Cat's Away Party

Every Tuesday night Laura teaches her class, and it's just the boys at home.

Lehi's Dream

Busted Out the Christmas Music Today

It's not early. IT'S FESTIVE.

And I Didn't Even Mention the Soap Operas

While I'm not going to claim that motherhood is out and out glamorous (too many rancid smells accompany it for that), motherhood isn't nearly as depressing as daytime TV would have you believe.

I set a goal this past New Years not to descend into the depths of television, and I'll have you know, The Office not withstanding, I've kept that goal. But recently I've been trying to organize my life so that my cupboards look something like sister-in-law Barbara's (or Sarah's; I'm sure they're similar), and so I've had the TV on while categorizing craft supplies. And here is a list of shows geared toward YOU, Miss Stay-at-home Mom. You are the target audience for the following messages:

1. In as little as 7 months of massage school, you could be working in the massage industry making an excellent income and doing something you can be proud of!

2. Screaming Deals at Macey's Grocery Store.

3. Body parts that age you: earlobes, cankles, hands.

4. Depression hurts, but you don't have to.

5. Kathie Lee's homemade word: groud.

6. Research has shown their is a link between tension, stress, and belly fat.

7. Women who beat their men.

But I'll tell you one media event aimed at housewives that I fall for EVERY SINGLE TIME. The makeover. You take a random woman off the street, stick her in some spanks and give her some highlights and I'm glued to the TV. "YES," I want to cry out. "That eyelash curler really does wake up her whole face!" And I'm a believer. Only instead of faith in the loaves and the fishes, I trust in the miracle that a good bra really does do wonders for a woman's frame.

Which brings me to my point. I would like a head-to-toe makeover. I'm trying to figure out how to get myself one. But the thing is, I haven't lost 100 lbs, I haven't been stuck in the same look since the 70s, I don't cling to blue eyeshadow, and my jeans don't have pleats in them. I'm not good makeover material. So as I see it, the only thing I can do is get good and frumpy, wearing pjs to the grocery store whenever I can swing it. This shouldn't be too hard since I do this 50% of the time anyway. But maybe I can stop showering every day and skip the deodorant. Just on the off chance Oprah's at Smith's ready to ambush.

I think it's totally worth it.

Weight Lifting

Asher Means Happiness

Books, books, more books.

Do I admit I read this book? Yep.



This book is wonderful and I'll tell you why. It made me feel smart.

That was Marissa's reaction too. It also made me feel like I wished I rented foreign Asian films and read Proust on the sly. Besides in teaching (and I guess my general views on art) I've never needed to access all the theory I learned in grad school since grad school. Until now. I felt very learned. And that's learned pronounced learn-ed.

That said, you don't need to have read any previous theory to appreciate this story. It was written by someone who teaches philosophy, but she mainstreams it in a beautiful tale about people and classes and how our lives intersect.

This is my favorite quote from the younger narrator, a girl who learns much from her association with the older narrator, which I find lovely (I also have a renewed desire to use the word "lovely"):

If you want to understand my family, all you have to do is look at the cats. Our two cats are fat windbags who eat designer kibble and have no interesting interaction with human beings. The only purpose of cats is that they constitute mobile decorative objects, a concept which I find intellectually interesting, but unfortunately our cats have such drooping bellies that this does not apply to them. My mother, who has read all of Balzac and quotes Flaubert at every dinner, is living proof every day of how education is a raving fraud. All you need to do is watch her with the cats. She's vaguely aware of their decorative potential, and yet she insists on talking to them as if they were people, which she would never do with a lamp or an Etruscan statue.

I think this is my favorite book I've read of late.



Father-in-law and I enjoy discussing books. I asked him his nonfiction to fiction ratio. He told me he was about 50/50. I thought about it and realize that to every 50 fiction I read, I read roughly 1.3 nonfiction books, with .5 of that being a book of scientific/historical/economic analysis and the rest of the category being made up by essays.

I present to you my one nonfiction of the year.

The Tipping Point was highly entertaining. I've found myself thinking about the examples that illustrate his principles a lot, especially the "broken windows" theory, where NYC cleaned up violent crime on the subways by cleaning and repairing the cars, and how Blue's Clues improved on Sesame Street by taking out the humor aimed to adults (I originally wrote adult humor, but that doesn't seem quite right) and instead inserted pregnant toddler pauses while the narrator waits for the audience to respond.

But I don't really have anything interesting to add to his theories which have become common jargon, so here was my other impression. As I read Malcolm Gladwell's theories I pictured a gentle old man who kindly picks apart society and societal theories in an English accent. I turned the last page of the book to find this guy staring at me:



I was frustrated enough that I wanted to read the whole book again so that I could hear the theories from the afro man. I'll be better prepared when I read Outliers sometime next year.

Also, Sean is my maven. Unless we're talking high-performance jackets. Then it's Scott.





I'm going to post about these books together because they were essentially two sections of the same book. Which is my thought on the books. Teen literature has changed since I was a teen. Namely, there is literature for teens now. When I was a teen I read essentially the same thing I read now. Which is just about anything.

But now there's celebrity authors with audiences who go crazy at books signings, and series that play with your emotions because, no matter how fast you can read, you have to wait months to find out the end of the story. I'm sure this is all Harry Potter backlash. Which I think is a wonderful thing. So many more people seem to love to read who didn't before, even if it means I have to go to midnight release parties, just to find out how the story ends.

My other thought? See, I told you. Reality TV shows are evil.

Maybe you'll get a better review of the book when the last book in the series comes out. Now you have a small taste of the frustration I feel for being stuck in the middle of three teen fiction series.



This book made me feel that I was the target audience for this poster:



And then I decided that it was time to read another Pulitzer.



You know, with a name like Jane Smiley, you'd think she'd write a happier book.

As I read the whole book, I just kept thinking "Man, this story is just tragic. Death, destruction, the whole nine yards. A veritable tragedy." And then when I was done, I looked up the movie that was based on this book and saw references to King Lear. And then I felt dumb. It's not just tragic, it's a rewriting of the ultimate tragedy.

Then my summation of the book was more positive, because I could escape from the emotion of the book and could recognize how incredible it was.

Also, I was amazed at how well Smiley portrays the events from Ginny's mindset, an unpredictable and not quite trustworthy point of view, but one that makes you feel the precariousness of the situation and the after effects of abuse.



If you think Dave Barry is funny here, you should read this book. Entertaining, delightful, deliciously evil, and oh so hilarious.

And quick to read. This would be a good one to read as a family.



Well, I'm not actually done with this book, but I figured it might as well make this entry as the the next one.

I'm reading this book because I want to be as cool as Sue. My neighbor is a very impressive person. She'd be the first person to say she isn't. She really is though.

I heard about Sue Maidenname all the time when I started running with the Howe family because Sue is a world-class runner. She ran track for BYU and Gail was always say, "Sue Maidenname says this and Sue Maidenname says that," and I set a goal to become a runner like Sue Maidenname. A few years after that, Sue moved into our ward and I met her in the mothers' nursing room. She introduced herself as Sue Marriedname and told me that she heard I had run a marathon. "I don't know how you can run that far," Sue told me with graceful self effacing. "I think that's amazing." I nearly put my arm around her as I condescended "Oh Sue, sure you could. If you just run every day, I'm sure you could make it."

It was in her talk an hour later that she introduced herself as Sue Marriedname, formerly Sue Maidenname when I realized what I had done, I had essentially told Michael Jordan that as long as he put his mind to it, I'm sure he'd get better at his free throws.

Anyway, Sue is also very intelligent, the kind of girl who quietly makes the comment that cuts to the seminal issue of the story after listening to me blather on about nothing for two hours.

What's my point? Sue wanted to know what I think about Brian Doyle. So I'm reading him. I'm only mildly tempted to parrot what the New York Times says about his essays.

So far they're pretty good.

So, We've Mostly Solved Talmage's Sleep Problems.* Mostly.

"Mom! MOOOOOMMMMMM!"
"Yes, Talmage?"
"You can come in here? One more time. Just one more time."
"What's up, buddy?"
"You're going to need to turn on the light for this one."
"Kay. What do you need?"
"Um . . ."
"Tal, it's time to go to sleep."
"Just one thing. Uh, when's trick-or-treating?"
"On the thirty first."
"That's a three and a one?"
"Yep."
"What day's today?"
"The sixteenth."
"A one and a six?"
"Yep, good night Talmage."
"Mom! A sixty is a six and a zero."
"Good night."
"A six and a zero, mommy!"
"Yes a six and a zero. Good night."

"MOMMMMMMYYYYYYYY!!!!"
"Good night Talmage."
"Last thing, just last thing."
"What bud?"
"You're going to need to turn on the light for this one."
"Okay, what?"
"A six and a six is sixty-six."
"You've got it. Good night."
"Last thing! Just last thing!"
"What?"
"Ggggggggggghhhhh [gargles water]."
"Good night Talmage."
"Good night, Mommy."
"I love you."
"I love you, Mommy. . . . I SAID I LOVE YOU MOMMY!!!"
"I heard bud. I love you, too."
"Good night. . . . . I SAID GOOD NIGHT, MOMMY!!!"
"I heard. Good night."
"Good night."

*The Mind Numbing Sleep Issues Chronicled Here.

I Stole This Quote From My Friend Shiloh's Blog Just For You

Here is the quote:

“Friends are helpful not only because they will listen to us, but because they will laugh at us; Through them we learn a little objectivity, a little modesty, a little courtesy; We learn the rules of life and become better players of the game.”

Will Durrant

Here is the blog I lifted it from: Rembrandt's Light

And here is the opportunity I give you to laugh at me:

Stuff White People Like: Banksy

Careful, though. You start knocking 20th century art, I'll give you a two hour lecture on why you should appreciate postmodernism accompanied with flailing arms that will knock your glasses off--even if you live three states away and think you're safe from the passionately emphatic arm gestures. You're not. Just ask my students.

We Are Pleased to Announce the Arrival Of

This Time Around

Asher is turning into a human being.

Which means that he was a lump before. Lump sounds so harsh. He was more like luggage. We'd pack up our precious cargo in a big seat that we carried all over as we attempted to live a normal life. In the process of our 8 month travels, I have built up my bisceps so that I resemble Blaze from American Gladiators. The old school version. No scratch that, my arms were like cousin Michelle's. Impressive.

But just my left arm. You know, the one that carries the massive car seat.

Now my luggage has started demanding things out of life, something my Samsonite suitcase has never done, so I'm forced to admit that I'm raising a child. Asher gets upset if you take things away from him, things like my keys, or the toilet plunger, or someone else's cell phone. (Not my cell phone, clearly. See here.) He gets angry if you feed him peas. He gets happy if you feed him sweet potatoes. He looks for the toys he throws off the side of the couch. He starts to anticipate raising his arms if you play So Big with him. His face erupts in a spew of gums and grins and giggles if you even intimate that you might be about to tickle him.

And he recently realized that if he forces himself to wake up every hour or so, mom will come get him at which point he gets to nuzzle and suckle and cuddle. Which is AWESOME.

I've been putting off making him cry it out. I know, he's eight months. It's a bit overdue. But Tal was nine months. And besides, Asher only got up one or maybe two times a night, something I was grateful for when I got up to go running in the morning. (They don't make a sports bra strong enough for the massively engorged.) However, Thursday he got up five times, Friday we hung out from 3:45 to 5:30, and Saturday it was six or seven times.

Last night I called it quits. I slept downstairs in Tal's bed. Which didn't help. I could hear him just fine. But you know what? Though I said a couple of prayers, I wasn't tearing my hair out and mourning in sackcloth and ashes. And though my heart hurt a little bit, I wasn't in a corner in a fetal position with my hands over my ears.

All to say that having a second child is blissful. And so very much easier. I've come a long way, baby.

A Likely Story

Uncle Sean: "What are you going to name your new lion?"

Talmage: "I don't know again."

Uncle Sean: "How about Hortence?"

Talmage: "Hey! You got it right! That's what I was going to name him. I forgot."