tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48122338399268044122024-02-01T22:00:36.516-07:00Occidentally WestMr. Christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13553466109570555839noreply@blogger.comBlogger249125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-12644973142451672982015-05-13T21:40:00.001-06:002015-05-13T21:40:30.053-06:00Multiple versions of Joseph Smith's 1st Vision<a href="http://boingboing.net/2015/05/13/how-to-interrogate-someone.html">This article</a> on getting the truth from an interrogation could be an explanation for why there are different versions of Joseph Smith's first vision.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
In contrast to what most people believe, truth tellers are more likely to add details and revise their stories over time, whereas liars tend to keep their stories the same. “Inconsistency is really just a fundamental aspect of the way memory works,” Meissner says.</blockquote>
Mr. Christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13553466109570555839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-47255732848185779502015-01-01T19:34:00.000-07:002015-01-01T20:09:41.299-07:00The Great Shift of 2014<i>So we haven't written on this blog in years, and we may never do it again. But we had some thoughts to share, we wanted to send out a New Year's card, and this is an easy way to do both. (We want to be Christmas card senders, but after this many years, let's face it—we're not). Enjoy.</i><br />
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<br />
At the start of 2014, the Wests were in a bit of a funk.<br />
<br />
We planned to move to Ecuador—you know, get away from it all, away from Christopher’s ridiculous commute, away from Kathy’s schedule-juggling. The exchange rate’s lower in Ecuador and the weather’s great.<br />
<br />
But before we booked flights, someone brilliant gave us insight:<br />
<br />
<b>You carry your story with you wherever you go. </b><br />
<br />
Go to Ecuador, sure, but not with a story of frustration and escape. Figure out what you’re trying to leave first, meet it, create the new story you want right here so the successful, happy story can follow you to another hemisphere.<br />
<br />
So we did. We spent two summer weeks on serious introspection—and a dash of therapy.<br />
<br />
And things opened up.<br />
<br />
Christopher got a new job teaching science at an amazing classical education charter school. He reaches the end of most days tired, fulfilled, and smiling.<br />
<br />
Kathy loves the new place we moved to, with a cozy spot to continue working remotely for the same company she has for several years.<br />
<br />
Our little sweetie met friends at her new Montessori preschool. She responded to an important milestone in every child’s life with tears and grace (receiving her first threat to not be invited to someone else’s birthday party).<br />
<br />
As we head into a brand new year, we invite you to examine the story you believe about your life.<br />
And if you don’t like it, consider telling a new one.<br />
<br />
Happy New Year.<br />
The Wests<br />
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PS. Some of our 2014 highlights:<br />
<ul>
<li>Christopher performed stand-up comedy at many venues—including intermission at a roller derby, where they cut his mic because the sound was bad and they mistakenly believed he was making fun of pregnant women. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Kathy enjoyed doing some readings around Phoenix town and especially loved reading a true story about her Mormon mission at an event in LA that had the theme “Bondage.” </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Our girl took swim lessons and performed in her first dance recital and discovered that she cannot get her parents to do what she wants by saying that Jesus told her that we should. </li>
</ul>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-23885187341467747222012-06-04T08:24:00.000-06:002012-06-05T14:49:48.533-06:00the state we're in<br />
I've never taken heat stroke or homesickness very seriously. <br />
<br />
But a week or so ago, Claire was bawling behind me in her bike trailer. And I pedaled away—dizzy, nauseous, the works. One of us was probably going to pass out before we got home, so I found a place to stop: a cafe/bakery where people park their BMW's and pop
in for drinks, professional-looking omelettes, and designer cupcakes.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkCl5ToKCEbVxAJNvQ_oAOyZ9QSt4NvCLTKBH6GbhpPm_Gxva1TMCvYucPRqj9OdN9xeXnHQ02hRkgCYqYo_KoYFPPqZnJjkXq1kb1MgqIE-kzp2S6RlcKoZAzqLO945-__tZ4SsCeW3k/s1600/DSC_1105.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkCl5ToKCEbVxAJNvQ_oAOyZ9QSt4NvCLTKBH6GbhpPm_Gxva1TMCvYucPRqj9OdN9xeXnHQ02hRkgCYqYo_KoYFPPqZnJjkXq1kb1MgqIE-kzp2S6RlcKoZAzqLO945-__tZ4SsCeW3k/s400/DSC_1105.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the trail where i often ride my bike with a little girl in tow.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I went inside, hot, sweaty, carrying a sobbing toddler in a princess swimsuit (the only clothes she agreed to wear that day). Since anything birthday-related makes her happy, I ordered a cupcake and the tallest glass of water in the place.<br />
<br />
Did I want the red velvet or the ooey gooey? I told the cashier I didn't care.<br />
<br />
Which color did I want? I didn't care.<br />
<br />
Did I want a box or
a plate? <i>"I don't care. The baby doesn't care. Just give me a cupcake and water."</i><br />
<br />
Does heat exhaustion make you louder than
normal? <br />
<br />
I refilled my glass six times before we left. When we got home, I went inside and lay on the floor until my hands stopped shaking.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFkvq0EWrVAlQ2je7PNuovQs1GWVZpIQjFOC0QwFd6TB3mYch04vj_hnXU822rsF_vRx1u1QrP78K9qmjQKAKSeRtSf4M-gixucRE2UJCbcsGDNIVcD4_QBH23ySSUcoEp1NasGg3Up1A/s1600/DSC_0050.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFkvq0EWrVAlQ2je7PNuovQs1GWVZpIQjFOC0QwFd6TB3mYch04vj_hnXU822rsF_vRx1u1QrP78K9qmjQKAKSeRtSf4M-gixucRE2UJCbcsGDNIVcD4_QBH23ySSUcoEp1NasGg3Up1A/s320/DSC_0050.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">even when hiking, the princess swimsuit is her outfit of choice. sigh.</td></tr>
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We were fine—after all, cupcakes were involved.<br />
<br />
But the whole adventure felt worse than it should have since it happened on the way back from a play group where the kids pushed my
daughter out, no matter how many times she blew kisses and said, "Hi, friends." A play group where I tried to connect with other moms, but just had a series of awkward conversations (which is not rare for me, but bums me out anyway).<br />
<br />
So I wrote a blog post that I didn't publish. I sounded whiny and tired, without realizing that the problem wasn't heat stroke or play groups or feeling like a sweaty hobo in a fancy bakery.<br />
<br />
The problem was that everything here is always new right now.<br />
<br />
And for one minute, I just needed the familiar, the comfortable, the worn-in. (*)<br />
<br />
Thank goodness Christopher's brother decided to get married. Best excuse for a road trip ever, no matter how short.<br />
<br />
We hadn't even seen anyone yet when we arrived on a stretch of I-15 that I've driven at least a thousand times. Is it odd that a certain turn in a road could feel like home? Because it did. Plus, the weather was cool enough to wear my favorite sweater.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ai9teSR60VCwthXcsJIiBjNZ5_XB2GxreTHAtxlMPKp2hQMh2zdN4RveUsmfuVKt8b-fDZQzlBxS4Dow1JivDi3DKM5iuH6cP7SCVW8z4LpFfYK0LmE933WIG7HaG7xoExf2TOuvrlM/s1600/DSC_0088.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ai9teSR60VCwthXcsJIiBjNZ5_XB2GxreTHAtxlMPKp2hQMh2zdN4RveUsmfuVKt8b-fDZQzlBxS4Dow1JivDi3DKM5iuH6cP7SCVW8z4LpFfYK0LmE933WIG7HaG7xoExf2TOuvrlM/s400/DSC_0088.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">no sign of heat stroke here.</td></tr>
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We're back in AZ. Today's temp should hit 103. The little one and I are going out on the bike again. And I have a feeling there will be no heat stroke or homesick stories to tell this time.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Update: No heat stroke stories to speak of. It was hot, but wonderful. Claire played with a girl her age who shared her Elmo and gave her a hug. And I talked to an amazing mom about the emotional and mental space that creativity requires.)</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*I don't doubt that this place will become the familiar one soon.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Christopher started a new hobby that I'm not allowed to tell you about yet.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">And I discovered a poet (!) who lives across the street. </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-45418631418824407362012-05-02T22:36:00.002-06:002012-05-02T22:36:27.174-06:00cute claireClaire had some difficulty adjusting to AZ. Our first week here, she decided to not sleep in her bed.<br />
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Claire generally refuses to wear clothes, including diapers. She is much happier if she gets to pick the outfit. I think you'll agree, we have a stylish baby:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN1unHoCVHlc52dEslj_fzRam-On4thcOSq3xaA2_mHPb9Y5vnSPxngazd4iby3kW1pV4uioucLMZtokR2UCKY951V1m3oT_kYOI6jxgYnYb8cg2kWaShZjIgKnmvXS_Th8v2O5RiRwfM/s1600/DSC_0021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN1unHoCVHlc52dEslj_fzRam-On4thcOSq3xaA2_mHPb9Y5vnSPxngazd4iby3kW1pV4uioucLMZtokR2UCKY951V1m3oT_kYOI6jxgYnYb8cg2kWaShZjIgKnmvXS_Th8v2O5RiRwfM/s320/DSC_0021.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Mr. Christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13553466109570555839noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-14174797967387026722012-04-10T23:14:00.000-06:002012-04-10T23:14:38.435-06:0011 days in arizona: a reportShame on me. No pictures? Well, my hard drive croaked.<br />
<br />
I feel like a hard-drive crash is something that only happens in theory, not in real life. Turns out, it's real. So go back up your photos. Right now. Then come back for my hearty hello from sunny Arizona.<br />
<br />
Back already? Hello!<br />
<br />
If you ever move to Phoenix in April, you may notice...<br />
<ul><li><b>Arizonans seem to measure their time here in summers...</b></li>
</ul>...like <i>Game of Thrones</i> characters measure their lives in winters. "This will be my 5th year here. Get ready. Summer is coming..." <br />
<ul><li><b>Warm weather means more people exercise?</b></li>
</ul>So many people around here look like they're fresh off the best, most active summer of their life. Toned. Sunglassed. Wearing footwear they can run in. Maybe this is only partly true. Either way, I'm waking from a winter hibernation I didn't realize I was in.<br />
<br />
Christopher's fabulous stepmom took me on a 5-mile hike, which feels like a good place to start. <br />
<ul><li><b>The Apple Store rocks.</b></li>
</ul>I'm sure this is true of Apple stores in general, anywhere in the country. But I hold a special place in my heart for this particular Apple store, where I was told that in a month, my laptop will be considered "vintage."<br />
<br />
I'm especially grateful for a certain subdued, detail-oriented genius who spent two hours and all his genius tricks saving nearly every last picture of my baby girl that I thought I'd lost. (Rock on, Type 2's. If you and I have ever talked about <a href="http://dressingyourtruth.com/freecourse">Energy Profiling</a>, you may know what I mean.)<br />
<ul><li><b>People show up when you need them. </b></li>
</ul>By the end of last week, Claire's whining had become insufferable. She <i>needs </i>friends—or she loses it. And I could only draw so many pictures of the friends she left behind and use silly voices to pretend they were talking to her.<br />
<br />
We'd already seen random kids at the park down the street about six times, but yesterday, I got her dressed and told her that this was the day we would meet some real friends. And some woman invited us to a massive play group where we moms sat on blankets and talked about summer (it's coming...) and they put me on their mom-group email list. <br />
<br />
When the two of us came home after play group today, my baby was singing to herself again. <br />
<br />
So far, so good. I'll let you know when summer arrives.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-32603888882017447562012-03-28T23:50:00.001-06:002012-03-29T06:52:44.142-06:00what to ask me when i'm old (or after we're done moving)Storyteller genius, <a href="http://www.timpfest.org/midwinter-event/performers">Donald Davis</a>, says not to ask old people what they remember about their childhoods. <br />
<br />
Instead, he says you should ask about their childhood home. Or their third grade classroom. Or the hard church pew they sat on every Sunday. In other words, if you want to retrieve a memory, access the location where it's stored. Open the door and go inside the space where it happened.<br />
<br />
Since we've been married, we've gathered a whole collection of spaces.<br />
<br />
And here we go again. Arizona. For a good job. To the place we will be when we make that final student loan payment before the end of the year. I will experience that victory in a sunny spot on the globe.<br />
<br />
You wouldn't know it from all our gypsying, but we really hate moving. We had a sweet babysitting swap with some friends in the neighborhood. My sweetie girl has a crush on one of the boys in nursery. When we first boxed up my books last week, I cried.<br />
<br />
And maybe I'm making too much of this, but I've been thinking about how we simultaneously live in the spaces by which we access those memories later. By leaving that space, we have to accept that another chapter in our lives has closed—those moments are now memories, and not the present. Time keeps moving and so do we. <br />
<br />
I know which memories happened in this familiar space, but I haven't yet seen which ones happen in the new one. We always seem to fall in love where we're living, though, so I'm hopeful and excited. Each move, we're just as reluctant to leave as the last.<br />
<br />
So here's to fabulous memories in new spaces. And here are some of my favorite images of the one we've just left—where things have been so happy, sometimes hard, and altogether wonderful. If some young whippersnapper ever asks me about that basement apartment I lived in down the street from the bakery, I'll say it was one of my favorites. <br />
<br />
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<br />I need to appear on Ghost Hunters, because the vengeful spirit of the pioneers is after me.<br />
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As soon as we decided to move, there was a snowstorm. It was as if Utah was a jealous girlfriend who couldn't handle the breakup. But her tantrum only made us more certain that we had made the right decision.<br />
<br />Now, there's brownish yellow water dripping from our bathroom ceiling. We called the lady who manages the place. She said they'd take care of it in the morning. Then she laughed, and said "have fun cleaning that up." Her indulgence in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schadenfreude">shadenfreude</a> made me think she's one of those people who'd be happy working for the IRS, in telemarketing, or for Hitler.<br /><br />The brown water is dripping onto our toilet. We have some fans set up, a bucket, and some towels on the floor. <br />
<br />I needed to use the toilet. So I grabbed a towel, and was considering using it as a hood to protect me from the drips as I did my business. But then I decided to fix the problem ghetto MacGuyver style.<br /><br />With some plastic wrap and some scotch tape, I've redirected the drips so that they all converge onto one spot, into a bucket, instead of on my head.<br /><br />I can now go do my business without having to get dressed in brown-water beachwear.<br /><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Take that, ghosts.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only other plumbing I've done is in Super Mario.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Mr. Christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13553466109570555839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-64241155553556700422012-02-12T16:29:00.004-07:002012-02-12T22:06:08.217-07:00bringing out the hermit in meLast month, we pulled my desk out into our entryway to make me a tiny office amongst the bikes, the shoe rack, and our little wannabe lemon tree. It's actually a huge upgrade from my former office—which used to be the bathroom. <br />
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I'm writing in there. Finishing another draft of this novel has become a rollercoaster of panic and delight. Some days, I'm certain it won't turn into anything better than compost. Other days, I'm pretty sure I'm onto something beautiful.<br />
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My current deadline has turned me into a bit of a hermit everywhere in my life, including our little blog. (I've actually composed a few blog posts in my mind—how I worried about looking ridiculous playing peek-a-boo through my tinted car window at the gas station until I looked over at the next pump and saw a guy doing the same thing with <i>his</i> kid while <i>his</i> car was filling up—but none of them get written. Just the book. And stuff for work.)<br />
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And I realized this: I don't know how you creative people balance dream-chasing endeavors with the reality of motherhood and work and needing to shower. Thoughts? Suggestions?<br />
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Nobody's abandoned showering around here (promise), but if you come to my house, you'll see how much I've let other things slide. I like to think it's because I'm always reading books to my little girl, instead of doing chores. And while that's true some mornings, it does not entirely account for the state of my kitchen.<br />
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This has become my mantra these days:<b> <i>I have plenty of time to accomplish everything I need and truly want to do.</i></b><br />
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It's true. I say it if I start feeling overwhelmed, and often, I get a little clarity on what to focus on and what's not worth my time. No surprise that vacuuming often falls off the list. It never makes it into my "truly want" category. But if there's not time for it these days, does that mean I don't technically <i>need</i> to do it either? I'll be a hermit a bit longer, so maybe nobody will notice.<br />
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Especially not this girl, whose "truly want" list includes eating cookies on the carpet...<br />
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</tbody></table>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-78251782753501865482011-12-30T10:01:00.000-07:002011-12-30T10:01:21.820-07:00we're glad you were born<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Happy birthday to this guy:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj57se1OAf2qg0DJKT0u6SaUnCKQlVq1SOXw-dwZ4saCw7CVsTQT-DL2XVSvhNaOfY-cgEolRuFjJwLNupYAnPWviL-kBrvSMERZtbKWjRvhXYjmybvBdOQZ_pERuf2WVT1mNAyR8Qeeg4/s1600/DSC_0720.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj57se1OAf2qg0DJKT0u6SaUnCKQlVq1SOXw-dwZ4saCw7CVsTQT-DL2XVSvhNaOfY-cgEolRuFjJwLNupYAnPWviL-kBrvSMERZtbKWjRvhXYjmybvBdOQZ_pERuf2WVT1mNAyR8Qeeg4/s320/DSC_0720.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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From the two girls who love you more than anyone else in the world:<br />
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We hope you know—especially today—how grateful we are to share this life with you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-6681557040253857582011-12-23T23:48:00.000-07:002011-12-23T23:48:07.036-07:00something geeky and gorgeous about traditions<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-kJ1PMK5eCl4CPp6AbxwzMGISdH0g3LWfOmgsCKGhU2q3LOaqtpwk5KqaSeE6pbrWlA1Ja0m4KWEGKBzplLicMJVYYhzgoN77BDHj6DKfIFArzPpC4lHYhWOkayqdAkh1GIz6UWWFUeg/s1600/DSC_0432.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-kJ1PMK5eCl4CPp6AbxwzMGISdH0g3LWfOmgsCKGhU2q3LOaqtpwk5KqaSeE6pbrWlA1Ja0m4KWEGKBzplLicMJVYYhzgoN77BDHj6DKfIFArzPpC4lHYhWOkayqdAkh1GIz6UWWFUeg/s320/DSC_0432.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(photo by the lovely <a href="http://jlanaephotography.blogspot.com/">J. Lanae</a>)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I make pizza on the same days I bake bread because it's easy that way.<br />
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After punching down the dough and dividing it into loaves, I roll the extra flat and bake it on a pizza stone. When I did that yesterday, my little 21-month helper stood on a kitchen chair and insisted on assisting with the cheese (by putting it on the pizza, and then off<i></i> the pizza and into her mouth).<br />
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Watching her, I wondered if some day, when Claire and her future siblings come inside from playing and smell bread baking, they'll know it's pizza night.<br />
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Maybe this new rhythm—that I'm creating out of ease—will feel comfortable and reliable to them by then. Maybe it will become tradition. Maybe not.<br />
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But <i>traditions</i>. Get me thinking about a word and I'll head to the geekiest dictionary I can find. Definition number one...<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>tradition: act of delivering into the hands of another</i></b></div><br />
Yes, traditions include a fair amount of repetition and festivity (definition #6). But I love the idea that tradition might first be about giving something, delivering a sort of gift—a gift that passes on a recurring message: "This is what life means. This is how much you mean to me. This is what to rely on when things feel shaky." I hope she gets the message that I mean to send.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-75274716627070647392011-12-19T08:00:00.008-07:002011-12-23T23:48:10.870-07:00a brief guide to unemployment<ul><li><h2>Don't panic.</h2></li>
</ul>If you find yourself jobless on an unexpected Monday afternoon, it's a good idea not to worry about a thing. <br />
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The wound is so fresh and startling that you probably don't even need this advice. You'll feel confident that a job will be had by early next week. If it isn't, don't panic then, either.<br />
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Remember: there is no way that you can stay unemployed forever, as long as you're looking. A few weeks, months, or even a year are not forever—no matter how they may feel like it.<br />
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<ul><li><h2>Do what needs doing.</h2></li>
</ul>You might want to say things. No. Your <i>wife</i> may want to say certain things: to your former employer, to (dangerously) the internet. If you married someone with common sense (or an anxiety complex about self-disclosure), she will hold her tongue in the face of frustration... Although she may write some strongly worded letters she will never send.<br />
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It's okay—wise, even—to step back, to let some things slide. You don't need to feel guilty for neglecting the blog. You don't need to tell everyone every sad setback. Choose where and when you tell those stories.<br />
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But never stop talking to each other.<br />
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If you take care of your little girl during the day so your wife's part-time hours can cover some of the bills, "Daddy" will soon be the first word out of that girl's mouth every morning when she wakes up. She may also ask for bubbles. Or doggie. Which means you are very important indeed.<br />
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<ul><li><h2>Ok, panic. But take turns.</h2></li>
</ul>The down days will come. The credit card bills will arrive. It will be at least 3 months before your old boss tells you he made a mistake and wishes he hadn't let you go—if he tells you at all. Some days, you'll feel bummed, frustrated, rejected. <br />
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How nice if there are two of you. You'll ride different waves at different times. When you're up, say kind words that are true. When you're down, listen to the words that come your way.<br />
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You will end up living what you already trusted about each other—that you're in this together, come what may.<br />
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If the job search goes on longer than you thought possible, figure out a way to make potatoes taste delicious. They're cheap.<br />
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<ul><li><h2>Trust that things will show up.</h2></li>
</ul>Stop trying to wrap your mind around the way everything will work out. There are too many variables to juggle, and you're not in control of nearly as many as you think.<br />
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Your neighbors will invite you to dinner (thanks, Kenworthys). You might letter-press for an afternoon (thanks, Leland). Your wife might become an audition pianist for a day, a job she was grateful for, but in hindsight, also terribly underqualified for (thanks Tara and Bethany). Someone may order handmade crafts (thanks, Adrienne). The arrival of those checks will be more timely than their senders know. <br />
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And then some nameless do-gooder will leave a box of food at your doorstep just when you're wondering if potatoes and rice could possibly go together for dinner. It's okay that you don't know who should get a thank-you note. Things will show up for them, too.<br />
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Don't try to figure out how you made it this long. Just be grateful for everything that got you through. <br />
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And then take a deep breath, even more grateful for what comes next. <br />
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Today is Monday, and you're on your way to work at a new job.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-56651966062845209572011-10-19T21:03:00.003-06:002011-10-19T21:12:43.004-06:00This baby needs your (Halloween) advice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We need your vote.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Last year's Halloween was fun. We finished our costumes in advance. Our cutie girl was a little airbender. And her parents...well, <a href="http://occidentallywest.blogspot.com/2010/10/geekiest-halloween.html">we were really big nerds</a>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>But this year, we're not so sure. Do we go lazy? Or do we go cute? Or are they not mutually exclusive?<br />
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See, my awesome neighbor gave me this random pink bunny suit (that a friend randomly gave <i>her</i>). If pink, plus bunny, plus suit makes you think of this, you're right on the money:<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTuiZKKWbEEYjJ-7KDUKmu-tTheBHod2hQMIpbDPQE_4-zG-SPL1wRrwhf-gtBGj7U84IiaB2mBD663LFxwM7hxhc972YrxPK-9QlOUM7wFLoLwwMG7yaGXYyoTZC6Dd3SovP-1mvQQhw/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-10-19+at+8.37.19+PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTuiZKKWbEEYjJ-7KDUKmu-tTheBHod2hQMIpbDPQE_4-zG-SPL1wRrwhf-gtBGj7U84IiaB2mBD663LFxwM7hxhc972YrxPK-9QlOUM7wFLoLwwMG7yaGXYyoTZC6Dd3SovP-1mvQQhw/s320/Screen+shot+2011-10-19+at+8.37.19+PM.png" width="212" /></a><br />
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Hilarious, right? <br />
<br />
But I had kind of hoped to dress her up as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Why?<br />
<ul><li>Claire's first word was <i>doggie </i>(and as Dorothy, she'd get to carry a cute little stuffed one around in a basket). </li>
</ul><ul><li>Us two grown-ups would have plenty of costume options (witches, munchkins, flying monkeys) to choose from in case we want to make this an ensemble Halloween production. </li>
</ul><ul><li>AND I almost don't want to pass up an excuse to buy glittery red toddler shoes (partly because I know she'll love them as much as I do—that girl loves her shoes).</li>
</ul>Her Dorothy costume would be amazing. But it would also take some time, creativity, work, cash. And here's the thing: <b>I already have a pink bunny suit.</b> Not something I've ever been able to say before.<br />
<br />
But are we starting an odd tradition by dressing her up as a boy two years in a row?<br />
<br />
Are we giving her future issues by dressing her up as a boy who will clearly have future issues because <i>his</i> parents dressed him up in a pink bunny suit?<br />
<br />
Or is she just too cute like this for me to waste my time on anything else?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBmr3r8VQrrx7XDHqw3bgqwvSMoVg7or3iTUvdqQ5Gd1Y68XYgsyQ57qaLbKFz_4aTR6CrzFAT_xWVkPO0lNHbVJafw2kd2QLvUe8g-4Nk8VnVkksdow4ypiPVxEppc12eDdVZM2ilLLQ/s1600/DSC_0649.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBmr3r8VQrrx7XDHqw3bgqwvSMoVg7or3iTUvdqQ5Gd1Y68XYgsyQ57qaLbKFz_4aTR6CrzFAT_xWVkPO0lNHbVJafw2kd2QLvUe8g-4Nk8VnVkksdow4ypiPVxEppc12eDdVZM2ilLLQ/s320/DSC_0649.jpg" width="212" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-6575785589067159462011-10-09T18:49:00.001-06:002011-10-09T23:31:42.345-06:00letting go of my 30 before 30 listI copied the internet. I made a 30 before 30 list.<br />
<br />
And, boy, did I cross things off that list. I did 30 for-real push-ups in a row, bound a photo book for my baby, wrote a love song for my husband, and was well on my way to planning a scuba-diving trip and learning a nerdy amount of Latin verbs.<br />
<br />
But last month—I threw out the list.<br />
<br />
I'll tell you why. <a href="http://zenhabits.net/un/">I read an article</a> that I've thought about probably every day for a month now. I let myself imagine: What would life look like if I nixed my list and went with just ONE goal? What would that goal be?<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b>Easy. Number One on my 30 before 30 list.</b></div><br />
It's always been at the top of the list. But #7 seemed easier to measure and #15 was more fun. And all the rest were awesome projects and plans, but they took enough time that Number One was not gonna get done.<br />
<br />
So the list is gone. I tore it out of the front of my planner where I've checked in pretty consistently over the last several months. And I replaced it with a note to myself:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGnWcxNfs86rClCWb9XdmDYIT5OqiKeN-b_q9wv1KPbUQ3JNZGC2f2C6zHgWduCgNjoDHeZPjtUnL2hwamvJeM4DtxSDz6mA_K1DyOOE1IJSu7jlYBcpwxkxnVRe0RsH9zb8YKS_j4yo/s1600/remember+goal+number+one.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGnWcxNfs86rClCWb9XdmDYIT5OqiKeN-b_q9wv1KPbUQ3JNZGC2f2C6zHgWduCgNjoDHeZPjtUnL2hwamvJeM4DtxSDz6mA_K1DyOOE1IJSu7jlYBcpwxkxnVRe0RsH9zb8YKS_j4yo/s320/remember+goal+number+one.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And I'm not saying here what it is until it's finished. But you can guess...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Everything beyond Goal #1 is fluid. That doesn't mean I'm being lazy. I'm actually accomplishing <i>more</i> than I was before—and feeling more peace when I pursue something that's not on my list.<br />
<br />
Because there <i>is</i> no list.<br />
<br />
I'm not saying everyone should get rid of their bucket list. Or goals. I'm not saying this is the best idea for everyone, all the time. After all, some of the 30 before 30 lists I've seen out there seriously kick butt. And my friends' lists impress and delight me.<br />
<br />
I'm just saying that <i>I'm</i> happier. And feeling a little more free these days.<br />
<br />
I'm also saying that <a href="http://zenhabits.net/un/">this article is worth a read</a>. If you don't read the whole list, make sure you read numbers 1 and 3. Life-changers. No, seriously—stop procrastinating and <a href="http://zenhabits.net/un/">go read them</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-11870005419652683622011-09-12T21:48:00.000-06:002011-09-12T21:48:10.734-06:00Chocolate: A Self-Help GuideStarting week three of being unemployed.<br />
<br />
I didn't know what to do with myself today. I've applied for dozens of jobs, and I'm sure a fitting position will open for me soon. But it was weird. I couldn't relax, or do things that I wanted to do, because I felt like I needed to get a job. But a job isn't something you can just reach out and grab. You have to wait for it. I have a hard time waiting.<br />
<br />
I felt like a waste of space.<br />
<br />
Then I read this Thomas Jefferson quote (<a href="http://essentialjefferson.blogspot.com/">I keep a Jefferson quote blog</a>):<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
"I have sometimes asked myself whether my country is the better for my having lived at all? I do not know that it is. I have been the instrument of doing the following things; but they would have been done by others; some of them, perhaps a little better."</blockquote>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He then goes on to list his accomplishments.</div>
<blockquote>
"The Declaration of Independence."<br />"I proposed the demolition of the church establishment, and the freedom of religion."<br />"The act prohibiting the importation of slaves."</blockquote>
If it's ok for Jefferson to feel like a waste of space, then it's ok for me to have blah days as well<br />
<br />
A wise man told me that depression is a healthy, normal, and necessary time for reflection.<br />
<br />
And I'd add to that: chocolate. Depression is a time for chocolate. The cause, and cure, of my current predicament.<br />
Mr. Christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13553466109570555839noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-39973880252800169182011-09-11T16:21:00.000-06:002011-09-11T16:21:12.642-06:00Shoes and MommyI found my shoe. In the garbage. Thanks Claire.<br />
<br />
Claire loves shoes now. She'll walk around in our shoes. She has learned how to say it and sign it.<br />
<br />She's also been saying and signing "daddy" for a few months now. Kathy thought she heard Claire say "mommy" today.<br />
<br />
"You hear that," Kathy said, "I think she she said mommy!"<br />
<br />
Claire said it again, gesturing toward a magnet on the fridge. A magnet of Ron Paul.<br />
<br />
It kind of sounded like mommy.Mr. Christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13553466109570555839noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-73099130741314434672011-09-08T16:28:00.000-06:002011-09-08T16:28:47.975-06:00some things are hard to photographThis is the only picture from our tiny roadtrip last weekend, and it wasn't technically taken until we got home:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOyRWkISDTjP9effc4jBqNzbX-ywLABUzb8Wfp2motD908Fua5BmdLBRpubo0YHfb-L6Bw-0Agw4VST-viKWs3d7mPM5Cp0skmYSE7ryIRsr8IV6VAi-OW3DTZ3yftnOCrnd07vF5RHHQ/s1600/DSC_0435.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOyRWkISDTjP9effc4jBqNzbX-ywLABUzb8Wfp2motD908Fua5BmdLBRpubo0YHfb-L6Bw-0Agw4VST-viKWs3d7mPM5Cp0skmYSE7ryIRsr8IV6VAi-OW3DTZ3yftnOCrnd07vF5RHHQ/s400/DSC_0435.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
We needed a break—even from taking pictures, I guess.<br />
<br />
As some of you already know, Christopher lost his job last week. The chocolate factory was his dream job of sorts, which made the lay-off that much more disappointing. <br />
<br />
So we drove to southern Utah and walked around in the hills.<br />
<br />
We came back without a single picture from our change of scenery. No photo of our baby girl toddling up the trail, holding her daddy's hand high above her head. No footage of her screaming in delight at the riverbank, with sand between her fingers. No photo of the seriously kick-A food and generous hosts at my sister-in-law's house.<br />
<br />
I lamented my lack of documentation, but I think it was enough just to be there together for a minute.<br />
<br />
We up and moved here for this job. We settled into some ideas and dreams for this job. We even had a monthly chocolate budget because of this job. It was like, wait a minute, this isn't the plan—we haven't taken any pictures yet.<br />
<br />
I don't think a picture would do anything justice anyway. There's something inspiring (and impossible to photograph) about watching your best friend be gracious and tactful and brave—especially when you feel like you wouldn't be if it were you. I don't know how to take a picture of that.<br />
<br />
I'm appreciating being in this space together for a minute, this unplanned moment when the world's wide open and we're not sure yet how the scenery will change.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-62161546219395284472011-09-07T23:58:00.000-06:002011-09-07T23:58:49.900-06:00Vote for PeaceI usually save politics for my other blog. But this one was too good not to share:<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Aoq99dSLEeQ" width="560"></iframe><br />
It hit home with me, because I voted for Obama in 2008. I thought he would bring the troops home, shut down Guantanamo, and stop wire-tapping us.Mr. Christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13553466109570555839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-45673471058663799942011-09-06T17:24:00.003-06:002011-09-06T20:12:55.106-06:00Toilet WaterWhen Claire drank from the toilet, it made me wonder: when was the last time I cleaned the toilet? Also, whose kid is that?Mr. Christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13553466109570555839noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-83113724326804542972011-08-27T13:56:00.002-06:002011-08-27T18:20:35.512-06:00free art and writing workshops. you're invited...I know this girl who just does things.<br />
<br />
What things? Like, anything you can think of. And when I hear about her newest project, I look around and think, <i>Can you do that?</i><br />
<br />
You can, apparently. Although I usually don't. Here's what she cooked up recently: <a href="http://billboardpoetryproject.com/">The Billboard Poetry Project</a>.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9idRi2M8DKEpPuCqgCUMvf8K0Qqkm-LRxUSdwzLeXp3fVnmDZUeaQ1U3ZG0s6aM74hNTjODByqdse3LjE_HReVTo4KoqLRbGjZGW4GUhLlnxawHCH5myA2Lm56o-pGOaAn94Ql111iI/s1600/Billboard+Poetry+Project" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9idRi2M8DKEpPuCqgCUMvf8K0Qqkm-LRxUSdwzLeXp3fVnmDZUeaQ1U3ZG0s6aM74hNTjODByqdse3LjE_HReVTo4KoqLRbGjZGW4GUhLlnxawHCH5myA2Lm56o-pGOaAn94Ql111iI/s640/Billboard+Poetry+Project" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
She was sick of billboards for laser surgery and boob jobs cluttering up the freeway. So she held a contest and the winning poem is going up on a series of billboards here in Provo. <br />
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The whole idea is very cool, so you should check it out—<a href="http://billboardpoetryproject.com/free-workshop-registration/" target="_blank">especially the free workshops</a>. I'm not sure how I fell in with such brilliant people, but they're gold, every one of 'em.<br />
<br />
And, lest you suspect this is a personal plug, I want you to know that you shouldn't necessarily sign up for <i>my</i> workshop (although you'd be most welcome—we'll explore the outdoors, read some things, probably eat some food and you'll leave with a finished little piece of prose).<br />
<br />
If you're not sure which class to sign up for, holler and I'll give you my two cents for free.<br />
<br />
Everyone's welcome—to the workshops, to the reception and the art show. Just come create and celebrate. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-34315259814650695872011-08-19T22:30:00.001-06:002011-08-19T22:31:10.248-06:00A Corny Love SongYesterday was our 4th anniversary. We ate at <a href="http://www.pizzeria712.com/">Pizzeria 712</a> (HIGHLY RECOMMENDED). The food tasted like exactly what I wanted to eat, and left me feeling like I'd eaten the equivalent of a salad made of rainbows, because I felt so healthy afterwards. And they treated us like guests, honored guests. When we got home, Kathy sang me a corny love song she wrote on the guitar.<br />
<br />
Today Kathy woke at 5:30am, got ready, and left. I told her it felt like the middle of the night. She's spending the weekend at a work conference.<br />
<br />
We don't spend nights apart often. The last time I recall was a few years ago, when she went to Chicago to write.<br />
<br />
Today I stayed home and took care of the baby. When Kathy called in the afternoon, I hadn't yet showered, and I told her that I felt like I hadn't gotten anything done. When she called this evening, I had showered, but still had not gotten anything done. I hadn't wasted my day, but I had spent the majority of it watching baby girl.<br />
<br />
Kathy has a wonderful way of telling me I'm not worthless. And the way she says it, I believe it.<br />
<br />
Kathy had a boyfriend in high school. I think we've now been married longer than they dated. And Kathy wasn't my first girlfriend. <br />
<br />
But she feels like my first love. And I'm sure she'd feel the same. We had feelings when we dated our firsts, and heartache. But it wasn't as real as what we have now. It feels like a corny line from <i>The Princess Bride</i>. But what could this be called if not true love?<br />
<br />
Before any of you start swooning and envying the wonderful thing Kathy and I have going, I'll give you a little bit of perspective.<br />
<br />
I didn't date anyone until after my mission (mostly because I was awkward, but I told myself I was following the prophet). That's the equivalent of binding someone's feet to their butt for the first two decades of their life, and then untying them just in time to run the Boston marathon. <br />
<br />
My college girlfriends could tell you stories that you would think they had made up. <br />
<br />
I'll tell you one now.<br />
<br />
My first girlfriend left for a study abroad. We had dated for a semester, and she would be gone for a semester. We emailed each other. I tended to notice how often she mentioned other boys. I was insecure enough back then that I let it get to me. So I broke up with her. You know. Over email.<br />
<br />
Email is wonderful, but it is inadequate at clearly expressing the whole range of human emotions. And I guess it's a really jerky way to dump someone.<br />
<br />
So a few phone calls, and many tears later (mostly mine), I found myself on the phone with my mom. Now, I don't know how she talked me into letting her do what she did.<br />
<br />
My mom thinks I'm wonderful. I think I'm pretty wonderful too. She couldn't believe that someone would be so rude to me. Getting email dumped aside, you'd have to be an idiot to let me go. There are many fish in the sea. But I'm a like a magic <a href="http://youtu.be/ykwqXuMPsoc">narwhal</a>, not a stinky fish. So when my mom asked if she could call my ex. I gave her the number.<br />
<br />
I can only imagine how that conversation went down. My ex called me about twenty minutes later. By the tone of her voice, I got the impression that she thought I was mentally disturbed.<br />
<br />
"You had your <i>mom</i> call me? Your <i>mom</i>?"<br />
"More <i>let</i> than <i>had</i>."<br />
Click.<br />
<br />
So that was awkward.<br />
<br />
Did you know BYU offers free therapy to students? Yeah. I'm really glad I discovered that before I met Kathy. Turns out I had a few crinkles to smooth out before I was perfect. Regardless of what my mother thinks.Mr. Christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13553466109570555839noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-16641935506198536492011-08-12T18:40:00.000-06:002011-08-12T18:40:50.484-06:00you can't make this stuff upYou need to know something before I tell this story:<br />
<br />
Our little girl loves dogs. LOVES dogs. <i>Doggy</i> was her first word. And almost her first ASL sign. When we're outside, she'll spot a dog from a mile away and wave her arms and shout.<br />
<br />
Story time:<br />
<br />
We go on a walk pretty much every day. Baby girl rides in the stroller on the way out. And she's not much of a baby anymore because she walks and pushes the stroller on the way back.<br />
<br />
On one particular return trip this week, she was exploring every interesting little thing on the sidewalk—when she saw an ant.<br />
<br />
She dropped to her knees and tried to touch it, but he was pretty speedy. She kept following the ant with her finger, trying to touch it. She looked up at me. She looked back at the ant. And she whispered, "Doggy."<br />
<br />
It sounds like such a simple mix-up. And it is. She has neither the experience nor the language to name the ant correctly. But it was more than that. When she said <i>doggy,</i> she sounded so reverent, or in love. I just don't look at ants the same anymore.<br />
<br />
I also don't look at strawberries the same. They make the perfect party hats...<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPO-9TWItARPnsrZ9o7-FkPv9YVtRwL88rp84-GoaBtv_gUYWsflpNsvvW_7DOgVBCAR7nCe43NsjSpK29NJ-4g0eG19DpJQh4Vvz9iVBIAFnyYZKnEfHrhIfRQmbC9dNafRLijs5OT8c/s1600/DSC_0386.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPO-9TWItARPnsrZ9o7-FkPv9YVtRwL88rp84-GoaBtv_gUYWsflpNsvvW_7DOgVBCAR7nCe43NsjSpK29NJ-4g0eG19DpJQh4Vvz9iVBIAFnyYZKnEfHrhIfRQmbC9dNafRLijs5OT8c/s400/DSC_0386.JPG" width="400" /></a> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-10800057465564352702011-08-07T16:03:00.000-06:002011-08-07T16:03:50.959-06:00The Future Is Now<div>Kathy said I needed to blog more, in response to something I said after seeing Claire do this:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_JtVLSHwkBDa9FDdyenb7Fznh6JLub8RIcEKCfqxgpRrCSzmvCJJ3bljif8pnQ_Isu07E3TXa7H-z_8j4MPUAf6cSHJtOJOJv7nXHnXFMy6zpLdBlHFNOWvafmTmp7By40Mx-1H67FU/s1600/Claire+Cart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_JtVLSHwkBDa9FDdyenb7Fznh6JLub8RIcEKCfqxgpRrCSzmvCJJ3bljif8pnQ_Isu07E3TXa7H-z_8j4MPUAf6cSHJtOJOJv7nXHnXFMy6zpLdBlHFNOWvafmTmp7By40Mx-1H67FU/s400/Claire+Cart.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She's been walking a lot, and pushing her little cart around. I said, "She's preparing for her future career of pushing a shopping cart along the side of the road."</div><div><br />
</div>Speaking of future careers, I've been working at a chocolate factory. Whenever I tell people I work at a chocolate factory, I can't help but say it "CHOCOLATE FACTORY!!!" with several exclamation points.<div><br />
</div><div>Then they ask me how I like it, and what I do. I explain it's a small company, so I do a little bit of everything. Shipping, QA, janitorial, customer service, marketing, and production all in one.</div><div><br />
But how do I like it?</div><div><br />
</div><div>It's work. I'd rather EAT chocolate, while sitting on my couch, reading a book, and snuggling with my girls.</div><div><br />
</div><div>It's a great job. I like it, but I like being home with my family most.</div><div><br />
</div><div>A plug for my company:</div><blockquote><a href="https://www.amanochocolate.com/dark-chocolate">Amano</a> is awesome. We pay our farmers two, three, even four times Fair Trade. That way, we get the best beans, and our farmers are able to stay in business and keep producing the best beans.</blockquote><blockquote>We have won <a href="https://www.amanochocolate.com/awards">awards</a> nationally and internationally. We make the best chocolate the U.S. has ever made.</blockquote><blockquote>Our bars taste like lemons, blackberries, nuts, marshmallows, grapefruit, and bergamot; but we add no flavors. The cocoa beans flavor our bars. We preserve those flavors by using single-origin beans. </blockquote>Mr. Christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13553466109570555839noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-62125136161842647172011-07-10T11:55:00.001-06:002011-07-10T11:56:08.427-06:00why i heart provo: an update<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxu6ynIGbb66hLdPo7WWKGAJbLOci7TzYmHBlt2SQeTc0WkAxQP5zogAjyfVsC5HirmNUaPX1yOLgevrikivj9Zu2VoeqepswZsaKNNZr871zSmEdQA8KDtb6umY61wILDr7ARsJGPIM/s1600/DSC_0120.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxu6ynIGbb66hLdPo7WWKGAJbLOci7TzYmHBlt2SQeTc0WkAxQP5zogAjyfVsC5HirmNUaPX1yOLgevrikivj9Zu2VoeqepswZsaKNNZr871zSmEdQA8KDtb6umY61wILDr7ARsJGPIM/s320/DSC_0120.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
People generally have strong feelings about Provo.<br />
<br />
I've never seen anyone shrug and say, "Provo. Meh. Whatevs." Unless, of course, it's too small a town for them to have heard of before.<br />
<br />
There are people who grew up here with some pretty amazing Provo pride. Others moved here for college and have opinions connected to their grades or how many dates they got. Others have never lived here, but know the stereotypes and roll their eyes. And more—some love, some hate.<br />
<br />
I can see where they're all coming from. I hated Provo the first time I lived here. And I was a little nervous to move back. <br />
<br />
But put me down as one who loves Provo. Loves it. <br />
<ul><li>Our house? Old, kind of quirky—and absolutely made for us. We store our bikes in a cute entryway. The baby's room is the coziest, prettiest little space. And she sleeps better here than any of the 3 places we've lived since she was born. </li>
</ul><ul><li>Neighborhood? Just seems so neighborly and adorable. And we live close to everything, but on a quiet street. So I can go anywhere with my bike and the baby trailer without getting nervous. Also, the first time I went riding, I actually thought, "Wow! The trees are greener here!" Then I realized I was wearing sunglasses that make trees look greener. </li>
</ul><ul><li>Food? Awesome. We cruised over to <a href="http://www.bombayhouse.com/">Bombay House</a> with just a stroller and our feet a few weeks back. When we finally go to <a href="http://www.communalrestaurant.com/">Communal</a>, we'll just walk down the street. And have you ever eaten honey bran muffins from the Provo Bakery? Well, don't. Because they're always sold out by the time I get over there. </li>
</ul><ul><li>Job? Awesome. I mean, Christopher works in a chocolate factory. Also, I got a writing gig that I do from home that I absolutely love. Our commutes rock.</li>
</ul><ul><li>Not being students? Provo's a different place now that we don't have homework hanging over our heads. It's easy to find fun stuff to do—on the cheap. One particular outing included welcoming the first non-stop commercial flight from Denver landing at the Provo Airport, with all its accompanying small-town fanfare. </li>
</ul><ul><li>People? I saved the best for last. I've heard all about Provo being a hot spot for self-righteousness and poor driving. But some of the loveliest people live here. I would tell you all their names, but you don't have time to read a blog post quite that long.</li>
</ul>Say what you will. And then come visit us.<br />
I love this town.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS8RHAsfDIW-2WqQ4GqxlIvXQFoEYc0AA6OYaEcC4pCoFUNWD58bDVjKrRLwn9iLe1S24wke_RR-tKIJ1PbIrPglcF78ZKsnuGuWmhgZZT0l9tUk53Dx2KSSt66PvzFyNxbiEPG8EFgl4/s1600/DSC_0052.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS8RHAsfDIW-2WqQ4GqxlIvXQFoEYc0AA6OYaEcC4pCoFUNWD58bDVjKrRLwn9iLe1S24wke_RR-tKIJ1PbIrPglcF78ZKsnuGuWmhgZZT0l9tUk53Dx2KSSt66PvzFyNxbiEPG8EFgl4/s320/DSC_0052.jpg" width="320" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-45815864129612566602011-06-19T23:57:00.001-06:002011-06-20T12:51:18.585-06:00christopher is a dad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>And he's a good one.<br />
<br />
The other day, I was putting baby girl in her car seat so we could go to Christopher's work. She complained and arched her back and made sure I knew she didn't like it.<br />
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I said, "You need to sit in your seat so we can go see your daddy."<br />
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She relaxed, turned to me, smiled, and said one of the four words she says: "Daddy." She only says words for things that she's totally in love with: doggy, chocolate (caw-coe), agua, baby—and daddy.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNPcgRGm8ZccHyM5A_OryxWU1N17bf1Yy8qiGrkLzEv9w2b1-oa0EN_AWXLmpBvGl2bJM6Nxnvkys4LB_zNGebUnBKDFaXLQOwaToUuzHnjCmA2wLf-AR5-5eAVgLCLNWQf10ypSXGd6c/s1600/Picture+1.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNPcgRGm8ZccHyM5A_OryxWU1N17bf1Yy8qiGrkLzEv9w2b1-oa0EN_AWXLmpBvGl2bJM6Nxnvkys4LB_zNGebUnBKDFaXLQOwaToUuzHnjCmA2wLf-AR5-5eAVgLCLNWQf10ypSXGd6c/s320/Picture+1.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our baby says out loud who's her favorite parent every day: "Daddy."</td></tr>
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">I can see why she loves him. He tickles her, he swings her around, he got her her own computer keyboard that she can pound on, rather than just telling her <i>no</i> when she tries to get her hands on ours. She knows, without doubt, that she's his favorite kid. At least so far.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwhBMtyq3TriAvm_Nhch5PDbMJIn2tcPDh5zouxdxiOhOEAAhU2CBrpcSzWrrrlHqUGOTC3uUknk9jnQicrpEPWV6NkPfS6HjCBPNc2M1TcQb4I7AHT75pmetd-xUmQ_qtOeRJzce3M14/s1600/DSC_0047.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwhBMtyq3TriAvm_Nhch5PDbMJIn2tcPDh5zouxdxiOhOEAAhU2CBrpcSzWrrrlHqUGOTC3uUknk9jnQicrpEPWV6NkPfS6HjCBPNc2M1TcQb4I7AHT75pmetd-xUmQ_qtOeRJzce3M14/s320/DSC_0047.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkzJxlw4NcCgdBROnfl6DwPg03DdnZ6NEcjABXPKKGEVA-rTUPiDmIkLIuV_Y-H8_wMySSpBFvQTH4sMCHeF4FgWERczuzcZExpbE_pVoPjR61hgVmMmqR_d91KpGHeGaYOq2EHYSoW_w/s1600/DSC_0010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>I think he's pretty great myself. He switches off parent duty with me every other night, just in case our sweet girl gets up at 2 in the morning. He'll change the poopiest of diapers. He's protective of her in ways that I know will be important later in her life. And he makes life just plain fun when the three of us are hanging out together.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwhBMtyq3TriAvm_Nhch5PDbMJIn2tcPDh5zouxdxiOhOEAAhU2CBrpcSzWrrrlHqUGOTC3uUknk9jnQicrpEPWV6NkPfS6HjCBPNc2M1TcQb4I7AHT75pmetd-xUmQ_qtOeRJzce3M14/s1600/DSC_0047.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8PCVPOEHSb_38sRPSV77dfrlSw08_qzjqE6K8PpBXUFTqUYAWckUikYfzI9RCrLI34P2Kv2iluu4zPOPHdz1GZVqduSYy2RGbN6PN4uS2aLEiNWnFr6yHEKv9G3bvF2nvGfm6M2wde6U/s1600/DSC_0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8PCVPOEHSb_38sRPSV77dfrlSw08_qzjqE6K8PpBXUFTqUYAWckUikYfzI9RCrLI34P2Kv2iluu4zPOPHdz1GZVqduSYy2RGbN6PN4uS2aLEiNWnFr6yHEKv9G3bvF2nvGfm6M2wde6U/s320/DSC_0003.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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The other day, he said something about it being weird that we're just living our lives, doing our thing while this other tiny person is supposed to be getting a childhood. She's got Christopher as a dad, so I think her childhood is going to turn out just great. <br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjZr_5_KJVDqGoKHTb4oiyzggneNUykdlblOzx024weLxeL8PbwUjgb1tkHEkIqYQPGjtHLVFoMa1jsd8JhMx0cvzZtEOtqWGP-z_z053iHmc1mymraDyBMnNu-m_TVZoTZZDW_Uo3PWc/s1600/DSC_0130.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjZr_5_KJVDqGoKHTb4oiyzggneNUykdlblOzx024weLxeL8PbwUjgb1tkHEkIqYQPGjtHLVFoMa1jsd8JhMx0cvzZtEOtqWGP-z_z053iHmc1mymraDyBMnNu-m_TVZoTZZDW_Uo3PWc/s320/DSC_0130.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4812233839926804412.post-16365531831001852452011-06-03T16:56:00.000-06:002011-06-03T16:56:29.556-06:00a thank you note. you know who you are (i hope).<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLywvtXQZ9k0lFAA7JAlR9OV7CsaF5EKQSsHud8PHZv_BqmRVonA-a8_9ZGu_4uyjoIn61oUBuT-2WSF1y0uUk9DNBS_iQ6KImbiYK9CYNGY-oJDjW_2uWKn9Vxa2NYSV8ZG_WoCEdlfM/s1600/DSC_0018.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLywvtXQZ9k0lFAA7JAlR9OV7CsaF5EKQSsHud8PHZv_BqmRVonA-a8_9ZGu_4uyjoIn61oUBuT-2WSF1y0uUk9DNBS_iQ6KImbiYK9CYNGY-oJDjW_2uWKn9Vxa2NYSV8ZG_WoCEdlfM/s320/DSC_0018.jpg" width="292" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I made the baby write her own birthday thank-you notes. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>I kind of suck at writing thank-you-notes. Not because I'm not thankful—just the opposite.<br />
<br />
I always feel super grateful for and almost surprised by people's generosity. And, even though I love to write, I never feel like I convey exactly how appreciative I am. Maybe I should just do what my coolest sister-in-law did for me once and slip in some cash.<br />
<br />
I would, but we just paid first and last month's rent on a new place to live. We're out of here this weekend. It happened much faster (read: 6 months faster) than I thought it would.<br />
<br />
I'm grateful that Christopher found his dream job, that we get to live closer to it, and that we always find a place to live that's better than the last in some way (in this case, it's bigger).<br />
<br />
But I've cried a few times this week. And I need to say thanks:<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div><br />
1. <b>To the people who gave us wedding presents.</b> Seriously.<br />
<br />
While packing, I found a list of unfinished wedding thank-you's (which I thought my husband had conveniently "lost"). There are people on it who don't know how grateful I am on a daily basis, when we use our dinner plates, or our salad tongs, or our towels.<br />
<br />
Thank you—almost 4 years late. I'm going to stop feeling guilty now that you never got a note.<br />
<br />
<br />
2. <b>To the people around here.</b> I take a minute to feel comfortable in a new place. And the minute here took a lot less time than it usually does. I don't think it was really anything I did.<br />
<br />
Like I said, I often fail at conveying the extent of my appreciation. Please know that's especially true this time for every single person I've met here since we moved in last November. You made this feel like home in one second. <br />
<br />
Thanks. For every little thing. It matters. We're going down the road a ways, but I will always consider you friends.<br />
<br />
<br />
3. <b>To the people around there. </b>I sure hope you're as cool as the people around here.<br />
I'm going to say thanks in advance and just assume you are.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7