Catching up: A Log of Sorts

Rather than blogging consistently, I've been jotting down notes in my sktechbook about things I'd love to muse on and blog about if I got around to doing it.

Obviously I haven't.

But this blog serves as my history, as a record of what I think about, not just what I do, so I feel a little bit of pressure to record these thoughts and archive them digitally. Why do I feel this pressure? I've a freak. I guess. Also, since this blog will also serve as a tool for posterity, I want it to be known that even though I'll become old and mindless, I once had a mind. An active mind.

So here is the list and some abbreviated musings:

1.6.10
What is an abundant life? What does it mean to have an abundance? What makes life full? When I think about this I immediately think of the people who fill me. Fill me with love, with spirit, with experience, with joy, with laughter, with heartache. But much of what I associated with abundance is directly tied to those I love.

1.12.10
Thomas Kinkade is a fraud! He claims to be up there with Picasso. IS HE OUT OF HIS SKULL?!! I guess it all depends on what your definition of art is. What is art? What is real art? I think, sure, you can call a Kinkade art, but only in a formal sense. It's paint. On canvas (which is then digitally reproduced, commodified, cheapened, turned into lamps and coffee table books, and now turned into a subdivision).

He makes me cringe. His art is not about ideas, it's not about filling someone, helping them discover an abundant life. It is about fantasy and making lots of money on his "original reproductions" (what kind of art-sucking ignorant oxy-moron is that?) which are printed on canvas and then highlighted by a bunch of factory workers with paint brushes.

Thomas Kinkade is a fraud. He's shoving fast-food art down America's throat so that are too full to enjoy real, filling experience with fine art.

1.25.10
The importance of an education. I never realized before to day how rare it is and how lucky I am to have all four of my grandparents with college degrees. Not only that, I'm married to someone who also shares that blessing. What sort of legacy have I been given? What sort of legacy does that compel me to create?

Thoughts on education and the divorce gap/marriages in my family.

2.8.10
Mikey and I were reading the family handbook of the church and we got into a discussion about gender roles. I was a little bothered because the men's were outlined in detail, and several pages long. The women's consisted of a few paragraphs. Maybe women are just more intuitive about what our roles are. Maybe we have so many that it isn't possible to define them all (accountant, nurse, teacher, cook, cleaner, laundress, chauffeur/taxi, groomer, stylist, decorator, designer, mother, companion . . . )

This lead to Mikey explaining to me how the more our (his and mine) souls commune, the more clearly his soul can commune with God. It made me think about progress and how interconnected men and women are in our goals and progression.

3.17.10
The gospel of Jesus Christ is not at odds with feminism nor does it preach male domination. It has never preferred nor does it have use for women who are weak, lesser-than or unimportant.
(I have been writing up my thoughts on this sporadically, a longer post is soon to follow)

3.30.10
We are alienated from so much of our lives: how our food is made, how our clothes are made, the production of everything we consume really. It makes me feel a need to learn to be more self-sufficient, to reconnect myself with the work and the money that goes into meeting my needs (many of these such "needs" are, I'm sure, fabricated and have come from an inflated need as a result of living in an affluent society).

True fulfillment comes through work. There just isn't another way to it. Imitations of fulfillment cheapen the experience which is often spiritual. We were made to work. There is so much trying to bounce around trying to "fulfill" ourselves without lifting a finger.

Could it be that we have so many choices that people are unhappy with where they are at, thinking that maybe if I had chosen something "better" I would be happier? Do people get out because they see what they are supposedly "missing" out on that is bringing others "happiness?"

4.5.10
 What is the difference between light minded and light hearted? What is the difference between somber and sober?
 
4.12.10
Nature doesn't need us, but we need nature.

4.27.10
British Literature and post-colonialism. Why is it that African schools, in a post-colonial society, are still being force-fed British literature first? Why is it that we, as Americans, are still taught British literature first in school? (More on this later, to be sure).

Tweet

I got a Twitter. It's true. But only for the sole reason of keeping track of the priceless things the boys I nanny for say. The only thing to make them better is to have Mikey imitate their little voices. He's actually really good. I fall into fits of laughter every time he does. Keep in mind, Gabbin' is six and Paddy is "Three-and-a-half," meaning he turns four on Saturday.

• Kinkajous are not the smallest monkey. A marmoset is. Aaaand they're nocturnal. [Gabbin']
  
• Do you have enough energy to do three-thousand underdogs? [Paddy]
  
• My grandpa, Big Ed, died on April Fool's Day. [Gabbin']
  

- This is a musical vacuum. My mom only has a noise vacuum.
- Yeah I only have a noise vacuum too. A musical vacuum sounds great. Where can I get one?
- Um, the musical vacuum store on Wisconsin Ave. (long pause) In the sky.
- In the sky?! How do I get there then?
- A hang-glider [conversation with Paddy]

• Look Paige! I made a motorcycle jet fighter. It has two wheels and can fly. [Paddy]
  
• Paige where's the bottom of your mouth? . . . Oh. [Paddy]
  
• But when my bottom is on the seat it feels AWFUL! [Gabbin']
  
• Is Alaska the place where we store our super secret jet fighters? [Gabbin']
  
• Uncle Chris has six hairs. You're right! [Paddy]
  
• Any time you see someone looking at you and you think it's a ghost, it's just Paddy. [Paddy]
  
• How do you say peanut butter and jelly in french? I'll tell you. Pajellio. And in Chinese you say peanut butter and jelly: Poneesio [Paddy]
  
• The United States had to buy Alaska, right? And Congress had to pay a lot of gold chunks for it, right? [Gabbin']
  
• The only way to catch a bird is to put some salt on his back and then it goes super fast and then it goes down. [Paddy]
  
• Somerset doesn't have any bad men. Know why? Because there are like 46 policemen driving around it. 46. Right Paige? [Gabbin']
  
• Do you see any bikes that say "Pro Thunder" on them? Well it's mine. I ONLY ride "Thunder Bikes" because they're the FASTEST kind of bike. [Gabbin']
  
• Are you dying for a Madsen bike? You're DYING for one huh? So you can pull Michael around, right? [Gabbin']
  
• People who make sound effects in movies get a lot of money, right Paige? Like 40 dollars everyday, right Paige? Because making them is very hard, right Paige? [Gabbin']
  
• The man sitting next to me smells like cookies. [Paddy]
  
• Um, I can't eat any more hot dog because I just quit eating food this morning and I quit society. [Paddy]
• Do you know what a cow's favorite sound is? Moosic. Do you know what a cow's favorite food is? Grassic! [Paddy]
• Do goblins have green shoes? 'Cause Goblins are Irish. [Paddy]
• Did you know that even when I'm an adult I'll still cry when someone puts a needle in my eye? That's DEFINITELY a crier, right Paige? [Gabbin']
  
• You're bald. You look like a baldy Michael. That must be a crew cut. [Gabbin' in reference to Mikey's buzz]
• Do you want to come down and see how I really got the rhythm in my dancing and how the music really activates my body? [Gabbin']
• Do you want to see a hole that smells like a Christmas tree? If you put you nose in there you'll smell a Christmas smell. [Paddy]
• Paige I wiped until the wipe came out clean. So we should probably reuse this one right? [Gabbin' while showing me his used wipe]
• They just can't shut down NASA! I'm putting all my experience towards NASA! If they shut down NASA, I'll have to shut down all my experience!! [Gabbin']
• The magic word always has do to with poo. The word yesterday was poopy-head. Today it's poopylackading. Always poopy. Right paige? [Gabbin' referring to Paddy's magic words]
• You have to count to 4000 because I have trouble finding a hiding spot. [Paddy]
• This tree is easy to climb. WAY easier than my Japanese Maple! [Gabbin']
• But if I stop on my bike I can't get up my speed for one million and forty-seven hours! [Gabbin' after getting the eye for running into the back of Paddy]
• Did you know that there were dinosaurs in the ice age and they chased animals? Do you know who got away? The rats. [Paddy]
  
• Did you know that air is not food? Air is air. Right? [Paddy]
• Thanks! I NEEDED that money for my money collection! I'm a collector of money! [Paddy]
• I wrote a Y. I wrote a Y! What did I do. [Paddy]
  

My last day of nannying was yesterday and to be quite honest, while it has definitely been an experience that taught me loads, I'm so excited to be done. They used us up until the last minute last night. We were there late. So late, in fact, that we missed the last train into town and had to take a taxi. That's a whole other story. But such a classic one.

Snipits

One of Mikey's Co-workers loaned us bikes for a few weeks which has been both a blessing and a curse (I don't think my ischium will ever be the same. On a side note: I just googled "ischium" to see if I spelled it right because Blogger didn't recognize it and the top hit was, "Ischial Burstitis/Weavers Bottom" which sounds horrible. I mean really, really horrible. I don't even want to know what you'd have to do to get a weavers bottom). But in all honesty it has been so fun to ride around the city and weave--without helmets--in and out of speeding vehicles.

Mikey insisted on giving me a pump out of Somerset (where I was sitting side-saddle on the bike frame--lemmetellya, there are more comfortable places to sit around town), and I thought I would die. I haven't gotten a pump since OlderAndWiserToo forced onto her bike and if I remember correctly, I ended up in tears. I kept telling Mikey, "Long story short: I just don't pump." Obviously I got on the bike anyway. And I'll admit, aside from the permanent dent in the back of my upper thigh, I had more fun than I thought I would.

We've passed this statue everyday for months on our way home from my job. Only recently did Mikey realize, it just might be me!

Finally, we had a day trip to Gettysburg and Harper's Ferry. It was a fun day (though it started out a little rocky). Here is the one and only picture from Saturday taken on the Gettysburg Battlefield.

Amish

I never thought I'd find myself in this position so soon. Here I was making Amish Friendship Bread, a "friendly treat to share with your friends!" at only 20-years-old. I have vivid memories of my mom cursing the stuff when we made it as a kid. I thought it was just some weird Mormon thing, but no, it's out here too. (The boys got it from the neighbors who keep bees. Of course). Today was day 10 which means all the "mushing of the bag" is through and you get to bake it. 

Now I know why she rolled her eyes every time a gallon zip-lock back full of batter was dropped at our door.

Lost'n'Found

I didn't know how it would turn out. I was nervous, but confident. The Lord hasn't let me down before, so I lead the boys to the middle of the big grassy round-about and knelt down. 

We had lost the house key. I had it tied to my shoe while I ran along side the boys on their bikes to the park. But after an hour of underdogs, merry-go-round pushing, races to the drinking fountain, and a run home, we got to the front door only to realize we didn't have the key. 

"We're going on a detective adventure!" I declared, trying to minimize the gripes and groans I knew I would get when I told them we had to turn around and walk back. It worked semi-well and we "put on our best detective eyes" as we set to the task of scouring the mile long stretch to the park. We were about a block from the park and still empty handed when I told them I had a special way of finding things that were lost. And that's when I took two little boys with me to pray to Heavenly Father that we could find the lost house key.

It took some explaining before hand. First, that God and Heavenly Father were the same person, and that I call him "Heavenly Father" because he's the father of our spirit. GABBIN' chimed in, "Yeah, and he's EVEN the father of the first man who was actually a monkey right?" "Yep" "AAAAND the father of aliens. Right?" "Uh huh." Then he asked me which prayer I was going to say, and if when we opened our eyes the keys would just come "flying toward us by the Spirit!" Um, no.

We got to the park and did two sweeps over the areas we played in before I did the old lawn mower method of walking back and forth, making sure to cover every inch. It took about 10 minutes of this before I saw the shiny gold key in the grass. When I held it up Paddy exclaimed, "God helped us find the key!"

It was true. It was one of those totally elementary, but completely testimony building experiences. We promptly knelt and said a prayer of gratitude, and I was reminded once again that the Lord is there. And that he loves us.

Bugs

One leg. 23 mosquito bites. Welcome to summer in the DC swamp. It wouldn't be so bad, the average person probably only sustains a few bites here and there. But A) mosquitoes love me and B) I spend my days at the park or building forts (which Mikey started and it is quite impressive). My first stop on the way to work this morning was to get some Cortisone Cream and some bug spray to try and fight back.

Fireflies! They are so magical. I remember the first time I saw them. I was out here two years ago and walking around the monuments at night with Lil'Lou. I literally thought I was suddenly dizzy and seeing stars. I asked her if I was dizzy and she looked at me like, "What? How should I know?" But then we were both convinced that we were dizzy until Marmo called us on our stupidity and pointed out that they were fireflies. Duh. I have become obsessed. Mikey got a good laugh last night when he came into the kitchen and I was reading up on how they make themselves light up. I was curious and this is the BLESSING OF MODERN TECHNOLOGY. Worlds of information are at your finger tips.

This morning Mikey yelled from the shower (aka the other side of the room) "Paige, do you know where my glasses are?!" He sounded panicked. I was still laying in bed at this point and so I fumbled around with my hands before drowsily answering, "Uh, no." "There's a big bug in the shower and I have to see it so I can get it out." I got out of bed and handed him my glasses. "No. I'm not wearing those." "Why? It's just to kill a bug. We basically have the same prescription." He slapped them on his face and next thing I know is whacking at the bug in the shower--WHICH WAS ON--with the ENTIRE PAPER TOWEL ROLL. Now I ask, why didn't he just grab a single paper towel and grab it? Who knows. All I know is that it looked like a light brown feather. It was big. And fluttery. And centipedey.

Patkalatulip

We were listing words that start with P at dinner on Thursday and Paddy (the 3-year-old) asserted that "patkalatulip" is a great word because it starts with P and ends with P. After inquiring about what "patkalatulip" means, we concluded that it might be a flower, but he forgot. But I can't get over how darling his little voice is.



We've also been working on a solar system to hang in the basement. Paddy and I worked on the sun for a few hours while GABBIN', the self-appointed, "expert on space" painted all of the planets with watercolors and cut them out. He informed me that the sun I was making had to be 900 times the size of jupiter (which took up just about the entire sheet of 8 1/2" x 11" paper he was painting it on). I assured him that the sun would definitely end up being that big. I have learned more about space during my time in DC this summer than I think I have in my whole life combined. I get factoids everyday, the trick is sorting out the made-up ones with the real ones.

The supplies.

GABBIN' and Paddy at work. We brought the collection of space books downstairs to use as references and ideas for what we need in our solar system. They also dressed in their space pajamas. We had a plethora of sources for inspiration.

The sun. Paddy ripped up the papers while I taped them all back together.

A solar flare. GABBIN' took the picture and informed me that "this is exactly what a solar flare looks like. I'm positive!"

Genius

It was my last day babysitting Mimic, the child prodigy. I didn't realize she was so smart until after numerous outings to the park and the bookstore and other kids her age would answer her nearly-complete-sentences with grunts and drool. (Which lead me to wonder what her IQ is. We've been reading Outliers by Malcom Gladwell and just finished the chapters on geniuses, all of whom could say something like a thousand words at age two. Mimic totally spouts off that many).

She also, at barely nineteen-months mind you, has decided to potty train herself. Sometimes I think she just likes the novelty of dangling her little legs of the edge of her tiny green potty, but other times she really goes (in which case I have been instructed to promptly thrust both of my arms straight into the air and do the Victory Baby Potty Dance). Today we did the dance eight times. EIGHT. But they were all within minutes of each other.

You see, when she "peeps" it's a pretty quick undertaking and it all comes in a single delivery. Today I had my first experience with "poop." First off, she insisted on being stripped completely nude. Pantsless wouldn't do, no, no, "Need shirt off. Shirt off. Shirt off . . . " I tried to tell her that her shirt really doesn't get in the way down there, but I didn't want a fight so we took off every last article of clothing she had on her little body. EVEN HER SOCKS had to come off.

Apparently she likes to prolong the process, force multiple flushes and multiple dances, all for what would have been a single diaper change. She sits there, obviously working pretty hard, and then gleefully jumps up and proclaims, "Flush it! FLUSH it! Poop! FLUSH IT!" Meanwhile I'm shouting "Yay! You did it! You went poop in the potty!" while spinning and throwing limbs this way and that. And for what? For a bowel movement ranging in size from a raisin to a baby carrot.

By the end I was pleading with her to just finish up already. My arms were getting tired. But then I reminded myself that this girl is one -- ONE -- and she's potty training herself. Enthusidad told me today that they randomly bought one because it was on sale. They didn't even introduce her to it. I think she just likes to mount up and dangle her legs off the edge of her little green potty to get adults to dance.

Skunks

I got on the Metro this morning and walked past the people standing in the door way and the few in the aisle of the train and sat in the only empty seat. It's odd that there was an empty seat and a dozen people standing. I mean, the man was on the heavy side, but there wasn't too much hang over into the next seat.

I wanted to read. So I sat down.

The man promptly turned and said, "You want to sit here?"
"Yeah, is that alright?"
"Yeah. Cool. Sure. . ."

He was wearing light blue cotton shorts and a over-sized purple tie-dyed t-shirt. His shoes had velcro and his eyes didn't track together. He reminded me slightly of a frog.

"So where do you work?" he asked me rather loudly for Metro conversation acceptability.
"I work out in Arlington" I replied, too quietly I suppose.
"Huh? Where?"
Louder this time, "Arlington."
"Oh. (pause) I work for the Department of Agriculture."
"Very cool. Good for you."

At this point I looked around to see how many people were glaring at us over their newspapers for violating their sacred, silent morning commute. All I wanted to do was read and I seized the brief silence to open my bag and reach for my book but he jumped in again, "I'm currently working on a project to legalize domestic skunks," he said in his slight southern drawl.

"Oh really?" Now I was sort of amused. Skunks? "Who would want a skunk as a pet?"

This launched us into a much-too-long conversation about how skunks make wonderful household pets. They lick your face and like their bellies rubbed. They're alot like dogs. (Sidenote: they're NOT a lot like dogs. They're like ferrets who make your whole house smell like pee). They ". . . come in all sorts of colors, ginger, apricot, peach, lavender, mahogany, and the classic black and white stripe."

Wow. What had I gotten myself into? I again looked around and saw mixed reactions to our COMPLETELY AUDIBLE (TO THE ENTIRE TRAIN) CONVERSATION ABOUT DOMESTICATED SKUNKS. Some people looked on with amusement, and others had the that's-why-I'm-not-sitting-there or I-told-you-so face on. Others seemed to pity me and think this is what happened to the last guy who sat there.

He mentioned to me earlier that his stop was Smithsonian, and with the doors open to the Smithsonian platform and him still talking to me, I quietly said, "Are we at Smithsonian?"

"Oh we are. Thank you ma'am. Mind if I leave you with a brochure?" I didn't mind at all.

Here's the cover:

Inside there was a donation slip he was sure to point out, and the brochure recounted the story of Aspen the Skunk who was euthanized for biting somebody. You can learn more about the Aspen Skunk Rabies Research Inc. at their website, http://www.aspenskunk.org/.

I almost died. It was too funny. What I had just experienced was so bizarre. And it totally beat reading.

Critical

It's no secret that I'm a Mormon. It has come up a few time while I'm at work. Once when I mentioned that I missed my bike, Mimic's father, EnthusiDad, recalled, "Oh yeah, aren't bikes some big Mormon thing? I see pairs of bikers in ties sometimes . . ." I laughed a bit and then told him a little about the missionaries and explained that more than it is a "Mormon" thing, it's a practical thing. Bikes are cheap, efficient, fast, etc. But Mormons have continued to come up in conversation while I've been here.

I saw a DVD of This American Life, a TV version of my all-time favorite podcast and NPR radio show. When I told Ethusidad that I loved the podcast he said, "Oh you should watch the DVD sometime when Mimic is down for her nap." That was over a week ago, and I never really asked him how to figure it out or anything. But yesterday he mentioned that he and his wife were watching it over the weekend and there was a bit on a Mormon painter. Knowing that I am both a Mormon and a painter he thought it might be of interest to me.



I sat down and began watching it with such a critical eye, trying to extrapolate the different ways that what they were presenting could misrepresent the church and a people. I've found myself becoming increasingly attentive to how we're presented and represented as a church. I scrutinize. Intensely. For the most part I thought the show did a pretty good job of not making us look like lunatics. That's good.

I brought my scriptures with me to work yesterday. I was hoping to use a portion of Mimic's naptime to read and study. But after EnthusiDad had me watch what he termed as "The Mormom Show" I felt a little weird about whipping out my triple combination. I didn't want to come off as pious 20-year-old or anything. OH WAIT. Missionaries anybody? But I got them out anyway, hoping that he wouldn't come downstairs until I was done.

Like clockwork he descended the stairs to get his mid-afternoon Coke. He asked me what I was reading and I said I was studying a passage in the Book of Mormon. He asked if it was some sort of church mandate to read the scriptures. I then explained that no, it wasn't compulsory that we do so, although they do encourage it. But I choose to read mine everyday because I feel myself becoming closer to the person I know I can and want to be. He thought this was admirable, but quickly went upstairs to work.

It has been incredible to be in the mission field and I feel myself growing in understanding and courage. The Book of Mormon I ordered came this morning. I've made a goal to give at least one away while I'm here.

It'll be a piece of cake.

Doggies

One of the first things that caught me off guard when I started my current job was Mimic's absolute fixation with dogs. I'm convinced that no other kid in the Capitol has a captivation with canines like this one.

She gets it from her father.

On one of my first days here we went on a walk and he was showing me the neighborhood. Soon we met Diva, a Corgi with bat ears and a large stick in its mouth. (Whenever Mimic sees a stick she enthusiastically shouts, "DIVA!") Diva's owner is Alice. Alice asked me, "Have you met Cookie or Teddy?" "No I don't think so are th--" "Well," she butt in, "Cookie is a little tan Spaniel and just a doll. I mean, there are few dogs sweeter. Don't you agree? And Teddy is equally as nice and just absolutely in love with Mimic. He's a ten week old, 30-pound Bernese Mountain Dog. He's quite playful. "

There are a few things strange about this.

A) No one ever talks about the dog's owners, it's all about the pooches. In fact, Alice doesn't even know Teddy's owner's name, which must make for awkward conversations when they run into each other without man's best friend.
B) Ten weeks? THIRTY POUNDS?! And it plays with a baby less than HALF IT'S SIZE? Yeah right. We'll avoid Teddy.

Mimic's family has a dog. It's name is Navy (Mimic lovingly refers to her as "Fuzzy") and she's one of the most geriatric creatures I've never met. Mostly blind, mostly deaf, mostly taste deprived and incontinent, she makes for a great pet. That is, if you like stuffed animals. That pee.

Leets

It’s been hard to get back into the daily grind. We got home late Monday night and had little sleep because of disruptions (sunburns—which is a gross understatement, Mikey’s is more like a sunscorch— knocks on the door at 1 am, texting in the middle of the night . . .) but we both lifted our dead weight bodies out of the bed and made it to work on time Tuesday morning.

My day was spent like everyday last week was; with Mimic, the eighteen-month-year-old busy-body who I nanny for every day. I’ve never seen a child so small talk so much.

Yesterday was stormy in the city. Flood warnings, police sirens, and stories about accidents permeated the news and conversations on the Metro. Mimic and I were playing Playdoh when we heard what sounded like a bomb explode. And with the bomb went the lights. I said aloud, “The power must have gone out.” And the rest of the day all I heard was “Power OUT! Power OOOOUT!” Yes. You’re right. The power is out. We’ve talked about this nearly eight-hundred times by now. And it’s only 9:30. It was a long day.

Besides the mouth and the constant busy-hands, she’s pretty close to perfect. I got lucky with this job.

Today we went on a walk after Mimic's nap and she spent the afternoon using her stretch pants as extra large pockets. In them she stuffed:
- 1 Large yellow leaf
- 2 small brown leafs
- 4 rocks
- 2 dandelions
- 1 mushroom
- 1 handful of grass
Why? Why do you stuff "leets," "wroks," eelawns," and "mushoons" in your pants? Well, I guess that's because she lives her life in clothes without pockets.

Mikey and I meet up after work on the last car of the New Carrollton bound Orange Line Metro and discuss our days. I always have better stories.

Frigid

For the last week I've been leaving for work with sweatshirt in hand and bag on shoulder to face a day of sub-zero weather on the 5th floor of the HFAC. I bundle up my body and hunker down in my desk as I check off my list of daily tasks. By the time I leave, my WPM have fallen to a measly 30 and I no longer have the capacity to clench my fists. It's like a frozen lethargy consumes me. (You'd think I was cold blooded or something). My boss must be in the midst of an series of episodic hotflashes because she always looks over and asks me if I'm hot. Hot?! No. No, I just lost feeling in my toes.

Getting in the car is always the highlight of my afternoon. Sun-baked and steaming, I open the car door and let the heat rising of the seats slowly thaw out my ice-cube body. When I get home the first thing I do is change into something warmer. And then I spend the next hour or so wishing I was back in my temporary bedroom upstairs at my parent's house where the scorching heat never relents.

Update

The cleanse has gotten slightly better. My bowel finally made it's first move in 3 days. That was exciting. I don't feel hungry, I just miss the feeling of having food in my mouth. I miss chewing and swallowing and tasting. I miss warm things and savory things. I miss sustenance and variety. Oh to just have a SLICE OF CHEESE . . . I spent a good 5 minutes smelling Lil' Lou's "Puff's of Reese" yesterday as we sat on the couch and watched the Olympics together. Smelling is almost as good as tasting. Almost.

The Sea Monkey food, however, hasn't gotten any easier to swallow and if you don't do it in a timely manner, it COAGULATES AND FORMS BLOBS OF SEA MONKEY FOOD THAT STICKS TO THE INSIDE OF YOUR MOUTH AND THE SIDES OF YOUR TEETH AND MAKES YOU WANT TO SHOVE A FORK IN YOUR FRONTAL LOBE TO TAKE YOUR MIND OFF HOW HORRIBLE IT IS AS IT JIGGLES DOWN YOUR THROAT. OlderAndWiserToo threatened to film me downing it tomorrow morning. Apparently it's quite a show.

I made a Lemon Meringue Pie with PseudoSister for a work party today. It was purely experimental, especially considering we couldn't taste test anything along with way. I asked Lil' Lou to taste the lemon mixture and she told me she didn't like lemon stuff. I forced her finger into the sauce pan and she reluctantly gave it a lick. She gave me an ambivalent shrug and left the kitchen. Helpful. Really helpful. The smell of pie crust was almost enough to make me bag the cleanse and gorge myself on the flaky goodness. But part of this is a test of our resolve and endurance. Giving up now would mean accepting defeat and I'm just not equipped to do that.

The pie got good reviews at the "Pie Party." It was placed atop the counter next to a peach pie, a strawberry pie, a banana cream pie, a pizza pie, and a vegetable pie. Then they brought in ice cream. I spent the hour resisting the urge to swipe the plate across from me and licking the tops of all the pieces of pie. Licks don't count do they?

Cleanse

One 16 oz water with a spoonful of psyllium husk mixed in
Drink quickly, the psylium husk tends to gel
Follow immediately with 16 oz of water
3 Dr. Christopher's Lower Bowel Capsules
At least five 16 oz servings of "Lemonade" (16 oz water, juice from two lemons, 2 tablespoons Grade B Organic Maple Syrup, cayenne pepper if desired. Ours came in the capsules)
Green juice as desired
3 more hoaky herbal pills
Herbal Tea if desired

Sound enticing? It isn't. It's hard.

OlderAndWiserToo, PseudoSister and I decided to try a cleanse. Why? Because a friend did it, and everyone should do something crazy, hoaky and herbal once in their life. I've never really considered myself once of those medicine women who buy into herbal remedies and healing. But it has been interesting to pretend to be one. We chose to follow the friend's lead with the "Lower Bowel Cleanse" and follow the above remedy for at least 3 days. We're going for five.

I had work at 5 am Monday morning so I got to begin "cleansing" alone in the quiet morning hours. I readied my glass of the psyllium husk mixture, but nothing could have prepared me for how horrible it was to choke down my gullet. (It looked like sawdust swirling around my cup and tasted like Sea Monkey food smells. If you've ever owned the microscopic pets, you know exactly what I'm talking about). I gagged several times as I downed the full 16 ounces. By the end I was kneeling on the floor, moments away from lying down in the fetal position and crying. The only thing going through my mind was that I only had to do it 4 more times. 4 more times. 4 more times. 4 more times. . .

To make sure the psyllium husk didn't form an indigestibal bolus in my colon I drank 24 more ounces of water before I left for work. Needless to say I didn't feel too hot. I had prepared some "lemonade" the night before, and shoved my purple Nalgene waterbottle full to the brim with the mixture in my bag before heading out the door.

I got to work and was assaulted with the smell of sausage and frenchtoast. It hit me then that this could be the worst week of my life. I tried to keep busy out of the kitchen, loading the van, organizing, putting dishes away, before having to finally break down and gather up the food. Soon enough I was on my way, hauling breakfast for 85 to Springville.

Never before has my sense of smell been heightened so acutely. Everything seems to be exuding enticing odors, begging my olfactory glands to just give in and let my mouth have a go at it. No! (I have to be emphatic. It's just too hard to be a softy this week).

I prepped the trays of muffins, danishes, fresh fruit, and bagels, and put out the cheesy scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns and french toast before going to the backroom and opening my waterbottle. It. Smelled. Horrible. I didn't know until then that I'm really not a fan of Grade B Organic Maple Syrup. But it was nearly 8:30 and my stomach was feeling a little empty. After taking a swig I sat and stared at the blueberry muffins. I WOULD HAVE KILLED A PUPPY FOR ONE OF THOSE MUFFINS.

After I was away from all the food and putting my equipment away the day got better. I kept myself busy, (mostly with making insanely frequent bathroom runs) and tried to down as much "lemonade." We went to Costco and bought 20 lemons, and a bottle of Superfood (green drink) aka: food for the week. It looked so meager as we spread it all out and began the juicing fest. Was this really all I was going to eat for 4 more days? Why was I doing this to myself again?

This morning I was woken up by OlderAndWiserToo and when she asked why I was still in bed I honestly replied, "Because I'm putting off drinking the psyllium husk."

It's going to get interesting.

Quinceañera

I felt much like I did this day as I worked an event on Center Street. It was a Quinceañera for two daughters (cousins I believe) and boy did these Mexicans know how to throw a party. The hall was absolutely packed with family, friends, music, dancing, food, smiles, hugs, screaming, cheering, and 3 caterers in stiff looking ties and black aprons.

When I got the party order and looked over the supplies I would need to gather before the party started, my eyes stopped on the duration of the party. 5 to 10:30. Seriously? Could they really find things to do for five and a half hours?

The night felt like one continuous melody of laughter. I walked away with a renewed respect for their absolute love of life. It was like they couldn't get enough of it, even in the concentrated doses they seemed to be downing with their tacos. Everything was saturated with celebration. The night of dancing begun with a formal waltz; all the girls in similar, white, prom-type gowns, the boys in single file, their right hand holding gently the fingers of their dance partner. They walked out together, and just as synchronized - like it was part of the dance - the grandmothers got out their video cameras and the beep of the record button chimed with the music. They twirled together, dresses as outstretched as their arms, and the music fit neatly between the partners, aiding their feet in rhythmic movement.

A part of me was jealous, once again, that I didn't feel like I had a culture, a place, a people to relate to. Sometimes it's easy to get lost in the melting pot (or "tossed salad for all you politically correct fanatics out there) of American. It's like my family left their identity on the shores of Europe before they ventured off to foreign lands.

Shopkeeping

To prepare for a catering event, the day always starts at what is affectionately referred to as "the shop." It's a place of raw majesty, of stuff that produces beauty and fosters love, memories, family and friendship. It's a place of magic.

You'd have to look beyond the rows of sliver chafers or past the stacks of bowls. You'd have to peer beyond a pile of linen bags and give the unruly shelves of plasticware and utensils a cursory glance. But if you just sat in bewildered awe and thought how anything beautiful could come out of what seems like a warehouse of empty dishes, stacks of laundry, and rows of food, a warm place would form in your heart too and "the shop" would nestle right in.

Recently we moved the shop. The old one was getting cramped and dingy. We needed a bigger, newer, fresher start. Thus started the arduous process of packing away enough stuff to put on a superparty for half of Provo and hauling it across town. When we got to our new location I saw a room large enough to contain the possibility of all we just packed into bins and shoved into vans. The shelves were straight and tidy. The floor was recently power washed and free of clutter. It was like one giant clean slate.

Soon the busy hands of half a dozen workers moved the mounds of equipment and absolutely littered the floor with plastic bins Tetrised full of dishes and various other odds and ends. Though we were able to shelf much of the equipment that initial moving day, the shop remained in absolute disarray for weeks after.

I have a confession. I'm slightly (okay, maybe more than slightly) OCD and have been accused on a number of occasions as being a "neat freak." I maintain that there are far worse things to be accused of. Because of this lesser known quirk, if you will, every time I set foot in the shop and would see disorganized piles and hodgepodge mounds of stuff I would feel a tickle start crawling up my throat and soon realize that I was losing air. This was proceeded only slightly by a motley army of hives that march up and down my arms and legs and just the thought of sorting through it all to find a pewter punch bowl or slotted spoon or possibly a bag of croûtons would cause me to walk directly to a bin of forks and proceed to find one with the right sharpness to penetrate my frontal lobe. Seriously the pain was second only to the anguish of trying to work in such jumbled mess.

So yesterday OlderAndWiserToo and PseudoSister and I finally donned our dingies and set to work scrubbing, scouring, shelfing, scooting, sorting, and straightening the shop. Today I worked a wedding reception and felt like doing Tour Jetes, Fouettes and split leaps down the clean aisles and cartwheels between the perfect rows of everything. It was beautiful. It was magical. The shop is reborn. And now my frontal lobe doesn't have to take so much abuse.