Proof that he's my child

(You know, in case the part where he exploded out of my body with the help of some salad tongs wasn't enough for me.)

It has been hard to get a handle on the Tiny Dark Lord's features. Some people say he resembles the Precii, but I'm not sure I see it. There are times when he makes these serious little faces that remind me of GH's nephew. His long fingers and insanely long, could-wrap-around-tree-branches toes definitely come from GH. And, with my luck, he will probably have brown hair and hazel eyes like his Dad.

But.

BUT.

We have discovered something important.

Behold, The Eyebrow.


I could not be more proud. And yeah, it's fine if you can't tell because his eyebrows are pretty much invisible, but I promise he's doing it. Others can bear witness. Cannot wait to be on the receiving end of that look when he's a teenager. Because yeah, I will probably feel like killing him where he stands, but there will also be pride.

Just to prove that we're a little ways off from there, though, he obliged me with a couple of cute faces. Enjoy.





And now I'm off for my 6-week checkup to see if I will ever be able to walk like a normal(ish) person again after said salad tongs incident. Wish me luck!

I am sorry if your family is perhaps not as photogenic as my family

(Note: This may also have something to do with the part where I am in none of these pictures.)

After Baby Hudson's baby blessing last month, my b-in-law held a little family photo shoot.

You may want to clap your hands over your mouths now, because you are about to see The Baby Sweater COMPLETE WITH BABY.








. . drumroll . . .






YEAH. Can you even deal with that???? I certainly can't, and have been whimpering at my desk now for about the last hour. If anyone asks what's wrong I'll just tell them I have a disorder. And that, you know, my right ovary just exploded. Or I'll just show them the picture and they can start making baby animal yelps right along with me.

Here is my hot mom holding Master Precious III.

And here's my dad, who pretty much turns into a puddle of (very manly and tough) goo over babies.



(See also: From Whence I Inherited The Eyebrow)




And here are the happy grandparents with their grand-progeny. Please don't ask me what Ethan is doing--this is the same boy who, in all of my wedding pictures, is trying to pull his shirt up over his head.

Striving for emotional health

They say you should learn to recognize signs your body and mind may be giving you when they want to tell you that you are stressed. If my 2-month eye twitch is any indication, then yes, I may be slightly stressed. It comes and goes, but most of it is to do with work and wanting to get things resolved so that I can get back to kicking the trash out of one job rather than eye-twitching my way through two. Is that so much to ask?

Yesterday was a long 12-hour day wherein I oversaw the library's employee/substitutes/volunteer Christmas party. It was a lot of fun but I'm kind of exhausted and getting slightly cranky. Also I have a cold, which turns me into the biggest whiny baby alive. I can just see me, years from now, forcing my small children to bring me orange juice and chicken soup and my down comforter because Mommy is sick and cannot possibly parent today.

I realized, however, that I might be getting near the end of the rope when my inability to locate the frozen juice section at the grocery store this morning had me dropping mental F-bombs. Because really? The F-word? Over juice? That does not seem right.

There were a few grocery store moments, though, which re-affirmed my faith in tiny miracles. I hate buying spices at the grocery store. I hate it because they all cost about $8,000 and you just know that someone is getting a better deal at a dollar store or World Market or spice plantation somewhere but you don't have the time to go find that better deal because you're making wassail for tonight, tonight! And then you hate yourself for sucking and you hate McCormick for sucking even MORE. I had to buy a brick-sized container of cinnamon sticks for $5.99 even though I only needed one. But it was almost the same price as the tiny McCormick jar and I just couldn't give them the satisfaction. So does anyone need some cinnamon sticks?

Here is where the miracles come in. I found whole cloves for $1.69. I picked up the tiny container and whispered, "I honor you." And then I gave the $5.99 McCormick cloves the Eyebrow and a French pfffffft. Suckaaaahs. In the frozen juice aisle, where I was looking for both orange juice and pineapple juice, I found orange-pineapple juice. Lovely. Lovely, beautiful, faith-in-human-race-affirming moments.

Also, I'm sensing a sick day coming up reeeeal soon. Anyone out there have any good stress-managing techniques that do not involve running away from your job or telling people to go screw themselves?

cinnamon sticks image by Mika

Please understand that I love my mom the most

And if anyone else talks smack about her they're gonna get clobbered. But Jenny and I realized last night that neither of us have told this story and it's too good to keep in.

A couple years ago we were all together at Christmas. Jen was finishing up at BYU and had switched over to some touchy-feely new Family Life major because it was the one that would get her graduated the fastest. At this point she already had one baby and didn't want to be in college for 15 years.

Understandable. I guess.

Slacker.

She and her classmates were being asked to help develop the major and give input about the kind of things they'd like to learn. Jen was frustrated because she wanted the program to be more academically rigorous and address some of the sociological issues associated with the family. Her classmates wanted it to be a continuation of really bad Young Women lessons--the ones where all you really learn is that children are a precious, precious gift and that to save money you should feed your family canned soup. (It's also a good way to give them scurvy. You know, if that's what you're after.)

When Jenny brought up her points and pushed for a more challenging curriculum, the other girls gave her the stink-eye. They were a bit younger than she was and lots of them just wanted to coast through to get their degree because they had zero plans of ever working. This always stuns me because to get into BYU nowadays you generally have to be quite the academic achiever. But I guess the point for those girls was just to get there and then they didn't want to work on anything but their "Mrs" degree, as it is called by old men who need a smack across the mouth.

Anyway, Jenny was venting to Mom about this while I sat nearby, reading smut and filth. Jen was saying how much she hated her new major but she needed to finish now or she never will, and she just hates being surrounded by these girls who think she's a freak for wanting to learn something that she couldn't get from her own common sense--or a trip to the grocery store. ("Guess what, girls? Canned vegetables last longer than fresh! You'll want to remember that.")

Mid-rant, Mom interrupted her and said in a very slow and serious voice, "Now Jenny, you know you have what all those other girls want. You have a husband and a baby."

Blink.

Blink blink.

I had just barely lifted The Eyebrow and began to uncoil from the couch to assume Strike Position when Jenny did my freaking out for me. And since this was Jenny, it was loud and involved many words and a little bit of sputtering.

"MOOOOM! What the heck?? What does that even have to do with anything?? You can't just say crap like that!!" Etc etc.

It felt quite gratifying to have Jen come to bat for me, even though I feel bad afterwards when we've bawled out our poor sweet mom who is just trying to help.

So now whenever Jenny complains about the latest expensive thing her children have destroyed or the ways in which family life is generally sapping her soul, or cries when I tell her I'm going to Prague, I say, "Yes, but Jenny, remember. You have what Every Woman Wants."

And then she feels better. As well she should.

Actually, I do mind.

I would like to share a little tidbit from Miss Manners' Basic Training: Communication (1997). She is addressing cell phone etiquette.

Miss Manners understands that for the owners of portable telephones the number-one etiquette hazard is embarrassment. There is hardly any more public wallflower than the person who is obviously lugging around telephone equipment than never seems to ring. No one should have to be stuck with having to talk to the person he or she is actually with.

It is, of course, Miss Manners' duty to sympathize with all etiquette problems. But she allows herself some discretion about which ones to suffer over first. In the manner of peripatetic telephones, she worries first about the nonusers present who are being annoyed.

So do I, Miss Manners. So do I. Also, it is so much worse now. I don't know why this is, but people whom I consider to be well-mannered individuals throw the rules completely out the window when it comes to cell phones. So. I would like to present the rules here, just in case there are people out there who A) do not know them, or B) don't think said rules apply to them (hint: they do).

1. Turn your phone off the second you step into a museum, church, restaurant, theatre, library, waiting room, or other public place frequented by actual civilized people. My library doesn't have a cell phone rule, even though it really should, which means that I get to hear cell phones ringing merrily at all hours of the day and people chattering on about things we shouldn't be hearing, like custody battles and which brother is trying to stiff his siblings out of their inheritance. Today a woman was asking me a reference question when her cell phone went off--loudly. I then had to sit there with the Eyebrow of Death and wait for her to stare at it and debate whether or not to answer it. And I've said this before but some of you haven't listened --sending text-messages during church is tacky. And so are you if you do it. And you'll make Jesus cry.

2. If your phone rings during a live performance, you deserve to be slapped. If it rings again during the same performance, you deserve to be slapped by every member of the audience, the cast, and the orchestra. And anyone else who just happens by and wants to smack you.

3. Do not have personal or emotional conversations on your cell phone in public. None of us want to be held hostage by your drama. We shouldn't have to listen to any of your cell phone conversations, actually. So find yourself a corner and use it. Wait until you get off the airplane to start making calls. I've listened to about a million "Yeah. Yeah, I just landed in Columbus. We're just taxiing on the runway now. Yeah. So I'm calling to tell you that. Because it makes such a difference that you know this now, rather than 5 minutes from now. And I want everyone else on this plane to know I'm so special that entire teams of people need to be apprised of my every move" calls, and I would be just fine with never hearing one again.

4. Ditch the annoying ringtones. What are you, twelve? I'm going to be additionally irritated if I have to listen to some stupid song when your cell phone goes off.

5. Stop screaming into your phone. You don't need to do that.

6. Do not even think about using your cell phone when you're at the check-out stand. That is so incredibly rude to the person who has to be polite to you even though you don't have the courtesy to acknowledge her presence. She would be perfectly justified in cramming that thing in your ear. The other day I worked the circulation desk and had to help a lady who remained on her phone and never once looked at me. She has no idea how close she came to getting clubbed like a baby seal with her own phone.

7. Do not have drawn-out cell phone conversations if you are with guests. And yes, the people in the car with you are guests--or at least they can't choose to be somewhere else. I've been stunned on occasion when I've set out with a friend only to be ignored while they have a merry cell-phone conversation with someone else. Because guess what? You, the person you're calling, and me do not = a happy threesome. It equals you being rude and me wondering why I'm even there.

Now. Let's all do our best to make the world a better and more considerate place and stave off the public slappings, shall we?

Thank you.

Let's get physical

I worked out at the gym yesterday, because I am now One Who Works Out. Or at least I'm trying to be. Again. Some more. Two years ago back when I was working at BYU I did this Y-Be-Fit program where they get all this information about your health and diet and habits. They put me on a treadmill and had me lift weights and do a sit-and-reach. The sit-and-reach is never my favorite, because I quite likely have the shortest hamstrings in the entire world, including those of premature babies. I can barely go past my knees and people think I'm faking, but I'm not. Yet another reason why little old ladies who crossed the plains back in the days of the pioneers can school me at yoga. The Y-B-Fit girl also put me in the Bod Pod, which is one of those egg-shaped air displacement things to find out your BMI and fat percentages and all that. When I went to get my results they told me that I was obese. At which point I raised my eyebrow and said, "Excuse me?"

"Oh yeah," the girl chirped. "You're not overweight, mind you, but you're obese because 32% of you is fat. That's a really lot."

I'm thinking I'm probably back to that. Only if the scale at the new gym is right (please please please let it be wrong) then I'm quite likely obese and overweight. Either way I want to knock that thing over and light it on fire, so I'm just going to ignore it from now on and go about my exercise business.

Because normal is too much to ask

So I went to my new ward on Sunday. Brief points of interest:

At one point during a lesson while mentioning someone who grew up on a farm, the girl teaching said, "Now, I'm sure most of us here grew up on farms." I refrained from bringing out an "Excuse me?" accompanied by the Eyebrow of Death.

I felt a bit overdressed because I wasn't wearing fleece. Asked my sister Spitfire if that's just a Logan thing and she shook her head sorrowfully. "No," she whispered, "That's just your ward. Your ward is kind of the homely one."

And now the longer point of interest:

When I walked in the building there was a short blond guy in front of me who proceeded to turn around and stare and my roommate and me several times, while walking. I wondered if he was looking for someone or if he was just stunned by our beauty. After all, I was pretty much working it with the red skirt and the Love Goddess hair. Then he ended up in a seat close to me for one class and I kept seeing him turn to stare our way. Tried not to assume that he was staring at me, because I didn't want to be conceited. He eventually introduced himself and seemed normal, but later we passed my sister Spitfire in the hall.

Me: Oh, that's my sister, by the way.

Guy: Oh, [Spitfire]?

Me: Yeah, you know her?

Guy: uh . . . just a little bit.

[silence]

Me: So . . . how do you guys know each other?

Guy: I . . . uh . . . ran into her on campus once . . .

Then he kind of didn't talk to me anymore. I thought it was weird that he recognized her and knew her name if he'd only met her once, but then later had a mind flash:

He's short.

My sister is 4'11. He probably asked her out. She probably turned him down. She's kind of a heart-breaker that way. Embarrassing. No wonder he didn't want to say how he knew her. And no wonder he didn't want to talk to me anymore.

So that night SF came over and I asked if she knew a short, blond guy named *****.

SF: "Do you mean the short blond guy who's been stalking me for 5 years?"

Yeah.

Turns out her freshman year this guy would sit in the library and watch her while she studied. And it's pretty much gone on since then and their paths keep crossing every year. She says he would come up to her and stand a foot away from her while she talked to other people. He would change seats, sometimes from one end of the room to the other, so he could sit behind her and watch her. He has never spoken to her.

When I told her he introduced himself to me she was all pleased. "Wow, good for him! Oh, wait, or that means he likes you enough to actually talk to you, which is bad. Best of luck with that."

And people thought I wouldn't be able to meet anyone in Logan. I guess I sure showed them!

I wanna be a supermodel

Here are the promised pics from the bowling-alley shoot. I liked the shirt, even if it did smell like cigarette smoke. The pants . . . I will probably not be wearing them again so much at all.


This is me and the Eyebrow of Death. And the shiny green Shoes of the Dance.


This is me possibly looking as though I have a flat bum and terrible posture. Only that's the magic of camera wizardry, because I have neither of those things, okay? My bum is cute. I do, however, have a stubby pinky, and even Ed's magic could not hide that.

You can see more of his photography, which I think is pretty much the best ever, at his website. If you can look at that first picture without yelping "PRECIOUS!" then you are stronger than I. Or possibly the goblins came in while you slept and replaced your heart with a piece of crumpled garbage.

The things they say when they think we're not listening

So yesterday I was in my Online Information Retrieval lab, and we were discussing the strengths and weaknesses of the database searching tool thing that the university library uses. (I know, try to contain yourselves from drooling on your keyboards over such a steamy topic. . . )

Anyway, we talked about whether or not the search function was powerful enough to allow for things like spelling mistakes, or dyslexia (you know how Google will say, "Did you mean: _____?"). Turns out it isn't powerful enough. It also doesn't account for what my professor seems to believe is the grandaddy of all the plagues of all the searches, even the Americanisation/Americanization of Terms.

He gave the example of personalization/personalisation.

Professor: If you spell it with an s, you won't get any American stuff, which is bad, because they're churning out articles and things all the blessed time.

Professor: On the other hand, if you spell it with a zed, you don't get any European or UK sources, which is horribe, because, well, they're just better.

Class: Ho ho ho

My Canadian friend, mock offended: Hey, you didn't mention Canada!

Prof: Oh, right. Well, um, North American, then. Is that okay?

MCF: Yeah, I was just teasing. Sometimes we don't know what we are in Canada.

Prof: (walks over to her and speaks very earnestly) You know, if there were a way to distinguish between Canadian and American spelling, we would always choose yours.

And that's when the Prof remembered that there was actually a Yank in the room, and that he was saying The Secret and Sacred Things in front of her. He shot me a sideways glance, to which I responded with the Raised Eyebrow of Impending Doom.

Then I raced to tell the Internet what I found out. The Brits would totally pick Canada if it came down to it. We'll remember that.

Oh yes. We will remember.

This is my 100th post

And I'm too swamped to even make it a good 'un. (See, Mom and Dad? I do homework!) Instead I will leave you with a survey, which I just stole from Danalee, which she stole from somewhere else.

Also I will tell you that last night for dinner I had a toasted baguette with slabs of warm brie, thick bacon, and cherry tomatoes inside. And oh my gosh it was good.

Ahem. Here is your survey.

THREE NAMES YOU GO BY
1. Stephanie (I don't know why)
2. Tee (to my sweet baby niece)
3. Nemesis

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF
1. I look sexy and vulnerable in pink
2. I can raise one eyebrow to give foolish people the Look of Impending Death
3. I have great calf muscles, which makes people think I'm a runner even though I'm not

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU DON'T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF
1. My milkmaid shoulders
2. I am so white that you can actually see my veins through my skin
3. My complete lack of abdominal strength--I will probably just slump over one day and be unable to straighten up

THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE
1. English
2. Irish
3. Southern

THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU
1. Spiders
2. The old men on LDS Linkup who try to write me
3. Scary clowns

THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS
1. My keys (turns out to be a problem when I don't have them)
2. My mobile, because I like to think that the world will stop if people can't reach me
3. Four different lip-gloss products, since I lose them all the time

THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW
1. Jeans
2. A librarian bun
3. A saucy grin

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE SONGS
1. "At Last" by Etta James
2. "In a Little While" by U2
3. "Hang on Little Tomato" by Pink Martini
(Wait, I just realized they sort of all have the same theme, even though that's not why I picked them. Huh. Betcha Freud would have a field day with that one.)

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE PREFERRED SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU
1. Sense of humor
2. Shoulders
3. The accent
(My preferred sex is male, btw.)

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW
1. Stop studying. (Oh wait, I just did! Hah!)
2. Go out and play.
3. Drink Ghirardelli hot chocolate next to a fire

THREE CAREERS YOU'RE CONSIDERING/YOU'VE CONSIDERED
1. Superpower
2. Librarian
3. Queen of the Universe

THREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION
1. Paris
2. Prague
3. Anywhere with clear blue water and a beach and people who will brink me the slushy fruit drinks

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE
1. Travel all over the world
2. Become the scary old lady on the porch who yells at the neighborhood kids
3. Not go sky-diving

THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A GIRL
1. I cry at commercials sometimes.
2. I have a princess canopy bed with pink ribbons and flowers and streamers all over it
3. Wait, what do you even mean by that question? Are you saying that it's acceptable to refer to women as "girls"? What kind of sexist pig are you, huh?

THREE KID'S NAMES YOU LIKE
There is no way on this green earth I would tell the Internet that, because every time I so much as think of a name I like, it shoots to the Top 20 list. So I'm just keeping that to myself, you nasty bunch of name poachers. You know who you are, and I hope your kids have perpetually runny noses and that they will wear too-small sweatpants constantly just to make you look like bad parents.