Letters to Spitfire

Yeah, haven't been much on the blogs lately. It's not that anything has been going on, it's more like I've just been trying to keep up with things like laundry and bathing (myself, not the baby, who is probably growing a potato out of his neck as we speak).

My writing outlet for a last little while has been the daily letters I'm sending my sister Spitfire in the Missionary Training Center. I'm using this delightful free web service called DearElder.com where you can type up and submit a letter and they'll go ahead and print it out, stuff it into an envelope, seal it, and march it over the the MTC that very day. Genius, friends.

So she's the one who has been getting gems like these:

(from an April 27 letter)
I did a super smart thing. GH suggested that I look into this Bountiful Baskets service that his mom does. It's where you sign up to get a basket of produce from a co-op on Monday and then you go pick up your basket on Saturday from one of the pick-up locations. You're supposed to get something like $50 worth of produce for $15. So I thought, "Sure, okay." On Monday I went to the website to see if there were any baskets left near me. I saw that there were several still available at an Orem location and thought, "Well, that's a little bit of a drive, but it will be worth it. Next time I can get on the web faster and will be able to get something closer to me." So I signed up, noticing all the big reminders that you CANNOT cancel your order once it's been placed. When I got my confirmation email I saw that my pick-up time to go get the basket is 6:45 AM. On SATURDAY. I emailed GH and told him this was all his fault and he was dead to me. Stupid baskets . . .

(from an April 29 letter)
Am having one of my regularly scheduled "I live in a filth pit. A PIT of FILTH!" moments. Need to figure out how to work this. It just seems so hard to get things done when the Dark Lord is awake because he doesn't want to play by himself. And then when he's asleep there's my one hour to maybe try to eat or get dressed or do something about my hair or get on the computer to pay bills or write you or oh my gosh maybe read something or make a phone call. See how cleaning does NOT really have any room in there? Yeah. Need to figure something out. And it's hard to take on anything major (organize the storage closet, switch out the summer/winter clothes, organize ANYTHING, really) because I know I'll get interrupted and then there's one more big mess I've created. Factor that in with any errands I need to run, which must be scheduled around TDL's naps, and you now know why the people at Costco and the grocery store probably think I am some kind of mentally ill person who doesn't bathe. (Or, if I bathe, then I haven't done my hair. Or, if my hair looks okay, I've forgotten to brush my teeth. If the teeth are brushed them I almost certainly have yesterday's eyeliner smeared below my eyes. I'm just hot.)

But I know you didn't open this to read about When My Floors Were Last Mopped. (Answer: The fifth of NEVER. When I walk on them barefoot my feet turn black and GH says I look like Bert the chimney sweep from Mary Poppins. Cheeky.) One wise woman said that rather than creating some impossible schedule of what you are going to clean when, just clean something as soon as it starts bothering you. Except what are you supposed to do when everything in your ratty filth trap of a 1970s apartment starts bothering you equally all at once? Deep questions, friend. Deep questions. Also, is it clear enough where SOMEONE is in her monthly cycle? I think it is.

(April 30th)
Hope your week is going well. Wanna hear how my awesome Bountiful Baskets pickup went? Yeah you do. I woke up at 6:00am and saw that it had snowed all night. Decided not to take TDL with me to pick up the box. (Note from the future: VERY GOOD CALL.) The pickup location was in North Orem at a car dealership, and I had to park on the street nearby and go wait in line. It started snowing, and I waited, in the snow, for FORTY minutes while I waited for the volunteers to finish getting the baskets ready. The woman behind me had her baby with her and I felt so awful for them both. But hey, my basket was impressive: watermelon, a pineapple, strawberries, corn, cucumber, broccoli, cauliflower, spinach, grapefruit, apples, potatoes, all kinds of stuff. And I could still feel my fingers and feet a tiny bit by the time I got it back in the car.

Lucky, lucky Spitfire. After Easter Sunday, I printed out this picture of little Lord Voldemort and me, dressed in our finery, and mailed it to her:


Couldn't you just eat him up?