
I'd like to point out something else entirely. In the photo, just to the right of Garrett's ear, is a scrapbookish picture frame that my very good friend Michelle made for us when he was born. When I posted the loincloth photo I realized that newborn Garrett was there, next to jumbo toddler Garrett and I just do not have a clue where all the time has gone. Two years ago he was a fetus. Now he is posing in Red Thing photo shoots and cramming sticks of wrapped gum into his mouth behind my back. We've covered the fact that he's still not talking oh my gosh what's wrong with him but he communicates by the aforementioned grunting, pulling, pointing, and babbling. He COMMUNICATES! That infant just laid in the plastic bin under warming lights attempting to regulate his own temperature. He woke up one time during the first night of his outside life simply to hack up some charming amniotic fluidy gunk. He slept, he pretended to drink some colostrum, he pooped meconium (oh how Red Thing would have been ruined forever) and that's it. It's astounding to me that he has become a tiny little person with very strong opinions about feed me now and no I'd rather not have my diaper changed thank you very much. That newborn had my heart from the second he peered deep into my eyes. But that toddler has my soul. He has every inch of my being wrapped around the tip of his pinkie finger. He has me realizing that without infertility I might have had forty-two babies before it occurred to me that stopping would probably be a bright idea. My mind cannot fathom that he is the same kid that's in the picture. It's hard to believe he hasn't always been as long as the changing table or as hyper as an overexcited puppy. I never knew that I would love my child a little bit more with every day that passes, but I do. There are moments when I look back at the infant in those pictures and long for one more day with him sleeping soundly in the notch of my arm. But every day I long to see what tomorrow will bring in the life of my little Red Thing model.

Finally, happy half birthday to me.

The Texas Look and My Boy Genius

If you're a first time reader, catch up on Red Thing March here.

Okay so let me set the scene for you. You've been invited to some sort of hoedown or you have to take your kid to the Mother and Son Cowboy Chili Cook Off or you've recently started dating a Texan. Trouble is, you have nothing in your wardrobe that even resembles "southern attire" so what the heck are you gonna do? But you see my friends, that is the sheer beauty of Magic Scarf. Even if your invitation to the Hoedown was lost in the mail and you only learned of your desired presence an hour before the event is scheduled to commence, you can fall back on your trusty Thing. Slap on a pair of jeans, find your southernmost looking boots, stick a piece of hay in your mouth (if hay is not readily available, a toothpick will work almost as well) and tie up your Thing as such:

The outfit is truly complete if you have a cowboy hat but it's alright if you don't, just make your hair really really big. It's hard to believe that wondrous piece of material can be both a skirt and a bandanna isn't it? Once again I apologize for the frightening picture of me.
***********************************************************************

I have decided that my son is a genius inflicted with Einstein Syndrome. This is, of course, the only logical explanation for his lack of verbal skills. He does not come from a quiet home. His father and I are always talking to him, always asking him to repeat things, always encouraging speech. He might have ten words. Actually, I think he has about 200, he just doesn't say them. He can follow such commands as "Take the Q-tip into the bathroom and put it in the trash can." He did it this morning. Well, truthfully he first put it into his potty chair but when I then said, "Take the Q-tip out of the potty chair and put it in the trash can." He did. At his 18 month check up, his pediatrician seemed mildly concerned about his lack of language and, unbeknownst to me, put the boy through several baseline tests for autism declaring, at the end of her exam, "Well at this point I don't think he's autistic." Given his babbling, pointing, grunting, grabbing our hands and leading us around the world and back, sound effects for cars, planes, dogs, cats, incessant desire to play peekaboo or basketball or chase-me-and-catch-me-and-I-will-crack-up-hysterically, I kind of don't really think so either. Never really crossed my mind, actually. Therefore, the only other logical explanation is that the poor child has Einstein Syndrome. Here are some signs of the syndrome:

*Parents who are highly intelligent (well then, clearly. Ahem.)
*Strong musical gifts (this kid has loved music since day one, can keep a beat with his foot, points to the radio when we get in the car and makes a backseat ruckus until we turn it on, and is obsessed with the musical instruments, especially the piano, at church)
*Many relatives who are musicians (I could have been a musician. You know, if I'd ever taken a lesson in my life. Troy played the piano. Otherwise, um, this one is not so indicative of Garrett's genius)
*Delayed toilet training abilities (Great!)
*Strong Willed (oh is he ever!)
*Outstanding Memory (it's hard to tell with a one year old but when we take him to my dad's work, he walks down the hall, turns the corner, and goes straight into his office. And he's only been there a few times.)

Maybe he's just a late talker. But, for the time being, I prefer to assume he's a boy genius.

Accessorize With Abandon

So before we get to the important business of today's Red Thing, you should know that, concerning yesterday's post, I also thought the word was spelled cumberbun. All my life I swear I've been pronouncing it with two b's. I also, most certainly, do not end the word with a "d" sound. However, not knowing for sure if cumberbun was the actual correct spelling, I looked it up on dictionary.com and behold, it is cummerbund. And my world felt somewhat askew and much like my shoes were on the wrong feet. So, for those of you who have confessed, either on this blog or elsewhere, that you've gone your entire lives thinking that it's cumberbun...me too, my friends, me too.

And now for an all new Red Thing. You should read this post first if you're new to The Red Thing. Although, I'm pretty sure that I know all six of you so I'm kind of gonna just off and run with the fact that I don't have any new readers. Anyway...

You just don't see enough people walking around in hand *muffs anymore these days. And you know what, I don't know why. There is no logical explanation. I mean, I get why no one wears them in Hawaii where every single day is tank top weather. Fuzzy hand warmers just don't compliment flip flops very well. I even understand why you don't see 'em in San Diego. It's pretty toasty there most of the time. But I live in Utah now and I gotta tell ya, I haven't seen a single one. Why aren't we rockin' the giant fuzzy hand warmers? They used to be such a sign of style and fashion. Maybe they're still big in Russia? I get that they can be a little pricey and what with the economy these days and blah blah blah. Apparently Hermes makes one one that totally doubles as a purse and you can bypass their two year waiting list and buy it on ebay for $9,495. Yah. You read that right. But for that price you get the original box and the original dustbag. The DUSTBAG people! Doesn't that make it worth your money? You should know, before you go bidding on such a gem, that it doesn't come with the tags so it may or may not be a knock off ...but the DUSTBAG! Don't forget about the DUSTBAG. Here is a picture though...

Or for $15 plus shipping and handling you can buy The Magic Scarf and make your own muff...

I know it doesn't come with a dustbag but you can't wear the Hermes Kelly Shearling Muff as a tie or a skirt, now can you? And I mean, the Hermes model does look a great deal more...fierce than I do. She's much more put together than I will ever be. Her hair is flawless and mine is all courtesy of the wind that likes to whip around between the Wasatch and the Oquirrh mountains. But her hand warmer doesn't scream, "Service with a smile!" If, you know, she were serving something to someone, somewhere. All I'm saying is that aside from the obvious financial perks, would you rather be friends with impeccable and snooty looking model lady with nearly 9,500 dollars on her hands or Hurry-up-and-take-the-picture-already-my-hair-is-on-a-journey-to-Park-City-without-me lady who is making wonderful use of The Red Thing for 15 dollars? I mean, really, my muff has so many functions it's paid for itself after just a few days.

Turns out that on the Magic Scarf website there is a video that shows several different functions of the Things. (And by several I mean four or five. Nothing like the plethora that you will see featured here.) At the very end of the video the narrator says, "Accessorize with abandon." And oh my gosh if that isn't my new motto for life!

*It should be noted that the author of this blog realizes that there are several definitions for the word muff. The definition that coincides with this particular post is "a thick, tubular case for the hands, covered with fur or other material, used for women and girls for warmth and as a handbag."

Ladies & Gentlemen May I Present The Fuzzy Cummerbund

If you're new to Red Thing March click here to read the post that started it all.

To be honest, it is rather difficult to get the boy to cooperate during his photo shoots. He's not thrilled with being wrapped up in The Red Thing. He'd rather be covered in mud or baked into a cinnamon roll or, at the very least, running around naked. But occasionally I manage to get a shot like the one featured above. I call it "Garrett in Cummerbund" and I can just see him in bright red pants. Now I know you're all fired up and running out the door to buy your best guy TWO Magic Scarves. That way his tie and his cummerbund will match. And if it's that adorable on a toddler, just think of how, um, magical, it will look on your man. I hear they are all the rage at weddings.

If you're wondering what that big splotch of wetness is on Garrett's left shoulder, well, that would be drool. This shot was taken when he was fighting valiantly to overcome his cold. When his nose is plugged it seems that he loses his ability to simultaneously breathe through his mouth and swallow his own saliva. I hope that he manages to overcome this or he's going to have a difficult time as an adult in the professional world. Apparently, though, it's genetic. While I have the presence of mind to swallow my own spit when my nose is plugged and not wear it proudly on my shirt, the stories about my nighttime drool are practically legendary. It's really attractive, I'm sure. So now you know what my poor husband deals with as a large part of that love, honor and cherish business. It's probably awesome when he climbs into bed, glances over at me, and wonders if I might drown in my own pool of saliva. It probably makes him love me more just knowing that he might have to resuscitate me in the night. No worries though, people. I was a competitive swimmer for ten years. I can hold my breath for a really long time.

Prepare Yourselves For Today's Red Thing

If you're new to Red Thing March, or have no idea what I'm talking about, click here to read the post that started it all.Here we have my wonderful sport of a of husband modeling The Red Thing masquerading as a necktie. I know exactly what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Oh my goodness. Until this very minute I had no idea what to get my husband/boyfriend for Easter. Candy is so 1990's and I've gotten him a DVD for the last three years in a row but behold, I have found the perfect gift! Magic Scarf! Who knew it could also be a necktie?" And, no doubt, if you are a guy you are thinking, "How can I drop subtle hints to my wife/girlfriend that this is exactly what I want for Easter?" And, I mean, if the recipient of such a gift doesn't happen to wear a great deal of red, remember that there are all sorts of shades including The Multicolored Thing. I'm thinking that they should sell these at Men's Warehouse with all their other ties.

One of the members of my marriage thinks that this looks like a 1970's pimp tie and the other thinks it looks like something Fred Flintstone would wear. I'm sure, if you think hard enough, you can figure out which spouse goes with which opinion. Really it's just a simple matter of deduction. One of us just has a dirtier mind than the other. One of us is just a better, more decent human being than the other. One of us suggested that the other maybe not put the word pimp in her blog. One of us didn't listen. You get the picture. In any case, here is your chance to tell us both if you have The Pure Pastor's mind or if you share in the often questionable thought processes of The Theatre Major.

I can't figure out how to embed the poll directly into this blog entry, but if you'd frolick on over to my sidebar, you can take part in the poll. It's located directly under the life altering quote by Erma Bombeck and just above the picture of me with my super trouper of a husband. (Now, if that doesn't remind you of a song by Abba or, consequently, a number from the musical Mamma Mia then I don't know what.)

A Beret?

First, it needs to be emphatically stated that I am so unattractive in all of these Red Thing pictures the world, if it revolved around me, would come to a crashing end. It also needs to be explained, however, that I said I would post a picture a day and in order to do that sometimes I have to photograph myself and sometimes I maybe just got out of the shower and other times there is really no excuse except that I'm not wearing a lick of make up and Garrett is climbing my legs and wiping boogers on my feet and the fact that I post one at all is almost miraculous. I would also like to point out that instead of focusing on my makeupless face and squinty Renee Zellwegeresque eyes, you should get a load of my collar bone. Doesn't it so look like it's popped out of place or it's going to come and stab you to death in the night? Yah. Beware of the clavicle. Okay. So. Here we have The Magic Scarf (a.k.a. The Red Thing) being worn as The Beret. In the photo, I am trying my best to look brooding and French. It was difficult as I am neither particularly brooding nor the descendant of a Frenchmen. But yes, all you ponderers of the many functions of Magic Scarf, it doubles, triples, gazilliples even, as a beret. Can you see me staring out at the waters of the River Seine while I paint my newest masterpiece in my trend setting GIGANTIC FUZZY BERET? You know you want one.

******************************************************************

Has anyone noticed that Hannah Montana, er Miley Cyrus, is absolutely everywhere? We went into WalMart today and she was literally on every corner. And it was SUPER WalMart, mind you. It's hard to be on every corner there. Hannah jackets, Hannah clocks, Hannah wall hangings, Hannah on the front of cereal boxes. Hannah Hannah Hannah! I feel like she's my kid sister and whatever I do I cannot get away from her. And I don't even dislike her. Like I said before, we actually watch the show on occasion because I won't let Garrett watch Ed, Edd & Eddy for obvious brain cell deterioration reasons. I've even got the song that they play during the credits practically memorized--you get the limo out front, hottest styles, every shoe, every color--but dang Miles, maybe you should, like, I don't know, retire? I mean, when you're sixteen and you're plastered all over nightgowns and you have your own doll, is there really anything left to do? Not that I use lyrics from Evita to guide my life or anything but take note:

High flying, adored

What happens now, where do you go from here?

For someone on top of the world

The view is not exactly clear

A shame you did it all at twenty-six (Or, in Miley's case, sixteen)

There are no mysteries now

Nothing can thrill you, no one fulfill you

High flying, adored

I hope you come to terms with boredom

So famous so easily, so soon

It's not the wisest thing to be

You won't care if they love you

It's been done before

You'll despair if they hate you

You'll be drained of all energy

All the young who've made it would agree

And then, on the other hand, "Dang it, Evita, you had all that by the time you were MY AGE? I really need to get with the program."

A Few Different Red Things

Pictured above, The Red Thing can also be worn as a skirt. Simply step through the center of the scarf and pull it up around your waist. You can wear it that way, as an ankle length skirt, but I would not highly recommend it, as it is quite transparent and will certainly show off your unmentionables. If you would not like the world to witness the color of your undergarments, fold the scarf over to create the layered look featured below.
It is my clothing advice--and I have no actual fashion training mind you, but I do have eyes--that you only attempt this particular Red Thing option if you are slight of hip. As you can see from the vertical shot, the second layer stops dramatically just under the hip. Therefore, unless you weigh two pounds or are taking part in an anthropological study regarding the mating habits of a certain region where you are chosen as a spouse simply based on your hip size in relation to your ability to bear children, I would advise against such use of the Magic Scarf.

******************************************************

In other news, I went to a car show last night. I am well aware that anyone who has known me for ten seconds is rolling on the floor in gales of laughter right now. Those who may not know me are still probably vaguely aware of the fact that I can put gas in my car and turn the ignition key. The rest of how I get from Point A to Point B is really at the mercy of the Lord Almighty. I think that vehicles have things called carburetors and lug nuts and, well, engines but I am not 100 percent sure. But a couple handfuls of people from church were going so we thought we'd accompany them. We saw some amazing cars and motorcycles and if we'd stayed long enough we could have paid $20 to get the autograph of one Arthur Fonzarelli. I'm sure he probably would have signed it as Henry Winkler though, which would have been a little disappointing. Furthermore, Cindy Williams was also going to be giving autographs and if Veronica had come to visit me just one week later we might have had to get in on that action. Being that, you know, we've "Schlemeel, schlemazel, hasenfeffer incorporated" with the best of 'em.



But, aside from the fact that we wanted to hang out with various members of the church, the real reason we went was because we'd heard a rumor about a certain car and, well, those rumors just happened to be true. And if you think a toddler doesn't know exactly who Lightning McQueen is, you'd be wrong...

He waved at him. He squealed at him. And when it was time to walk away from the Rust-Eze endorser, he sobbed hysterical buckets. I think that in those moments, Garrett honestly believed he had found his one true love.

***********************************************
Also I have been tagged by Moss. I'm kind of excited because I've never been tagged before. Yay.

Grab the book nearest to you, open it up, and turn it to page 123. Write down the first 5 sentences on that page. Then tag 5 more people.

Well alright then. The book nearest to me just happens to be The Book of Mormon. We were left well enough alone for the first three months of our life in Salt Lake City but then, wham! If you know my husband you know that he's not one to shy away from a good theological debate so, after talking to them for awhile, he told our missionary friends that he would brush up on his Book of Mormon and the next time they came by they could really hash it out. Now, I know my husband and I have to tell you that I kind of want to secretly warn these poor guys about what's about to happen. Troy's version was published in 1948. I wonder what changes have been made in the book they're using. In any case...here are the first five sentences on page 123:

O then, my beloved brethren, repent ye, and enter in at the straight gate, and continue in the way which is narrow, until ye shall obtain eternal life. O be wise; what can I say more? Finally, I bid you farewell, until I shall meet you before the pleasing bar of God, which bar striketh the wicked with awful dread and fear. Amen. And now it came to pass after some years had passed away, there came a man among the people of Nephi, whose name was Sherem.

Alrighty then.

I now tag the following: Bethany, Heidi, Mom, Veronica and Zandra

An Important Announcement Concerning March

When I was in college, my dear friend had, in her wardrobe collection, a very fuzzy, very red, very perplexing...thing. I cannot remember how it was that she had come to own this particular accessory but we were unsure of its actual function. Was it a scarf? Was it a tube top? Was it, perhaps, an Annie wig? We decided to make a short documentary in which we showed several functions of, what we had begun referring to as, The Red Thing. Not too terribly long ago, this friend, the incomparable Kristin, found another Red Thing in New York City and knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that it needed to come and live with me. I was overjoyed to have my very own Red Thing, though we still are not entirely sure what to do with them. I suppose if I am ever cast as a very large, very old, Annie, the wig department will have an easier time as I will be supplying my own hairpiece. When I moved to Utah I was shopping and I turned the corner and found a display of Magic Scarves. There were purple ones. There were blue ones. There were even multicolored ones. (Oh the humanity!) They were, indeed, the cousins of Red Thing. These items can really only be explained as a crossbreed of tube scarf and 1970's shag carpet. The result was the birthing of long fuzzy eyeless burqas. I combed the Internet for the official website and, if my research is valid you can buy your very own Magic Scarf (though I truly prefer Red Thing) here. Although, on this particular page, it presents as some sort of shawl--yet another function of the multifaceted thing.




The real reason for this post is because I think that every single one of my six readers should run right out and buy a Red Thing. Or a Multicolored Thing. Or a Purple Thing. I don't care, choose a color that goes well with your eyes. Whatever you do, just buy a thing. Hmmm. That sounded a lot better in my head. Why? You ask. Because the limits of this somewhat hideous scarf/burqa/shawl accessory are endless. I have a sneaking suspicion that you remain unconvinced. That is why, for the next month, this sight will be featuring a daily photo in which you can view another wonderful aspect of the Magic Scarf repertoire. For those of you who enjoy hearing about the all the poop, all the tears, and all the laughter that goes on in my home, do not fear. Blogging will continue as normal, there will just be a happy Red Thing picture accompanying the monotony of the journey.





So without further adieu I present to you (drum roll please) RED THING MARCH


As its given name suggests, The Magic Scarf can be worn as, well, a scarf. Here we have young Garrett modeling my very own Red Thing as an object by which his neck will undoubtedly remain warm. The Magic Scarf is fairly long, however, so I would warn against wearing it on the slopes for fear of getting it caught in the lift and thereby causing an inadvertent hanging. I would also warn against wearing it while in the company of domestic animals as it may be taken as an invitation for a rousing game of tug o' war. Furthermore, if you purchase your scarf in red, I would not suggest wearing it to a bull fight. It bears a striking resemblance to the cape used by the matador, no?

Happy Leap Day

Happy Leap Day everyone!

In honor of this blessed event, I encourage you all to, I don't know, jump over something...or...yah.

And you all know I'm really rootin' for the rapture but, in the event that doesn't happen in my lifetime, I've picked out my death date. Now, I've shared with a number of my friends that I have a sneaking suspicion that I will die at age 44 of some terminal illness. But, if that doesn't happen, I've picked out February 29, 2080. I'd like to die on Leap Day. That way people don't have to think, every year, about how you died that day however many years ago. Rather, every four years they can be like, "Oh remember how Great Granny died? Yah. That was sad. But, dude, she was old." Do you think they'll use the word "dude" in 2080? See, because, if I don't succumb to whatever disease I may have in my forties, I'd like to live to be 98. I won't be quite ready at 94--my 104 year old husband will still be gnashing his dentures in my general direction and whining that they took away his driver's license. But he'll die in his sleep around 105, give or take a month or two, and I don't want to have to live too long without him. It'll be a sad day in the nursing home when I finally expire. All the hired help will shake their heads sadly and mutter, "Now who are we gonna get to direct Geriatric Shakespeare?" I totally plan to go out onstage, mind you. I'll be rockin' Desdemona and I just won't ever recover from that whole getting smothered with a pillow thing.

Anyway, all that to say that I love Leap Day because it's like the rarest of all holidays. And if bad things happen, well, you can kind of forget about them for four years. I don't want to have a baby on Leap Day though, I think it would be super lame to only truly have a birthday twice a decade. My eighth grade math teacher was born on Leap Day. Technically speaking, he was younger than us.

Well, that's really all I have to say on the subject matter. If you're still around in 72 years, send my family a sympathy card or something.

Juno, I'd Like My Tears Back Please. Right Now!

* Possible spoilers ahead

So I've been a little under the weather lately. Feeling sick, on top of the fact that my grandma died and I live in Utah and my whole family lives in California and I'm like the only person I know without a master's degree and I've been cold for three months straight, prompted my wonderful husband to give me the afternoon off yesterday. He came home just a little early from work and sent me over to the movies to see Juno because I'd been pretty much doing nothing but talking about it for the last four days straight. I'd never been to the movies by myself before. I was afraid that I'd be viewed as, I don't know, pathetic. I was under the impression that, perhaps, a group of teenagers would throw popcorn at my poor, lonely, little head. And you know what? It was so not a big deal. Turns out there are a lot of people at the movies alone on a Wednesday afternoon.

So Juno had come highly recommended by several friends with opinions that I generally agree with. Plus, you know, it won an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. It should be noted that for the past few days I have been stressing out about whether or not Diablo Cody is her given name. I mean, it can't be. Right? No one names their daughter "Devil" and gets away with it. Am I right? Of course I'm right. I just looked it up and her birth name is Brook Busey-Hunt. She must have changed it to Diablo when she was stripping. No, for real. She's a stripper turned screenwriter. I wonder, like, was she writing by day and stripping by night? It almost makes me tired just thinking about it. So anyway, highly recommended blah blah blah.

And I hated it. And by hated it I mean that my life is more than likely richer simply by experiencing the dialogue. And by hated it I mean that there were several times when I laughed out loud even though I was alone. (I've realized that I very rarely laugh out loud when in solitude. I think laughter is designed to be shared.) And by hated it I mean that the stupid film had me sitting in my dern stadium seating chair sobbing like a frickin' baby. I hate when I do that. I'm chalking it up to living 750 miles from my mommy and, maybe, like, the fact that produce looks really gross right now and I don't know if it's because I shop at WalMart or what. No but really. I don't usually cry in the movie theatre. Occasionally I'll let a tear slip out before quickly removing it because it's a war movie and all the soldiers are dying or whatever. But I so do not allow my shoulders to quiver in the movie theatre. Praise God I was alone and praise God there was no one even in my vicinity. So basically I hated it in a "I'm very glad I saw this movie but maybe I should have been forewarned that I would sob" kind of way.

If you've seen it, undoubtedly you did not sob and are wondering why I am a lunatic who saw fit to let out five or six years of emotion in a movie theatre. But then I would have to ask, first of all, if you're a mother and secondly if you're a mother who has struggled and or are struggling with infertility. In a nutshell a pregnant teenager decides to give her baby to a couple who has struggled with infertility for five years. I mean, the story is more about the pregnant teen than the adoptive couple but leave it to me to relate to them as opposed to the teenager who winds up with child after one random sexual encounter. Oh how I wish. I mean, not the random part but--nevermind. The reviews that I read labeled Vanessa (the woman in the adoptive couple) as so uptight that you wonder if you would really leave your baby with her. I never got that vibe. I always felt so much compassion for her and thought that Jennifer Garner did an amazing job of playing an infertile woman. And then I realized that I was scared. I was scared that Juno would back out. I was scared that something would go wrong. I was scared that Vanessa's hopes and dreams would be dashed again. When Vanessa puts her hands on Juno's expanding middle and feels her baby kicking for the first time, I almost commanded Juno to give Vanessa her child. But it really did frighten me. To think that, in all likelihood, we will be adding to our family not through biology but through adoption. And there is just so much that can happen. So many factors that can fall through. So much risk. Such little control.

Because I've had a baby. I know how impossibly hard it would be to give it up. I know that I couldn't do it. And, at the end of the film, when that little baby slipped into the world, I cried again, in remembrance of the birth of my own miraculous son. It pulled on every emotion I have as a mother, as an Infertile Myrtle, a Barren Karen, a girl who so very often feels like a teenager dealing with things well beyond her maturity level, a woman who sometimes longs to live in life's moments and rarely in the grease and grind of daily toilet cleaning. A girl who should have known that a movie about teen pregnancy and adoption would be her giant emotional downfall.

Stupid Juno. I hate you.

mustela putorius furo

Today we went to the miniature zoo which I have also heard referred to as Petco. Garrett is fascinated by the fish, hamsters, guinea pigs, cats, turtles etc. Today, however, we discovered a new kind of animal. It really was a novel sort of pet for the both of us, given the fact that they are illegal in California. Extra! Extra! Read all about it! There is something Utah has that California doesn't have other than a giant salty lake. And I am actually admitting it! So, um, you know it must be good.

And now you can all be witnesses to the fact that Garrett and I desperately want a ferret. Er. Well, that is to say that Garrett thought they were cute little buggers and his mother very nearly left the pet store with one. But then she remembered the fact that she's already two cats over her preferred animal allotment so it's gonna take a couple of dead felines to make her the proud owner of a ferret.

Here is the deal. They are kind of like a cat. But whereas the world has cats, I don't think quite as many people have ferrets. I like being unique. That's, of course, why I bought an pygmy albino grizzly bear instead of a golden retriever. He just resembles a golden retriever, is all. Did you know you can litter box train a ferret? Well you can. And they can live in a cage or they can run around your house. Or both. Presumably. They can sleep up to 18 hours a day which is great because then, when the ferret owning newness rubs off, you only have to deal with it for six hours each day. Right? 24 minus 18 is 6? Math wasn't my strong suit but I'm thinking I could take care of anything for six hours. Except maybe thirty two preschoolers. Additionally, they are good hole hunters so, if I ever took up rabbit hunting, a ferret would probably be quite an asset. Undoubtedly, your life will be richer by knowing that ferrets have been used to run cables and wires through conduits. But the best part, the very best part of owning a ferret would have to be the weasel war dance.

Oh yes, you read that correctly. According to Wikipedia, the weasel war dance "is a colloquial term for a behavior of excited ferrets. The war dance usually follows play or the successful capture of a toy or a stolen object. It consists of a frenzied series of sideways and backwards hops, often accompanied by an arched back, dooking or hissing noises, and a frizzy tail."

Unfortunately a ferret's lifespan is typically between 7 and 10 years. I have a very hard time with the passing of animals in general and to have to say goodbye to something that does the weasel war dance just seems desperately tragic.

I still want one though, you know, for running wires through all my conduits.

When I was about eight I got a hamster and named him Jeremiah. His middle name was Lamentations which I still think was clever for a girl who only three years before that had given the name "Candy" to her puppy. If ever we were to get a mustela putorius furo I would probably have to let my son name it something like "Lightning McQueen" when what I really want is to call him Obadiah or Moses or Amos or maybe Bill. Garrett the ferret would have been good but, well, it's been done. Wouldn't want to call the kid and have the ferret come running.

In other news, it is 50 degrees outside. There aren't words for how giddy that makes me.

Are You Living In An Old Man's Rubble?

I apologize but the title of this post has nothing to do with the context. Unless, of course, you happen to be Veronica.

In middle school and high school I had a very dear friend. Her youth group often did events and conferences and mission trips with my own youth group and we usually had at least one class together in any given year. Together we make up two of the five member club known as the L.O.O.P.s (Last Ones On the Planet--who haven't had sex. I believe I've mentioned it here before but, as Seniors, we realized that one by one by one our peers had been steadily losing their virginity at an alarming rate. We were disheartened and decided that we were, more than likely, the last ones on the planet who valued purity and had ours happily in tact). We share a love for Jesus Christ, Carmen San Diego (thanks to 9th grade World Geography), macaroni and cheese, Mexico mission trips, toilet paper, and so much more that sits just on the horizon of my memories. The last nine years (sweet chicken have I really been out of high school that long?!?!) have taken us down very different paths but our colleges were close (shout out to Point Loma Nazarene and UC San Diego) so we kept in touch and saw each other on occasion. I think I can count on one hand the number of times we've seen each other since--but it doesn't lessen my appreciation of her friendship.

Veronica came to see me this past weekend. She met my son, LOOP offspring number one, for the first time. We watched the Oscars and made fun of quite a few elements such as, "Thank you life! Thank you love!" But we decided that Marion Cotillard could maybe get away with such a speech because she is French and adorable and when rendered completely speechless it might be alright to thank life and love. We ate macaroni and cheese. We went shopping at Gardner Village and found such gems as these:

We did not purchase them because, well, we do not generally spend massive amounts of money on horrid masquerade ball accouterments. We also did not want our homes to smell like the stinky store for all eternity. Yes, indeed, there is one store in Gardner Village that I positively could not work in because it smells like potpourri upchucked an entire florist shop in there.

We also found this one there and upon initial investigation I actually thought it was a pretty neat looking tragedy mask--someone must have purchased comedy because he was no where to be found. However, upon seeing the picture, I have decided that it looks a great deal like the mask that Bette Midler wore when she was in that creepy play in the movie Beaches. Not the play where she says, "The doctor will see you now." And not the play where she sings the song about Otto Titsling. The other play. The one where she sings, "She is my wife. Her mechanical heart, constantly serving 'til death do us part." Yah. This looks like the mask of someone with a mechanical heart.

Now, I'd like to bring your attention to the fact that we found giant sets of keys in three different shops on our excursion. I'd like to take suggestions for what, on God's green earth, you could do with these other than use them as a very uncommon murder weapon. I don't know. I, for one, think it was Veronica in the store, with the keys. It just couldn't have been Professor Plum in the study with the revolver. That's way too predictable. By the way, she's laughing and looking like she's been caught red handed because the store employee walked by and, well, if you look closely, Veronica has attached her own normal sized key ring to the giant one and, for the briefest of moments (caught on camera) we were both a little afraid that we'd be reprimanded. Let's face it, at 26 we're just a little past the "avile henchmen" antics of the ninth grade. Or. Wait. Clearly we're not. And I don't even think we want to be.

In any case, I had a wonderful two days with my dear friend. It had been much too long since we'd seen each other and I am incredibly thankful that she forked out the dough to come and visit me. She lives in San Francisco now and, well, she brought me Ghirardelli chocolate so I'm pretty much forever indebted to her.

Thank you, Veronica, for coming to see me. You are more dear to my heart than you can know. Thank you for being a constant friend and example of strength and Christianity. I know you don't see yourself the way I do which makes it all the more admirable. Maybe, one day, I'll be a real adult like you. Also, if any of the words I just wrote are spelled incorrectly and/or used completely out of context please inform me post-haste.

Oscar Thoughts

I'm watching the Oscars and I have decided that:

Nicole Kidman makes a very cute pregnant woman.


Cate Blanchett is amazing. I mean how does a woman become Bob Dylan. Just. I mean, how?

Katherine Hiegl's dress was wonderful but she was acting like a total nutjob.

While he's totally funny, Jon Stewart should maybe stop laughing at his own jokes. Maybe. I'm just saying.

Robert Boyle is a really cute old man. It was kind of weird that he thanked Nicole Kidman for so gracefully introducing him. But then again maybe he doesn't remember what he had for breakfast so maybe he forgot most of his speech?

Marion Cotillard. Now that surprised me. But she's gorgeous. Really and amazingly gorgeous.

Did I mention that Cate Blanchett is amazing? I maybe did but it's worth noting twice.

Jamia Simone Nash. If I could have sang like that at eleven years old I'd be...well, I don't know where I'd be but it wouldn't be sitting on my couch in Salt Lake City. I'd probably be, you know, famous. I don't know how many eleven year olds actually sing at the Oscars but I'm pretty sure I could count them on one or two fingers.

Jack Nicolson. Why does he always sit in the front row? Does he have to pay to do that? It's getting weird.

How has it been five years since Chicago won the Oscar for Best Picture? Where is the time going and why I am so very old now?

Kristin Chenoweth and Amy Adams are like actual little munchkins or tic tacs or something. I hate those dern triple threats. Especially exquisitely tiny triple threats.

I just heard Steven Spielberg say "male menopause" and, well, I have a personal problem with it.

They aren't over yet so I'm sure there is more but, given the fact I am now picturing the director of Schindler's List going through menopause, I'm going to go lay in the fetal position while I await the announce of best picture.

Um PS, why didn't Brad Renfro get his picture up there with the rest of the people who died?