Or at Least Go On More Truffle Hunts.

On page 51 of their January catalogue, Pottery Barn is selling a "Daily System" to "keep track of everyone's events with one central calendar to capture it all." For example, the picture displays the September events of "everyone," including a truffle hunt (September 1-2), Beau's birthday (the 23), and picking out a color for the bedroom (clearly, September 8).

My question is, who is this Beau who goes on two-day truffle hunts and whose entire to do list consists of picking out a bedroom palette?

Someone whose house is more beautiful than mine. Maybe I should change my name to Beau.

Soon I'll Post About More Important Things, Like His Birth

Finn has been sleeping for 4.5 hours and counting. And instead of sleeping myself, I've spent the time grading research papers. Ah well. At least they're all done.

It's Been a Very Educational Holiday

Asher's vocabulary has boomed in the last few weeks. Among the words he's learned:

1. Kit Kat

2. Laffy Taffy

3. Almond Joy

4. Snickers

5. Sweet Tarts

6. Twix

7. Tootsie Roll

8. Milky Way

9. Gobstoppers

10. Bubble gum

He already knew skittles, starburts, and licorice.

I, on the other hand, have learned that while my belly is too squished for a decent sized meal, Halloween candy fits just right.

As Seen on TV

Due to my refusal to pay a cable bill and the digital revolution's inability to provide all it promised, we don't really watch TV all that often. You can only wait so many weeks for The Office to come on and only receive digital static before you give up on watching primetime all together. This has had two effects in our family: 1) Tyler and I watch all our TV on DVD, viewing entire seasons of shows in one go (counting down to the September 20 for season 2 of Modern Family), and 2) Talmage views his TV through titles checked out from the Salt Lake County Library system.

I laid down a blanket policy that he could check out any title from the library, which I envisioned would cover Curious George, Arthur, and Bill Nye the Science Guy. I was aware that this leniency might extend to Barney and Ruff Ruffman, unfortunate side effects that I was willing to swallow. However, Talmage promptly discovered Pokemon and dedicated his one video per library visit to watching the entire original Pokemon, Pokemon: Johto Journey, Pokemon Johto League Champions, Pokemon: Master Quest, and Pokemon: Advanced Battles series. This unfortunate side effect was tougher to stomach. Even more unfortunate is the fact that I can sing the theme song from every Pokemon manifestation.

Talmage has mostly grown out of his Pokemon obsession, largely because he now dedicates his screen time to video game playing. However, we've been on several trips recently, and Talmage has discovered the wonderful world of television where five-year-old boys are the target audience. And I don't know if you remember, but the commercials aimed at kids are VERY exciting. Especially for Talmage, the one five-year-old boy whose parents' sheltering TV ways have left him unfamiliar with Hasbro marketing. The camera angles! The sound effects! The colorful packaging! The WWF announcer! Talmage eats it up. There have been at least 10 things rotating on his September birthday wish list, ranging from an airplane mounted with a video camera to Barbie's play-doh palace. Fortunately, he typically forgets about all these things once the commercial ends.

However, last Saturday our digital box was receiving channel five, and Talmage saw his very first infomercial. The wallet made from aluminum is designed to replace your bulky wallet and fit right in your pants pocket. Talmage was transfixed, and promptly, he became a missionary for Aluma Wallet. "Dad, you really should get this," he admonished. "You can drive over it; it can even go through the washing machine, and it still works. Don't you think that's really great? It used to cost eleven dollars and ninety-nine cents, but now it only costs six dollars and ninety-nine cents."

I think we need to watch more television. We owe it to Talmage's consumer awareness.

Tyler Asked if I Apologized to Him. Sadly, Tyler Didn't Make an Appearance.

So, this is probably inappropriate for a family-friendly blog like this one, but let me go ahead and say this for those who aren't aware: pregnancy is weird.

Which makes me realize that since I neglect this blog, I haven't announced to the World Wide Web: I'm having a baby. In November, actually. We plan on naming said baby Providence, girl or boy.

I'm having a baby, and one symptom I experience while I'm pregnant is in-color, three-dimensional, fully-developed-plot-line, rounded-character dreams. The kind of dream where you get mad at your son and can't get over the emotion until well into the afternoon after you wake up. The kind of dream where the next day you try and figure out when in your life you went to Africa, because your bank account doesn't have any record of a plane flight to Kenya, but you remember that elephant safari with perfect clarity. The kind of dream (which you never have had any other time of your life) that can only be described as an AHEM "make-out" dream.

This week I had an AHEM "make-out" dream about Brad Pitt. I know what you're going to tell me: "But Laura, you're a woman." It's true. And I'm aware that only men fantasize about celebrities. But people, I'm pregnant. And this time I was there and Brad Pitt was there and my dream-self said, "What the heck." I mean Brad Pitt! I once listened to a heterosexual man laud Brad Pitt's beauty for a full 20 minutes! I wasn't about to complain.

Afterwards, Angelina came in. I was about to leave, but my dream's moral compass went off, and I felt like I needed to apologize. I put a lot of dream thought into the apology and said, "Angelina, can I call you Angelina? No disrespect intended to Brangelina, but your husband offered, and, well, he's Brad Pitt. You understand right? I mean, he's Brad Pitt."

I'm pretty sure Brangelina understood. Because I am ELOQUENT in dreams.

Let me reiterate. Pregnancy is weird.

Happy New Years on January 27, 2011, 4:14 am.

I never wrote a New Year's Post.

I've been planning on it. It hasn't been fabulous, mind you, but I wanted to break down my favorite posts of last year, my favorite books of last year, and run through my New Year's Resolutions. Yes, I intentionally capitalized those words. That's because that's how they loom in my head. In fact, they should be in all caps. My NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS.

See, the thing is, I don't really know what resolutions to write down. Well, yes I do; the same things stress me out day in, day out.

1. Maintain a clean house.
2. Complete my daily scripture study.
3. Write a weekly blog entry.
4. Train for this cursed marathon.
5. And still spend the same amount of quality time with my children that I've truly enjoyed spending.

The thing is, I don't know how to make it all fit. Well, I don't know how to make it all fit and still sleep occasionally. (Although the stress is keeping me up at night.) So there's something in me that wants to make the resolution:

1. Live in grimy filth, eat cookie dough, and watch television that excels at being truly awful. With my children. Also, shower less.

Except I don't REALLY want to do that.

You always hear of those lists that women make when they're 80 that say, "I wish I had stressed out about motherhood less and enjoyed it more." But is that really possible to do when you're in the thick of it?

And here's the real secret. While I was at the Children's Museum a couple of days ago, I overheard one mother comment to another that the third child was easier than the first two, because she stopped feeling guilty about mothering. The second mother responded, "Yeah, remember when we used to read to our children?" Then they both laughed.

I envied them. I envied that they seem to have achieved enough balance they they can enjoy motherhood without stressing about it. But the comment also scared me to death. You see, I don't want to stop reading to my kids. I really and honestly want to

1. Maintain a clean house.
2. Complete my daily scripture study.
3. Write a weekly blog entry.
4. Train for this cursed marathon.
5. And still spend the same amount of quality time with my children that I've truly enjoyed spending.

So what's my New Year's Resolution 2011?

1. Hang on to the guilt.

This Is For Those Of You Who Find It Funny When Michael Scott Yankee Swaps Phyllis' Handknit Hot Pad

I've done a number of humiliating things in the name of service.

1. I served a mission.
2. I've danced as a Corny Collins' dancer at East Mill Creek park in front of the general public.
3. I've taken swing dancing lessons.
4. I've choreographed dance numbers for many teenagers who have no interest in dancing.
5. I've performed Rindercella at the ward picnic.
6. I've taught a number of gospel doctrine lessons that I learned alienated potential friends from whom I learned later that because of those lessons, they thought I was "snobby."
7. Did I mention I served a mission? Because on that mission while I was training a companion from Marseille, France, I took her bus contacting. I spent the whole ride enthusiastically greeting people and talking to the cute little old ladies who entered. When we got off the bus, my companion turned to me and said, "I want to go home. You looked like you were handicapped."

I've been okay doing all these things. I think people wonder if I enjoy it. Let me go on record and say, no, I don't like singing tone-deaf versions of "Oh Come All Ye Faithful" to large audiences of critical Quebecois. I thought I didn't care what people thought about me enough that I could spout out spoonerisms in the name of building Zion. But the last 24 hours have taught me that I do care, a little.

Tyler and I were put in charge of the dancing portion of our ward Christmas party. Last year, cute Russ Ence taught this adorable Christmas line dance which ended with everyone spontaneously breaking out into waltzing around the gym. The organizer of last year's event wanted the same spontaneity. Only he wanted me to plan it. And he wanted me to plan it to occur right as people had just filled their plates and sat down to eat.

I was the ward Christmas party sacrificial lamb.

Tyler was asked to MC the slaughter. He announced that the dancing portion of the evening will begin, and, recognizing that this might be difficult for people, given that they just began eating and had no desire to get up, invited specific people to join us, among them, Jared Johnsen, Mark De St. Aubin, and Russ Ence. Now you should know, I've seen from this collective group of men Zac Ephron impersonations involving dancing and lip-syncing to "Get Your Head in the Game," Joseph Smith speeches to gas station attendants, spontaneous Arnold Schwarzenegger impressions during testimony meeting, and heckling of the stake patriarch.

NO ONE CAME TO SAVE US.

Tyler and I line-danced BY OURSELVES for 4 minutes 28 seconds. People avoided my eyes. Friends pretended they didn't know me. One person booed. Not even the person who organized the event came up to join us.

I missed the Hammers.

And then, AND THEN, we were to lead everyone in a "spontaneous" couples dance. After our previous display, everyone remained glued to their seats. So Tyler and I showed off our pathetic swing dancing skills (skills that I acquired because I was asked to build Zion by choreographing a swing number for the unwilling teenagers) because swing dancing was easier than slow dancing in front of several hundred people. We didn't do it at our wedding. Last night wasn't the time either.

Afterward, in the nursing lounge of the bathroom, I discovered that tears are the instinctual reaction to humiliation. They just come.

This morning I read the blog entry of my dear friend whose 2-year-old daughter has been diagnosed with leukemia. They shaved her head this week and after the last of her thinning but silky locks fell to the pillow, she reached up to her head, touched her newly bald pate and said, "I want my hair back."

Some people give more than me. I can offer my dignity on the altar of the Lord.

While I'm Downright Embarrassed That I've Read Every Word of Her Testimony

Can we all agree that Elizabeth Smart is the most beautifully dressed 23-year-old around?

Men Are From Mars . . .

I made spaghetti squash with marinara sauce for dinner tonight. I thought it was delicious. My family disagreed. Asher spent most of the meal scooping the squash out of the bowl and placing it in what seemed strategic places around his high chair. Talmage took one bite and then devoted his energy to convincing Daddy to try it. "You'll like it, Daddy. It's actually really good! It's crunchy!" After the second bite he decided that he changed his mind, and could he have some Halloween candy instead? Tyler muscled his way through the main dish, and then ate six pieces of buttered toast.

"Is it okay?" I asked.

"It's okay" he responded.

"Should I make it again?"

"No."

I mentioned the meal and it's dismal failure to sister Marissa. "See?" she pointed out. "That's the difference between men and women. A woman will think, 'I wonder how I can cut 400 calories out of this meal?' and then spaghetti squash seems a surprisingly delicious option. Men just aren't used to sacrificing taste for the greater good of health and nutrition." This line of thinking brought many things into sharp reality. For example, Tyler looks adorable in a baseball cap, but never wears them because they feel a little bit "itchy."

To which I respond, try heels. Or even if you're not a person who wears heels, try women's pants, and then attempt to ask me condescendingly, "Why don't you just carry your wallet in your pocket?" Those pockets are for show, man! A grocery store receipt wouldn't fit in there. Or while we're on the subject, how about bras? There's no comfort in an underwire, especially after you add a layer of Gs under there.

And I can already hear Tyler's response: "You know what we don't eat enough of? Pizza. Pizza is delicious. Oooh! What about potato chips? Potato. Corn oil. What's not to like? Or maybe just a star value meal from Carl's Jr? Yes, I'll take two, please."

If you need me, I'll be over here in my stilettos eating my squash.

Wishing You a Spooky Halloween

Do you ever wonder if sexy Halloween costume advertising is where the women end up who didn't ace their modeling classes?



There, there, French maid. You'll get there someday.

Giving the People What They Want. At Least the Sally and Laura People.

The following is a list of items I served Asher for breakfast this morning.

1. Bowl of syrup
2. Eggy bread made to dip in that syrup
3. Cheerios, milk, spoon (these each get mentioned individually because he asked for them individually)
4. Handful of Rice Chex
5. Graham crackers
6. Bowl of frozen fruit
7. Smoothie
8. Cup of milk
9. Bowl of marinara sauce
10. Bread for dipping in that marinara sauce

The following is a list of items that Asher actually ate for breakfast this morning.
1. Bowl of syrup

Not only did he eat the syrup, he completely ignored the eggy bread I made to dip in it, so he dug his pudgy fingers into the syrup and smeared the mess in his mouth, on his cheeks, and in his hair. In fact, when I lifted him out of his chair, he stuck to the tray in front of him and I had to pull with a good amount of force. The sticky sound he made as he separated from the seat was impressive.

Now, I'll admit I'm kind of judging myself for indulging him. I mean, what kind of mother makes four different meals for one child, including tomato sauce for breakfast? A poor one, one whose child is going to walk all over her and who will facilitate his drug habit when he's a teenager. She should read some books. Or at least listen to Dr. Phil more.

Then the indignant mother in me gets mad at the judging mother in me and says, "Nu, uh!" You give me a screaming child and I'll patiently ignore that child for YEARS. I've got nerves of STEEL. I can so no with the BEST of them. I pride myself on my tantrum ignoring abilities. I laugh in the face of child anger. But here's the thing. I taught Asher to say please. And it's pretty much the cutest thing ever. Truck full of puppies? Not even close. Baby in a chicken costume with chunky thighs sticking out? We're getting there, but not quite. And I defy any mother to look at Asher with his superfluous band-aids on his face because he wanted them and cottage cheese matted all through his very fine baby hair and hear "More. Cheese. Please?" and say no.

It can't be done. Fatty babies gotta eat, am I right?

And now it just clicked. This is why Scott is Deirdre's favorite. He was just that cute.

I'm raising Scott Paulsen.

Just Finished Mockingjay . . .

All I can think is how truly unfortunate the name Peeta is. Particularly for the son of a baker. It's almost as bad as if she'd named him Bun.

Asherese (ash-er-eez): A One Year Old's Lexicon

Asher can say roughly 18 words:

1. Uh-Oh
2. Dad
3. Cup
4. Button
5. Poop
6. Spoon
7. Book
8. Mmm
9. Moo
10. Quack
11. Woof
12. Roar
13. Kiss
14. Cracker
15. Keys
16. Dance
17. Up

And sometimes, but very rarely

18. Mom

However, these translate into about 5 sounds. For example, "bup" could mean one of several things. "Bup" translates as "cup," "button," or "up" and is not to be confused with "Boop" which could mean at any given time "spoon," "poop," or "book." "Ma," could mean, "I want food" or "The cow says," but means "Mom" so seldomly you can pretty much rule that option out. A guttural "Kkk" is either "cracker" or "keys" and sometimes "quack" meaning duck or any animal or object that moves around.

"Dad" always means Dad. And we've learned that Asher thinks about Dad roughly 83% of the day. It's kind of adorable.

Navigating the English language has proven difficult for both Asher and I. So Asher has resorted to the extremes of human emotion in order to communicate. Here's an actual transcription of a conversation we had earlier in the week. Keep in mind that I can't type in the full symphonic range of his joy and alternate misery (at least not at the decible he voices it), so I'm electing to translate his responses into grown-up language:

Mom: "Asher would you like a grape?"

Asher: "I would very much like that grape! That grape would make me very happy! In fact, I can imagine very few pleasures available in life that would make me happier than that grape! Maybe if we could nurse again--I think I'd like that too--but outside of that, I think a grape would be perfection! So I'm going to express my joy and happiness by my squeals of pleasure and delight. Did you hear that? That adorable laughter? That is my excitement for the grape I am about to receive!"

Mom: "How about a strawberry?"

Asher: "Are you kidding me? A strawberry? What in your prior experience would tell you I like strawberries? Maybe the strawberries I devoured earlier this morning? Well that is OLD NEWS, my friend. This is now and I strongly oppose strawberries. You know how some people feel about child labor and apartheid? Well, THAT is exactly how I feel about strawberries. I frown on you and your strawberry offering ways. Let me arch my back and head butt you to communicate how much that strawberry offends me and my morals. What, you think Nelson Mandela was above a little head butt? Well he would have done, ma'am, if you had offered him such an insolent fruit. In fact, while I think about it, your nose DOESN'T look distinguished, it's just bumpy. So there."

We're both looking forward a more communicative time.

If I End Up in the Telestial Kingdom, I'm Blaming the Digital Revolution

I can't get a signal for conference on my TV. Curse you HDTV!

In the meantime, do I really have no immmediate family members who read and would like to continue reading this blog? I've been sorely misled.

Don't You Hate When You See This Message on People's Blogs? Me too.

One of my mother's greatest talents is that she believes her children are very smart. This doesn't necessarily mean they are very smart. But she is certain that her children are more intelligent than all the other children. As a child, I trusted her, which meant I believed I was very smart, too. And somehow, whether it was due to my own ability or the confidence in my ability bestowed to me by my mother, I did well in school.

Similarly, my mom has always known I was an excellent writer. I remember once in high school lying on my bed reading a book--probably A Tree Grows in Brooklyn or Dicey's Song--and hearing my mom shout up a flight of stairs, "LAURA!! Come downstairs IMMEDIATELY!!!" I raced down the stairs, panicked that her office was on fire, or that the computer had exploded, or, at the very least, she had run out of Diet Dr. Pepper. "What!?" I exclaimed bursting into the basement. "You're going to win Reflections!" she announced, joyfully handing me the entry form.

I did win the Reflections contest.

But I'm not sure that I loved writing. I just believed my mom that I was good at it. My best friend Shelley spent hours chronicling her thoughts, her feelings flowing through images that leave me pondering them fifteen years later. (She still does.) Shelley loved to write. I envied her. I didn't love to write. My mom just knew I was good at it. Something felt a little false, rang a little hollow. My writing was a breach of integrity.

In college I grew satisfied with my writing. I still sent essays to my mom--academic essays balanced with logos, pathos, and ethos so that I could convince my audience of the correctness of my argument, that Mrs. Freake and Baby Mary was fraught with Puritan propaganda, or that the fine arts museum was truly the best place to display Navajo baskets. I hated gutting through a five, ten, twenty-page essay, but in the end I felt what my mom felt, that I had written well. And that, though it wasn't quite as honest as loving writing, was something I could be proud of.

This blog, this little space I've carved out in the internet world, has made an honest woman out of me. I still write for my mom, because sometimes I need to believe that I'm an excellent writer, better than all the other internet writers, though I don't think that's true. But now I write for a whole host of people. I write for Chelle, a tangential turned good friend who I know mostly through writing. If I run into her at the store tomorrow, I will smile and we will say hi, but on our blogs, we share with each other whatever ideas are taking up space in our heads. I write for my cousin Kari, who was my older and elegant relation who I didn't really know, but admired. But through our blogs, I feel she knows me better now, and now I know her. I write for that unnamed guy I went out with a couple times in college who I wonder from time to time how he's doing, and think that if he wonders from time to time how I'm doing, he can find out here. I write for people I know. I write for people I little know. I write for people I don't know at all.

This blog has made me love to write.

Tyler is going to be a principal this fall. (Insert celebratory band music here.) With all the recent education on the news, we've started to realize that he's now a public figure. As brother-in-law Scott R. pointed out, a perusal of our recent blog posts could yield mild child pornography, a tribute to guy love, me filming while driving, and a whole bunch of rather personal stuff that probably shouldn't be made known to the public at large. So despite my desires to the contrary, we're making this blog private.

I know I flatter myself by thinking that there are actually people who read this blog. But if you do read this blog, I'd love for you to continue reading this blog. If you are Chelle, Kari, or the guy I went on a couple dates with in college, let me know. If you are one of those people I know, one of those people I little know, or one of those people I don't know at all, I'd love to still share my thoughts. Either leave your name and email address attached to this post, or if you feel uncomfortable publishing your email address on the world wide web, send me an email at lauraphowe@gmail.com.

And if you're my mom, I'll add you, too. Because I still need to believe I'm a good writer.

If You Think This Email Exchange Is Funny, You're Probably a Paulsen

Friendly Ward Member: Just a reminder for the Breakfast with the Bishopric activity on March 6th at 9am in the church Gym. Will each of you make a list of 10 fun facts about you that we can use in a get to know you game? I need the list as soon as you can get to it. Thank you all!

Dad: I don’t think there are any fun facts in my character. What would you suggest?

Laura: Loves to read, but only nonfiction. The only fiction I can remember him ever reading is Harry Potter.
Has run everyday of his life since he was 25.
Is allergic to peanuts.
Believes water while exercising is for wusses.
Is 1/2 Norwegian.
That grumpy look on his face? It's only for show.
Can muscle his way through just about any food. Expired milk? Sure. Just not the peanuts.
Loves to hike and backpack. And read while he's resting.
Has no interest in fashion, whatsoever.
Only owns black socks.
Loves his daughter Laura the most.

Sean:I think he also read Eragon.
Is occasionally whimsical, albeit in an unvarying way: "See you in the funny papers!"
Has gone so far as to voluntarily take a day or two off work at his own initiative on the holidays instead of being told to do it by his wife or forced by the hand of fate in the form of a wedding or a funeral.
Skis old school on long boards (impresses the crusty oldster ski bums at Alta)
Used to read while freeway driving until it dawned on him that it just might not comply with either common sense or the subtle nuances of the legal code.
His favorite t-shirt reads, "So many books, so little time."
His favorite t-shirt should read, "Engineers do it in CAD first" or possibly "You know you're an engineer if you have no life and can prove it mathematically"
Loves his semi-beautiful daughter Laura.

Scott: Once offered to mortgage the house to help finance his oldest daughter's college education.
Actually did have to mortgage the house to finance youngest daughter's college education.

Thoughts While Doing Wednesday Night Dishes

Citrus roast chicken,
mesquite barbeque pork loin,
peppers
zucchini
red onions and
squash,
all oiled and salted and
dripping
dripping
dripping
their juices and fat
down to the bottom of this roasting pan where it
bakes.
Here I am
scraping and
scraping and
scraping and
flaking minute little pieces of charcoaly food,
wondering aloud,
Isn't my life
worth more than this pan
another of which I could probably purchase
from Williams Sonoma
or Home Goods
or Smiths?

To One Who is In North Carolina. Or Maybe It's New York. I'm Not Really Sure and That Pains Me.

Dear Shelley:

I'm sorry to tell you that my husband doesn't like pickles. He is, however, very much like we imagined our husbands to be. He is fine, and he is handsome, and he treats me very well. He is not the twin of your husband, something I distantly recall being in the plan. My two sons, however, both adore pickles, and that came as a bit of a shock. At least it was a shock in Asher's case after I plopped a pickle down on his high chair tray when he grunted for it for a solid five minutes. "There. Let's see how you like that," I condescended with all the confidence of a mother who knows how things would turn out. Because mothers ALWAYS know how things will turn out. I was wrong.

Has it ever occured to you that the best parts of our friendship have always been written? When we've been distant, it was always a letter that reminded me how much of me you formed. Or it was a journal entry that you trustingly shared with me that let me know how deeply you cared about whatever it was you cared about. Or it was a late night tome that we addressed to some kid in Vermont that you met at the Hill Cumorah pageant. Who else gets hyper and then decides to write letters? No one. That's the truth.

And now you have two children that I barely know and one I don't know at all. Most of the time this is okay, because Tyler is now my best friend, as I know Matt is yours. It is good to have husbandly best friends. But there's just something about the original, you know? The best friend you imagine when you see the broken-in-two best-friend heart necklace and think, I should give this to my BEST friend. Or the best friend you imagine when you want someone to talk you into going rollerskating; because that's what best friends do. Or the best friend you imagine when you want to write a blog post to your best friend. Somehow I don't see Tyler wearing the heart necklace.

You and I are bad and being friends at a distance. There. I said it. But you know what? I've been improving myself lately. I aced day one of cleaning my kitchen nightly, and I've written three daily blog posts in a row. So I think I'm ready to give it a try. I am very sorry for ten years of distance. Will you forgive me the letters I didn't write you on my mission and the letters I didn't write you on yours? Will you forgive me the correspondence I failed to keep up while you were in Manhatten falling in love with your husband? Will you forgive me the questions I never put in to email when we were trying to figure out how to be mothers? Will you forgive me the cards of sympathy I didn't send when Matthew was in the hospital with botilism?

Otherwise, I'll continue thinking of you everytime I open up a jar of pickles. Because one really needs a best friend who loves pickles.

Love,

Laura

So I'm Gonna Blog More. It's Still Not a New Year's Resolution.

I was never so beautiful as I was in Brazil.

I like to think I'm pretty attractive. I'm tall. My nailbeds are stunning. I have blue eyes and blond hair. (Despite what my hair looks like in my new profile picture. Marissa called me at 10:00 last night and said, "I was nervous to call you late, but it was an EMERGENCY. Did you dye your hair reddish brown?" Nope. It was a trick of the light.) Blue eyes and blond hair work pretty well for me, much like they work for 78% of the Utah population.

But in southern Brazil, where I lived for four months after I graduated from high school, blue eyes and blond hair were downright HOT. I was the most attractive person the Brazilians had ever seen outside of the movies. Scratch that, I was maybe the most attractive person the Brazilians had ever seen, inside OR outside the movies. That attractability earned me and my little sister Marissa (who also has blue eyes and blond hair) all sorts of ardent admirers.

That ardent admiration was expressed primarily through loud catcalls from passing cars. Marissa and I ran in the morning to the tune of "I lovee you." Only slightly less ardent was the other profession of undying devotion: "The book is on the table." Every Brazilian took an English class in school and they all know that (even though they don't remember any other English) if the earth collides into the sun, that book will still be on the table. And also, they know that if you ever run into a blond-haired, blue-eyed American, shouting "The book is on the table," maybe accompanied by a few Anglo expletives, will guarantee your way into her heart.



Don't you feel both beautiful and wooed?

My New Year's Ruminations

So, I'm typing this while sitting in my living room, staring at my mantlepiece with the letters N O E L displayed proudly. These festive greetings are surrounded by glittery bows and gold and red baubles. Hanging from the mantle are four green and red stockings. One for Daddy, one for Mommy, one for Talmage, and one for Asher. There is also a basket of Christmas books. And a large Santa Claus.

And you know what? I have no immediate plans to take the decorations down.

The tree went down December 26. That is because the tree died circa November 28. Tyler has a tally of trees I keep alive vs. trees I kill. The way he figures, I've got one more year before he nips the fire hazard in the bud and buys a fake tree. The way I figure, Santa Claus will be placing a lump of coal in his stocking. But of course that threat looses it's teeth when it's January 20. Which brings us back to my original point: It's January 20 and I still haven't undecorated my house.

On a semi-related note, I didn't make New Years Resolutions this year. Not that I don't believe in change, because I do. Is it arrogant to say that I'm pretty satisfied with my life right now? I feel like I achieved a pretty good balance this year and I'm satisfied with my health habits, my spiritual habits, and my mothering habits. That my be the first time in my life I can really say that. Well, now that I think about it, I could probably make better goals in my serving others habits. And maybe some better dog-owner habits. Perhaps I could establish better wifely habits. My housekeeping habits could always use some work. I guess I could blog a little more frequently.

And maybe I could take down the Christmas decorations. But you know what? For tonight I going to choose to be satisfied. I'm going to embrace this Wednesday night when I feel balanced. I might even put on a little "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." I'll talk to you about the ornaments come February.