Today is the Best Holiday of All The Happy Holidays

I'll be expecting your Happy Half-Birthday wishes sometime in the next 14 hours.

Aquarium

So Instead of President A. Talmage Howe, Look for President Asher D. Howe Circa 2070.

Talmage has just picked up a swearing habit. He says "Oh my gosh," ONLY HE DOESN'T SAY GOSH. I'm not sure where this comes from, as neither Tyler nor I swear. I'm blaming society.

Asher, on the other hand, can accurately identify Jesus in any painting of the Savior. Even if it's a picture of Christ with the twelve apostles, he'll appropriately point to the right figure and say "Jeezzz!" I also have no idea where he learned this. But I'm pretty sure I'm going to take credit for it.

The Trans-Siberian Orchestra and the Howes

Because I'm Asher's Favorite

Asher's cutest quality is that he absolutely worships his dad. I have no bias in saying that. When I walk through the door, he shrieks "Dad!" with as much gusto as you would expect the average person to shout "Fire!" given the right set of circumstances.

Being Asher's favorite has it's good points and it's bad points. On the good side, Asher will always start the day happily if I get him out of his crib instead of Laura, he reaches for me to snuggle when he is hurt or sad, and he does that joyous shriek thing every time I enter the room. On the bad side, he would like to make sure all things that belong to Daddy are taken to Daddy.

This is rather cute when Asher wants to bring me my wallet and keys. My watch, glasses, and shoes are alright with me as well. But lately, Asher has started to bring me things I would probably prefer he didn't. And so, on that note, here are the top three worst Asher-to-Daddy deliveries of the month:

3. As I was walking up the stairs, I heard a big thump on the hardwood floor. By the time I reached the top of the stairs, Asher greeted me clutching my Mac laptop to his cheek and saying, "Dad!"

2. A few weeks ago I was completely drugged up on Nyquil and asleep in bed. I believe I was awoken by a similar loud bang on the hardwood floor, but I'm certain I was awake to hear Asher's footsteps and the dragging of a heavy object. Asher entered the bedroom saying, "Dad!" and lugging behind him my $3,000+ camera.

1. Just this morning I was in charge of the two boys alone, and I decided to slip into the shower. I was only in there a few moments before I rinsed the soap from my eyes to see Asher sticking my iPad through the shower curtain, smiling, and repeating, "Dad!"

So, I have the unconditional adoration of a 21-month old and a soaking-wet iPad.

But, the iPad still works . . . God bless those Mac people.

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.

And Laura Didn't Want Me To Stop For The Photo . . .

Alright, you have until Friday to vote for the correct picture (#4 . . . of course). And, feel free to vote on as many different computers as you possibly can.

Cast your vote at: KSL Live 5 Weather Calendar Photo Contest

By the way, if you don't think the fourth picture is the best, you are excused from voting.

Pray For Him

Tyler is against the medical profession at large. You'd think this would be awkward, considering the fact that both of my brothers are doctors and my brother-in-law is studying to become a doctor. You'd be right.

No, truthfully Tyler trusts my brothers. AND THAT'S IT. He trusts no other medical professional, from the pediatrician who saw him as a child to your neighbor's doula. This has to do with the expense and the HMOs and the fact that you can't compare prices of services and the way they make him feel like an idiot and blah, blah, blah.

I can pinpoint this feeling of his to the doctor's visit he made about a year after we got married. Tyler had a blister on his foot, which he popped. The blister then got infected so he went to the BYU Medical Center, where the doctor told him you shouldn't pop blisters. Tyler pointed out that since it was all red and pussy now, shouldn't he pop it and get the pus out? The doctor thought about it, and said, sure, you might as well. Here, I'll do it for you.

We received a bill for $220 for "incision and drainage."

Tyler took the moral of the story to be "Doctors are evil." I took the moral of the story to be "Tyler and I are idiots for not checking to see whether our new insurance covers the BYU Medical Center."

I can pinpoint my mistrust of Tyler's medical experience to our current doctor who Tyler saw over the summer for a sore throat. Let me preface this story by saying we very carefully selected this doctor based on the fact that he was available at 10:00 that Wednesday. Tyler told him his throat hurt really bad and that his son had just tested positive for strep. The strep test came back negative, but his doctor gave him something for the pain.

Lortab. The doctor prescribed Lortab for a scratchy throat.

This time, because the doctor didn't diagnose a treatable disease, Tyler took the moral of the story to be "Doctors are evil." I took the moral of the story to be "Now we know which doctor to go to when Tyler develops an addiction to prescription painkillers."

Tyler also distrusts medicines in all forms. Because, clearly, "they don't do anything." He reserves two exceptions: Nyquil and ice cream. Somewhere along the line I was trying to get him to stay home from work and told him he needed to rest and let his body heal itself. He still doesn't stay home from work, but the second he gets home he takes Nyquil to induce a coma-like state and sleeps every minute possible. Whatever bronchitis or pneumonia he's got right now he's battled with 12 fluid ounces of the green stuff. He sent me back to the store for another large bottle of cherry. I made sure he realized he couldn't take Nyquil more than four times a day, and he said, "That's only if you want to avoid severe liver damage." SEVERE LIVER DAMAGE. A condition, once he's got it, that will go untreated because he refuses to see a doctor.

The ice cream as a medical necessity has even less logic behind it, but Tyler's convinced it's the only thing in the WORLD that has any chance of soothing his throat/chest congestion/sore wrist/whatever hurts right now. All I know is that he's made his way through a quart of Mint Chocolate Chip and Dreyer's Specialty Egg Nog and is ready for the Cookies n' Cream I bought today.

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?

Soccer 2010

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.

Halloween 2010

He's a Pirate

The Real World from Talmage's Perspective

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.

Books. A Whole Lot of Them.

I'll be the first to admit this collection of thoughts on books I've read isn't nearly as good as previous reviews.



So very many conflicting thoughts on this book. First of all, it was amazing. Hands down incredible. I wish I were closer to the novel (that I hadn't read it 4 months ago) so I could comment more intelligently on its super incredibleness. I remember my thoughts at the time were of women and men as they control society. I loved the scenes where the women looked to the men to see whether things were okay. Not to the circumstances, but to how the men were handling the circumstances. This acknowledgement didn't seem a position of weakness, but rather recognizing that when the men stopped handling life, it would be the woman's role to then handle life for them. I thought about how I react to life, and realized that I, too, often react more to how Tyler reacts to life rather than life itself.

I loved the description of Ma Joad and her role as a mother:

She seemed to know, to accept, to welcome her position, the citadel of the family, the strong place that could not be taken. And since Tom and the children could not know hurt or fear unless she acknowledged hurt and fear, she has practiced denying them in herself. And since, when a joyful thing happened, they looked to see whether joy was on her, it was her habit to build up laughter out of inadequate materials […] from position as healer, her hands had grown sure and cool and quiet; from her position as arbiter she had become as remote and faultless in judgment as a goddess. She seemed to know that if she swayed the family shook, and if she ever really deeply wavered or despaired the family would fall, the family will to function would be gone.

These two thoughts served as the thesis for me (and I'm sure this is the meaning I drew out of the book because I am both a woman and a mother); that the terror of the government, the terror of the depression served to break society, to break the men involved in the story. I didn't have much confidence in the success of Tom's mission by the end of the novel, and even the sacrifice of Jim Casey (the Jesus Christ figure) didn't accomplish much in the immediate narrative (although, you could argue, it had a huge effect on the great big giant audience who rallied around the novel) but the women held the "fambly" together. The final scene seemed to indicate two things for me: one, when a young woman nurses an old man, conventions of society have been completely destroyed, but two, in that situation of utter moral and economic devastation, it is the women who are able to sustain, to succor, to make endure.

My other thoughts were that I need to read more happy books. I just kept thinking, "Can't they just get to California and be depressed already? I know this is not going to end well, and I've got 400 more pages of it not ending well."

That said, by the end I was satisfied in my disappointment.



I can't remember any specific thoughts I had, but I did hear that the movie of this ends before the children grow up, and I thought that would make the story far more tragic than the book. I thought the story was resolved through the daughter, whose name I can't remember at the moment.

Also, that Meggie's first husband is a jerk. I'd even go so far as to say jerkface.



This book changed my life. At least the way I eat.

For such a big statement, you'd think I'd have more to say, right? Not tonight. But I am giving an enrichment lesson on nutrition next Thursday, so maybe I'll digest my thoughts and post after that.

But everyone should definitely read this book.



This book was cute and was fun to read since I've always looked at quilting as a hobby I admire other people doing, but have never really felt pushed to pick up myself. I haven't really felt pushed to pick up the rest of the series.



Continued changing my life. Read the book. It will liberate you. And stay away from gogurts.



This book is one reason I have serious regrets about not staying up-to-date on my blog. This book needed some breakdown, some digestion, and this blog would have been the perfect place to do it. So if you've read the book, call me. Let's figure some things out. Except I might have to reread the book first to remember.



I've already proclaimed my love for Richard Russo on this blog, and he didn't disappoint me with this latest novel, but it wasn't quite as earth shaking as my favorite books by him, namely Bridge of Sighs and Straight Man. He did get me thinking about perspectives, and the fact that how we view a situation like a marriage or a family member might be completely different from how someone else might view that same situation. Ah, those sticky paradigms.

I do love a good unreliable narrator.



What is it about teen lit that would make someone leave the Grand America at 7:30 in the morning before their husband wakes up on her 8th anniversary to drive around the city looking for an open bookstore to buy the final book in a series because they just need to know how it ends?

Purely hypothetical, of course.

Target. Target was open. On 7200 S. A whole long ways away from the Grand America.



I reread parts of this book 4 or 5 times. It was like I was reading Twilight. Take that teen lit.



You know how I love me some Gregory Maguire.

This is the first book by him, however, that I liked as much as Wicked. I liked the thought that we view ourselves through the perspectives of others until we get enough independence and identity to view ourselves though our own perspective. I also loved the historical context of the 1400s. There was some great intrigue at the time, enough to produce a thoroughly despicable wicked Queen.

For the record, I'd feel much more comfortable recommending this book than I would Wicked.

I Expected Him to Notice, Just Not Until He Was a Teenager

"Mom, did you take forgetting lessons? Cause you're really good at it."

Cornbelly's Part 2

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.

Eight Years and Counting

"Tyler, do you love me as much as Jim loves Pam?"

"I don't know. Jim sure loves Pam a lot."