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?)

A quiet week

Monday—April 6th—brought me a sunny little seven-year-old knocking on my door, holding out a squished fistful of pretty yellow harvested from my own front yard. Have you noticed that all it takes to turn a weed into a flower is for a loving child to pick and offer it? My sweet neighbor's honorable bouquet and her shy but eager hug gave me some needed strength.


Because April 6th is a a special date to me, I chose that evening, after our FHE, to take care of a Life Errand, something that I've been needing and wanting to do for a long time. Rob went with me and we sought out a favorite tree of mine, the one I was sitting beneath once when I saw the Grim Reaper making his way down the street and I actually laughed at him. (Have I told that story yet?)


(Seems ironic: I was the one in the cemetery, sitting on the tree's roots so long I felt I might turn into a granite statue, and fit right in with the other headstones. The Grim Reaper was in the middle of the road and doggedly stuck to the striped white line like he owned it, on the other side of the fence. I suppose he might actually own it, come to think of it. That's certainly where he picks up a lot of careless customers.)


I left a small piece of the past in this place, entrusted it to the care of this tree that's been around a long time. It's seen some things. It knows. Rob was with me when I laid down a token of a heartache that needs to be put to rest. I couldn't think of a better place or a more watchful guard. When the weather warms a bit more I will love sometimes to go and sit with my tree again, with turned thoughts.


Monday night I started a batch of horchata soaking. Tuesday I spent all morning finishing it (next time I will buy the cheesecloth instead of cheaping out and trying to strain the rice sludge through a flour sack towel) and shared it with lovely Wendy. Missed by a hair getting mashed by another big truck (not my fault!) on the way home and most of what was left of the horchata in the uncovered pitcher responded, true to the laws of physics, by soaking the dog car and a couple of library books. At least I had enough left to let Rob have a glassful with dinner.


Dried horchata residue looks simultaneously like a tree of life and a really big tongue.


Photo by Tony Randell, licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 2.0 License.

Wednesday I didn't take my Project 365 photo because I never could get my camera trained fast enough on the one subject that entertained me all day—a bold, beautiful scrub jay who's taken up residence at our house. I love these birds. They seem to choose favorite places to haunt, and not long ago when I was out walking in the 'hood, I noticed one of those houses, and started wishing for some blue birdy company. Interesting factoid: unlike many other species, scrub jays share their color equally between male and female. Both get to be bright. And bright they are, in multiple ways. Jays are so smart! My new friend hung around near the feeder and in the side yard for hours, and at one point stood in the center of my kitchen windowsill and stared me in the face in the most delightfully cheeky way. I hope he/she/(they) will stick around.


Thursday I did not go to the Jehovah's Witnesses' commemoration of the Last Supper. I did think about it though. Have I mentioned that I have been adopted as a project by a wonderful 17-year-old JW missionary girl? I really really like her, and suggested we do a cultural exchange where I go to her meetin' and she comes to hear me sing (while safely drowned out by real choir voices) at my church on Easter Sunday. She wasn't comfortable, and me, I just had to work late.


Today I had the great pleasure of offering some heartfelt birthday wishes . . .


. . . and also receiving some early birthday love.


After a ladies' lunch, I spent the rest of the day and night printing for my cousin and cousin-to-be while I listened to a favorite podcast. Over and over I made these words appear along with a suite of invitation pieces. That sums up well how I'm feeling right now: Thank You. Thank You. Thank You.

The stuff of Conference weekends: Saturday

General Conference is always a feast and, particularly on Saturday, it's also a marathon. There's a lot to absorb, and in between and around listening sessions there are meals and family time and extended family and friends time and hopefully a walk and . . . .

Rob and I watched GC via the internet, by ourselves at home. Rob brought in his "knitting" from the studio, which means he quietly worked on sewing together screens for a new papermaking mould. I broke out the laptop and tried to make notes about whatever grabbed me.

During the break between the morning and afternoon session, we went to Sam's Club where apparently it was Big Cheese Day—and oh, what samples! Cheese! Cheese and crackers! More cheeses! Lamb! (Lamb?!) Cheesecake! I thought we would be late getting home because Rob was so excited about one of the samples that he got back in a long line. Something went wrong and slowed the sample ladies way down. It's a good thing they finally delivered that extra lamb sample; I think Rob might have waited for it the rest of the day.

Later when the second conference session was over, Rob got ready and left to save seats for his dad and brothers for the priesthood session. That left me on my own till it was time to gather with the women of the family. I was pretty hungry (only had samples for lunch) so I looked in the fridge for a little non-cheese something to take the edge off my hunger, figuring I'd eat with the ladies in a while.

My eyes fell upon the last of the beautiful brown eggs. This was the one I'd been saving, my favorite of three dozen. Just look at the freckles, wouldja?



No kidding, I formed an emotional attachment to this egg. I'd originally thought of blowing out its insides so I could keep the shell, but decided instead to make A Symbolic Occasion of cooking and eating it. And so, with much ceremony and some olive oil, I fried it, I ate it, and then waxed appropriately appreciative and wistful. That was one delicious egg. Perfect.

Funny, though, it turned out to set the tone for the rest of the evening, which was focused entirely on eggs, chicks, and all their wonderful plumage—a hen party! Here's what happens when all the men go away for a few hours. (I need to amend that—there was one young nephew on the premises, but he had a date with a computer game.)


Decorating an Easter tree, wrapping eggs in onion skins, then bundling them with cloth and string for the dye pot.


My namesake, eating Easter grass.


The champion egg blower.


Our eggs after going onion skin-ny dipping. Pretty, no?


Fancy feathers!


An exotic bird.


They don't call them fascinators for nothing.


Chicks dig 'em!


Time to try some curls on the girls.


Rag rollers—for beauty on a budget. Quote of the night—while E. was enduring the terrible tuggings of the rag-rolling process, she waxed thoughtful: "When the men are gone, it's so peaceful."


E.'s BEFORE shot. (Just wait till Sunday!)

Any day I have hair is a good day

It's April, my month. I'm happy to welcome it. It's completely committed to spring—none of this one tentative foot in front yard violets and one foot still in winter business. Even if April happens to bring us a chill here and there, we're going forward into budding and blossoming life, and not backward. I woke up this morning feeling green and interested in putting extra energy into positive thoughts and language. Last month I was sick a long time; this month I want to be very well.

Ironically, I spent the 1st day of my month stomach-sick. Rob too. I had a reprieve long enough to have a lunch date with Bec o' my heart and spend a couple nice hours just talking. That was a break I was grateful for. She's such good company, and the sweet potato fries at Guru's are worth getting sick again for.

(Yesterday, the first day Rob and I came down with gut rot in earnest, all either of us could get successfully down was dried mango, a gift from our friend Paul. If you get this bug, I suggest you have somebody pick up a bag for you from Costco. And drink lots of water.)





(Not many left. See?)

Bec o' and I were celebrating our birthdays today—that was the excuse we used to go out anyhow. Before she came by to get me, I spent the morning cooking up a batch of an ancient Mediterranean beauty treatment—Halawah—to give her along with a cheesy note. Has anybody else tried sugaring before? It's strange and wonderful, not too painful, and is even nice on toast. I tested the stuff out to see if it actually works, and—voila!—I am defuzzed! I'm going to test out an original recipe next time, with rose water. Interested?







(Sorry, no action shots. Maybe next time.)

My other project today was finishing up an announcement design for my cousin and his bride-to-be. One more reminder of the season—pink! green! Their wedding colors! The combo puts me in mind of tulips. Two lips, get it?



(Last night was Pick Yer Pantones night. That's always fun.)

Speaking of colorful, Bec o' and I were discussing an idea for one of our next meetups: a trip to the wig shop to try out some new hairdos. This is actually more than just fun for me, though it's sure to be that. This alopecia I've been wrangling since my surgery has turned aggressive in the past few months, and if it keeps going this way much longer, we're all of us in for a rude shock. Baldness! Ack! Devastation! O, vanity! It's funny, and I do so try to appreciate the humor in the situation, the way the current attack has played out; this go-round all the big patches which have ejected hair are hiding beneath the veil of my part. I seem to be crossing the line between alopecia areata and alopecia totalis in a sneaky way. The people who know I have this disorder say, encouragingly, "Oh, you can't tell at all! I don't see a thing wrong!" All the while, a quarter of my head and rising is attemtpting to embrace my inner Sinead. It's as if my scalp is trying to spare us all the sight for as long as possible. One day I'll wake up and it will be like my hair fell out overnight.

I'm working on coming to terms with what seems inevitable. Rob tries to downplay it, bless his loving intentions. I have one friend who seems to get it, and he is losing his hair himself this week to chemo. He tells me he is "pissed on women's behalf" because it's not so acceptable to go around sans hair as it is for men. He tells me, perhaps a little too optimistically, I'd look "fantastic and boldly beautiful without the bandana." But this is a man who has yet to see me in person.

Anyway. I asked Rob yesterday what color wig I should get if I ever go that route. He joked, "Chartreuse." Don't put it past me. If I have to lose my own, I may invest in technicolor. I'll take a flamboyant wardrobe of coiffures, thank you. Lots of people are stocking up on beans and wheat to see them through hard times. Me, I think I'll put away some henna tattoo kits and some synthetic bobs for leaner days.

For now, I've decided to adopt the philosophy that any day I have hair is a good day. If my hair finally goes, then I'll pick something else to appreciate.

Like tulips. Two lips, get it?







(I look positively shaggy in these! The grand illusion!)

Anybody want to donate some locks of love?

Listening

As I left the scene of GLO (Girls’ Lunch Out) this afternoon, I was hailed by a church friend I’ve gotten chummy with over the past season. It was interesting to see each other “away from the Establishment,” as he put it—interesting because he was in the mood to pour out some personal information, and I was in the mood to listen. Among other things, he talked about being gay (“You knew I was gay, right? Couldn’t you tell? I mean, didn’t you ever wonder?”) but quickly corrected himself and said he didn’t like to use that term because it tries to define who he is rather than simply what he feels, which is “same-gender attraction,” a passion he’s decided he no longer wants to indulge. He’s been clean, so to speak, for two years and some change. We knocked knuckles in celebration. Hey, we all have something we need to keep a lid on, he said, in essence.

He told me that he’s finally finished with trying to “do women”, and that being gay (the term remains for him a convenient if misleading shorthand) isn’t a bad thing. It isn’t wrong to simply feel what he feels. Feeling isn’t doing. He can be righteous; he can be close to God, and he’s relieved he doesn’t have to get married to achieve that. He’s moving to San Francisco in six months. I’m sorry he’s leaving. He said he needs to go somewhere he can make an actual living writing about art and culture. How will going there be for you, I asked, considering your resolve to abstain? He thinks it will work. He just has to get prepared in other ways, like laying aside the self-medicating he does to soothe his mental illness and loneliness. If he can quit “hitting the bottle” and get himself together and ready, he knows he can handle it. He has friends. He has a fabulous dog, “the dog of my life.”

He confessed to me that while he was still trying to do women, he spotted me at church and asked a friend’s wife, “Who is that—the one who looks like a university professor?” (Explaining to me: “I don’t like floozies.”) I was the one female, he said, who really did it for him. “But then, there was your husband,” he said, “so I guess it wasn’t meant to be.” I already knew he loves the actress Isabelle Huppert and that I remind him of her. (“She doesn’t even have to speak because she can communicate so well with her eyes.”) He told me that the woman who does it for him most of all is NBC’s Ann Curry. If he could get Ann Curry, things would be different. He stayed up all night once last week watching her on YouTube.

When we were about to part company I told him I was going to stop in to visit a friend downtown, someone I thought we both knew. “Is he cute?” he giggled. The name I dropped didn’t ring any bells, so I described the fellow as being slightly teddy bearish. My friend laughed at this, telling me there is a whole classification of gays called bears and described several of its subsets—almost too much information. He vehemently warned me away from Mister Bear pageants, and pride celebrations. “People take their kids to those! Children shouldn’t see some of that stuff. You shouldn’t see it. Nobody should. It’s way over the top.” His eyes grew strained as he spoke.

He feels that the Church is actually enlightened about gays, compassionate. He praised a talk by Apostle Jeffrey R. Holland. He is grateful, and hopeful. I am astonished by all my friend carries through life. I love him more than ever for this greater revelation of his intelligence, endurance, and faith. I understand deep wounds, the need for behavioral lids, and the surrender of certain aching dreams, but—honestly?—I have no idea. “People have been telling me,” he said, “‘Hey, man, I voted for you—I voted for Proposition 8!’” He shrugged at this, laughed ironically, and looked into my eyes, perplexed. “‘Why?’ I ask them, ‘I don’t want to marry a guy! Marriage is . . . marriage.’”

This one's dedicated to my favorite Barbie (and to b.)

Growing Up Skipper, I'll never forget you.

And Betty Jenkins, I'll never forget your fabulous story.

Friends, one of these days I will write a real blog post, but not today. I'm too busy catching up on favorite podcasts while I'm busy catching up on dishes.

Really, you must listen to Betty. Please. And tell me if you manage not to pee your pants laughing.

If I had a hammer . . . wait, I do have a hammer . . .

My favorite personal holiday has come and nearly gone for the year—just a quarter of an hour left of March Forth.

What? You don't celebrate March Forth? You don't know what I'm talking about?

Obviously we need to walk together for a moment down memory lane . . . and see what we can find on the sidewalk.

Now, wasn't that educational? Don't you want to join me in Marching Forth? Well, as the smug founder of this great day, I grant you permission to celebrate it on the 5th this year, in case you missed your chance. Can't hold it against you if you simply didn't know, poor thing. In fact, why don't you spend the rest of the week Marching Forth? Just choose something worth marching for, preferably something new, and go for it.

What did I do today? I got in touch with my inner construction worker, and I found that I kind of like her. I am going to be sore tomorrow, but after moving furniture (including a 35-ton antique piano, with Rob's generous help) so the living room floor and also now the dining room floor can be sanded and painted and refinished this week (by yours truly, Queen of the March), and after a somewhat disheartening talk with Rob about construction/budget issues, I took hammer and crowbar in hand and started the next phase of change all by myself. Whack! Smack! Pry-pry-pry-PRY, creeeeeaaak, wham! Crash! Crumble! (Angels singing.) Whirrrr! OW!

I've got the molding and floorboards off now, and all but part of one door frame. I used the shop vac repeatedly to try to keep the fallout under some kind of control, but it's gotten beyond me. Thanks to Rob's careful and clever switch-flipping at the fuse box, I did not electrocute myself. I am now completely worn out. But man, am I marching.

I hope I can move tomorrow. I refuse to let lathe and plaster be the bedriddening of me. Maybe I need to swallow a nurse-dose of ibuprofen right now, just so I'm ready.

Tomorrow, I rent a 150-pound sander and spend the day with it. Please pray it doesn't turn on me.

I'm a lover, not a luver

I was released from my calling in my ward's Young Women presidency a month-and-a-half ago, only to be called right back into the organization last week, this time as assistant camp director. Don't know why, but it seems this is where I belong, with the teenage girls. I wasn't the most successful one myself, so I wonder what these 'leventy-million opportunities to work with kids have been about, lo, these past thirteen years. 13! One of my lucky numbers!

Tonight, at least, I am persuaded that this latest opportunity to serve came in small part so that I could introduce the concept of sexism to one of my Laurels, our sweet self-appointed sophisticate, our diva-in-process. She recently loaned me two books (for which just a tad of sleuthing around on this page will produce the twin titles). I spent the next few days in a heavy bipolar funk and these fat best-sellers supplied me with enough low-investment busywork to keep me somewhat distracted till I made it out of that dark place. About all I did during that time was read. Did I enjoy them? In a way. I certainly got through them in a hurry—over 1000 pages in far less than 72 hours. But I had many residual beefs, and tonight, when my beloved Opera Miss finally quizzed me about my take on the books, I gave it to her gently and broadly, but straight. Judging from her reaction, I think that she isn't fully aware of the meaning of "sexist," but I'm pretty sure the word lodged neatly in her brain and will stick there till her understanding grows. She did, however, seem to get it when I said that the books' heroine was weak because she allowed, and even relied upon, another person—a boy, of course—to call the shots, set the standards, draw the limits, etc., and that she was willing to trade everything—her family, her life, her future, her ability to contribute to her world, ad nauesum—for love, or rather, for LUV. I took issue with the points that nothing is more important than LUV and that LUV conquers all. Of course, love is at the heart of everything good, but it ain't necessarily at the heart of LUV. I told her that this wasn't my idea of true romance, or a great character, or real sacrifice. I did say I often thought as I read the books how glad I was that "our girls" are making better choices. (What I didn't say was that I am concerned that this may not continue to be the case for some of them.) I did smile a wry inward smile when, in the middle of my requested book report, which was received in a feeling-after-adulthood quasi-knowing style, lovely Opera Miss interrupted me and girlishly asked:

"So, who do you like better? Edward or Joseph?"

Um . . . the vampire? or the werewolf? Hard choice. How about no more steady boyfriends till you figure out "sexist"?

I didn't enumerate my more minute criticisms, which include but are far from limited to:

•Don't lie to your family.
•Don't use people.
•Learn to be secure in yourself—without a boyfriend, already!
•Don't have your boyfriend stay with you at night on the sly or otherwise, and especially not in your bed.
•When you get a bad feeling about something, trust it instead of fighting against it.
•How come a homegirl from BYU isn't writing more moral strength into her female character?

I swear, I didn't get up on my soapbox. I just answered my young friend's question because she wanted to hear what I thought. But I do know when to quit. When I did we went cheerfully back to our ongoing hammock-making project with the rest of the Tuesday evening group: ripping old bedsheets into strips, sewing the pieces together, and winding them up into fat fabric yarn balls. Teamwork. In two weeks I'll bring the wood supports and introduce the girls to power tools.

Nicely, my Opera Miss and I discovered that we both adore Cyrano de Bergerac, and twittered on about that a while, in a totally different, giddy, gushy tone. You see? I do loves me a good love story.