Gob(stopper)smacked!

Never mind the snow; it's a golden day.
April 30th is the new October 1st.
Hackworth is the new Wonka.

Comb your hair! Wash your face! Polish your shoes!

Reasons to smile today

And this list is just for starters—

• My retro polyester Edna Stride suit fit me well enough to wear today with its waist slightly unzipped. That's progress.
• None of my eight divas stood me up for this morning's Relief Society readers' theater. That doesn't count the one whose doctor ordered her to stay on bed rest the day after our first rehearsal. (Totally unrelated events, I'm certain.) We made it successfully through our performance and only offended one person that I know of. We were received well by a good-hearted class, thankfully also one with a collectively good sense of humor. 
• Rob playing the part of the angel Moroni for Primary kids this morning and making his own costume, consisting of an enormous white "conduit" hat and two LED shop lights. I had offered to spray paint him gold and send him to church with the antique trumpet. 
• Breaking my fast with peruano bean hummus and homemade Nutella.
• Getting a terrific idea for a broadside project.
• Remembering two of my favorite people today, on their shared birthday: the legendary Tony Kahn and the infamous Riban Conbajos. I love you both.
• Realizing again how great it is to serve with three very lovely men in the stake Sunday School. It's continually surprising to me how much I enjoy this calling. The leaders I work with are tremendous people, really funny, intelligent, sensitive, inspired characters, not to mention excellent teachers, and I count myself lucky not just to work with them, but also to have the experience so few women do in any part of this world—that of feeling respected, valued, and among friends in the company of men. 
• I spontaneously told a secret to a friend today, but he won't tell (although I might, soon).
• Meeting our rockstar neighbors, Dan, David, and Marty, after they got their plastic kite stuck in the tree across the street. Fifteen seconds after meeting us, Dan was playing and singing for me on our front steps. Funny, lovable guys. Dan and I discovered we have the same favorite restaurant in Portland: Riyadh's Lebanese. 
• Tickling a plump, sweet, and juicy nephew.
• The whole western contingent of The Tribe plus one adopted grandma gathered for Mum's late birthday celebration—bigs and littles. 
• Baby bro-in-law Chris' abfab pun. If you know him, I'll let him tell you instead of ruining it. Tell him you want to know how to analyze a book.
• A funny impromptu family reading after dinner of the morning's readers' theater, followed by the hammed-up singing of old spirituals. 
• Watching nieces and nephews grow and become more themselves, especially E., who is on the verge of turning into a young woman. 
• Being told twice today by unexpected but heartfelt sources: "I love you!" and "I'm glad you were born!" 
• Going for a night walk, holding hands with my dear Rob and keeping talk to a minimum after a noisy, busy day.
• Our beloved Pokeysmiths moving to Salt Lake Valley soon.
• JH, listen. You're no stranger. You're a friend. The end.

(Looks like I should wear my Edna Stride supersuit more often. See what a great day it produced?)

Beautiful Blogger Award

Thank you, thank you, thank you, my darling and best beloved Erika, for awarding me this badge of honor. I blush. I swoon. I crave a toasted coconut donut. This certainly gives me something to live up to with my blog posts. 

Now. As per Erika's instructions, I will post the "rules" of this award-meme, which I am trying very obediently to follow. (Just so you know, it's very hard. I find it challenging not to rewrite arbitrary rules, but for Erika I'd do most anything. Even mind my manners.)

BEAUTIFUL BLOGGER AWARD RULES (ahem)

If you choose to accept the award you must:

1. Thank the person who nominated you and link to their blog.
2. Copy the award and paste it to your blog.
3. Tell us seven interesting facts about yourself.
4. Pass this award on to 15 fantastic bloggers you have discovered.
5. Contact your nominations and let them know they’ve won.

Alright then. Here I go. In perfect compliance—

1. Gratitude and thanks I have taken care of. Permanently. In my side bar. Go ahead. Try the link. Erika's the most. You must love her.
2. Done and done.
3. Seven interesting facts about me? Since Erika didn't quantify "interesting," how about:
• The last new friend I made was on Monday, a beautiful intelligent little black cat which I named Thatch and claimed for my familiar. Not that I'm a witch.
• I have a brand new set of false eyelashes. Do you?
• Sometimes I just have to kiss flowers. And I often compliment trees.
• I am within easy walking distance of fresh toasted coconut donuts.
• I am keeping two secrets with expiration dates: April 30th and May 17th. I am keeping a much bigger secret that I may never be at liberty to blab. 
• I am supposed to be writing a short play right now. Rehearsal is tomorrow, at my house.
• I have two superpowers: my sense of smell and my fantastic peripheral vision. I have used one of these to fight crime. The other just keeps me out of trouble.
4. 15 Beautiful Bloggers I have discovered—PLEASE NOTE: This is in no way an exhaustive list of my favorites but a mere sampling (alphabetically arranged!) of the blogs which consistently make me glad to be alive. I have intentionally left off links to the "Provo All-Stars" (who may or may not all live in Provo) with whom I am ever and always in love, because there are more than 15 of them I would wish to mention, and so I think they deserve a list of their own at some future date):
• AudioPest (here is the best discovery of my life)
• Becoming Something (calls it like she sees it)
• C Jane Enjoy It (arguably a Provo All-Star, but she's really global property by now, ain't she?)
• Elsa Mora (positive, bright, creative, loving, happy energy—such a gift)
• Evening at the Authors' Table (mmmwah!)
• Hawaiian Magpie (mmmwah!)
• Jenny's Journal (mothering as art, art as mothering)
• Justin Hackworth (always reminds me how much I love people)
• Opacity (an eye for beauty that I understand all the way down to my cells)
• People Running, People Walking (my word sister)
• Resurrection Fern (there is beauty all around)
• Sweets (a beautiful classmate of yesteryear, rediscovered)
• Tollipop (just plain stuck on you)
• Tropical Velvet (mmmwah!)
• Wish Jar  (I want to be like Keri Smith whether or not I grow up)
5. And now I must make contact with these heroes of beautiful blogging....

Recycled: "We Are Not Amused"

I've been neglecting my blog home On Bright Street for a long time and I know it. I've nearly pulled it down a few times in the past several months, but can't quite seem to make my peace with that choice. I've finally come around again to the point where I began—plain and simple, this started out and continues to be a good way for me to be in touch with a few very significant people in my life, since I stink with telephones and hardly anybody gets into writing real letters anymore (although thankfully, Becca still does). But if I'm going to use Bright Street as that kind of communication tool then I've got to write here more than I have been. Imagine! Posting on one's blog! Novelty, indeed.

I have been doing a lot of writing lately—stories, journals, illegibly scribbled notes on pieces of napkins and scraps that sometimes enter another dimension through pockets and purses and laundry piles. I've been stringing words together, just not too much here.

But I will repent of my mum ways. In good faith, I will this very moment pull out for your inspection, like a rabbit from a hat, my latest contribution to a private blog generally written for two exclusive readers: myself and Rob. I'll give you this little peek into the state of our union before it's even a day old. Then hopefully I'll find something more to share here very soon.

Dear you—

I let myself check the calendar today, crunched some growing numbers, and decided that I really must be pregnant again. And guess what—I was not terrified by the prospect of a number five. I was thrilled.

I prayed. I asked for help. I eagerly shot one of those fridge-chilly, messy, still-ahead-of-expiration-date progesterone bullets up thataway, carefully adhering to last year's prescription label's strict directive: "1 per vagina." I studied scriptures. I thought secret things. My hands trembled. I simultaneously read and listened to an old recording of Genesis 1, the creation story, cried with happiness, and pled with the Lord to Let there be light in my womb. I borrowed a great line from a real Biblical trooper: "Is anything too hard for the Lord?" and gave a good Sarah-worthy bellylaugh. I felt that sure of the situation.

I hopped on your bike because mine has a flat and put your seat down a little too far and pedaled like a low rider down to the dollar store for a dollar test, then I laid down not one but seven dollars, splurging on a silly color riot: sparkles for my eyes, bright nail polish, false eyelashes that would make a drag queen envious. I smiled my face off at everyone and nearly kissed the cashier but she had a goth's manicure and didn't look interested.

I hurried next door to The Good Earth to pee, which seemed appropriate. On my way in I picked up a sample of agave nectar and drank it down, saving the cup for my golden specimen. (I really went deluxe this time, yes?) Freddy Mercury was singing, "Aw, you're my best friend," and I thought of you and agreed. Locked in the public potty, I washed out my agave cup and then filled it again with something I thought might prove even sweeter, but . . . when I carefully wielded the plastic eyedropper and put four drops of my own nectar to the test only one pink stripe appeared, not two. I couldn't believe my eyes. I was so sure I wold see a positive reading. So. Sure.

Should I even be telling you this?

I think so. Because I know you would want to share this with me. Even if it makes you sad.

Because you are my best friend.

I had been planning to go to yoga class this afternoon, but now I all I want is you and a toasted coconut donut. Anyway, I'm leaking progesterone now, and it makes me uncomfortable.

You should feel very proud of me. I never said the d-word or any other regrettable word even once and don't think I will this time. But I shall here and now make a rude and Queenly noise to express my vast displeasure and provocation whilst simultaneously keeping my clenching fists occupied and affirming the great and constant blessing of my life (to wit, you). Feel free to join in.

xoinfinity

Fortyfortyfortyforty-sixsixsixsixsixsix

So. Tired. And not because I am now forty-six, but because I had a long happy day of celebration. (Okay, I'm also underslept.) I came home tonight to what for me is a landslide of loving words from friends and family, and I am overjoyed! I hope the stories keep rolling in; I will never get tired of them. I'm looking forward to sitting down for a nice read tomorrow, when I will likely still be underslept but will have some time and space to enjoy and hopefully begin responding to the wonderful personal tales some of you have already shared. What a gift. Thank you.

Suddenly, 46 seems like the most wonderful age I could possibly be. How unexpected! And how delightful. I think I'll see if I can't make a habit of this—loving where and who I am right now.

Hugs, kisses, and (for now) a single parting shot to show you my birthday "cake"—could you just die?

Spring Chicken

This is the eve of the end of a curse. Not The Curse, as in: lady business, the pip, uterine jihad, the monthly statement, rejoicing in my womanhood, moon-time, flying Bravo, Miss Scarlett's comin' home to Tara, Aunt Flo's in town from Red River—no, not that. But The Curse certainly does have something to do with this other curse I'm thinking of. This curse, from my gram, wasn't likely something she knowingly put upon me; it was more like an inheritance. Maybe that's too strong a word. Did I win it at her estate auction? I don't know.

It's not my intention right here and right now to spell out the terms of the curse—I'm actually in the process of trying to write a screenplay, a fiction which is loosely based on this mysterious alleged hex, and so, muse willing, I will have that to share at some point. Might be good for a few laughs. We'll see.

But tomorrow is my birthday, and as it comes and goes, I will at last be beyond the cursed familial power of 45. That's right. My clock is about to strike 46. F-o-r-t-y-s-i-x. Gasp if you must. Today was the first day I have not gasped myself. In fact, today I actually warmed to the number, and warmed to concept of... are you sitting down? (I am.) MIDDLE AGE. I admit it. I'm there. And I feel it, but guess what? It feels lovely and alive, and not in the least decrepit. Today "middle age" did not seem like the bugaboo I have previously believed it to be. Hey, I've lived a long time! And I'm going to live a lot longer! Where's the problem in that? Would you rather I stayed 21 forever? Would I rather? No, surprisingly, I wouldn't. Or maybe not so surprisingly; I was kind of a dumbbell at 21, although I think a right lovable one.

Today I actually felt like an adult and enjoyed it—now, there's an oddity!—and I felt like a happy, productive one. A young one too; I believe and have seen ample proof in remarkable friends that youth and age/experience can and should coexist harmoniously in one person. (Somebody please remind me to talk about my 98-year-old role model Maureen Bullock later.) It requires effort to keep the two forces in balance, but I'm not opposed to work, and I do appreciate a challenge. All day today I worked on a happy home-fix-up project and dwelt on the question, "What could possibly be repugnant about living and enjoying every single age?" Every moment I am moving forward is a good moment. Who wants to stay in the same spot forever? Sounds repulsively stagnant, and boring on top of it. You should try to get over your 21 Forever fixation, people. It's not healthy. I don't care if you live in a college town or a military town or a hip young urban thing town. I am surrounded by perpetually 20something university students and it looks as though I am finally old enough to be everyone's mother. I like people of all ages, so that's okay. Sadly though, sometimes young friends weed themselves out when they don't enjoy befriending the "elderly." But the ones who stay? Solid gold grasshoppers.

Excuse me while I embrace my season. That's Mrs. Summer to you, spring chicken.

Two more items of business:

• My darling friend Erika (who is boldly unafraid of her elders) honored me with a special award which I will post about after my birthday. Meanwhile, why not visit her blog? Thank you, Erika! I think you are beautiful too. So very.

• I have a special request of you, in case you're interested. As I begin my birthday celebrations I'm trolling for presents. But the gift I would ask you for is to tell me a story about yourself. It can be birthday-related or not. One year I asked the people who love me to send me photos of themselves (and I'm still collecting these, if that heartfelt emotion applies to you), and this year's storytelling is just another way for me to enjoy a snapshot of you. Doesn't have to be long, though it certainly doesn't have to be short. If you want to email it to me my address is: pogofig at gmail dot com