New Year's Resolutions (What I'm NOT going to do.)

I'm not a big fan of resolutions. Maybe it's because I'm already really good at stressing myself out, but giving myself one more list of things to do (and they are usually really BIG things) just seems like a prescription for nuttiness--and we all know I have plenty of that already!

Also, I may be a lot like Calvin. I think most of us are. After all, it's always easier to talk about how other people need to change than to change ourselves.

But change is actually something I'm a big fan of. Well, let me restate that: self-induced and self-aware change is very thrilling to me. Change that comes from the outside is usually pretty frightening and makes me at the very least catty and at the very worst non-functioning. So, in the spirit of embracing self-aware change in my life (because maybe if I embrace self-aware change I can keep the bad change away??), I am making a single resolution: stop volunteering for stuff.

If you know me in my personal life, you know that I spend a lot of time starting projects and not always finishing them because I end up volunteering to do some other project for someone else. For instance, I have the beginnings of 5 novels written (and some of those novels are almost completely outlined) but I have no finished manuscript. This blog is another good example. I still have it up as a resource and because I intend to post on a number of topics but, well, I don't because I'm spending time planning my Primary lessons, or getting ready for the book club at my kids' elementary school (that I'm helping with), or putting together stuff for the Odyssey of the Mind program I'm running, or running my kids between soccer practices and piano lessons and doctor/orthodontist appointments, and who knows what else!

Now, I firmly believe this is a phase of life thing and that spending time with my kids doing enriching and challenging activities is a great thing but that doesn't stop me from being jealous when someone else finishes a project that doesn't involve their children. Hence my resolution: stop volunteering for stuff!! All those things that keep me crazy-busy and up till all hours of the night are things I volunteered to do. I can make better choices.

My resolution last year was to finish up some unfinished projects. I almost completed one (catching up my kids journals). I made some headway on another (family scrapbook). I started shopping a manuscript for a children's book (it's gotten one rejection, one "ask again later", and one I haven't heard back on yet). And I started exercising again and got rid of my back pain. Also, none of my children died or went hungry or naked and my marriage is intact. See? It was a GREAT year!

I'm hoping my resolution this year to STOP VOLUNTEERING FOR STUFF, LAURA!! (I'm putting it in caps as a way of yelling at myself, not as you, my lovely readers!) will aid me in accomplishing last year's goal of actually finishing what I start.

Wish me luck! How about you? Got any good what-not-to-do resolutions??

Paying my Children to go to Church !?!?!

You know it's going to be a good Sunday when all four kids have broken down in tears and stomped the feet repeatedly and wailing, "I won't go! You can't make me!!"

Ahh, you could just revel in those sweet Sabbath morning sounds.

Usually at least two of my children pitch fits about Church, but this morning was over the top with three of them desperately trying to get out of their weekly ecumenical obligations. See, the Little Cannoli has been sick for the past week and last night she cried and cried. I took her to Urgent Care this morning to get her ears checked, but they were all clear. The doctor looked at me, smiled and said, "It's just cold!" Little Cannoli needed a nap and since she was (is) feverish there was no way she was going to Church. That means one of us adults had to stay home.

After the DH and I negotiated for a good five or six minutes about who needed a nap more (it was super sophisticated of us, "Me!" "I'm SO tired, though!" "Me, too!" "Nu-uh. I'm more tired." "No, I am!" "You have more jobs at Church. You have to go." "Not this week, I don't." "But I don't WANT to!" Yeah, we weren't at our best either. . .) the DH finally bit the bullet and said he would take the kids. Heaven bless him!!

When the kids found out I wasn't going the weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth began. Supergirl E and Mr. J were easily bought off with snacks. But Princess N was holding firm. She had drawn her line in the sand and wasn't budging. There was no way she was going to Church without me unless the DH carried her kicking and screaming. After talking with her for awhile, she admitted she was worried he wouldn't make it to Primary to pick her up on time and she would left all alone in the Primary room. There was more back and forth and finally I said, "You can trust your dad. He will be there. I promise!"

Princess N rolled her eyes, "Pu-lease. Yeah right."

And then it came out of my mouth: "I'm so certain you can trust him that I will give you $3 if he doesn't show up on time."

"Seriously? $3? 300 pennies worth of money?" Her tears immediately dried up and her eyes gleamed like Donald Trump's do every time he fires someone.

"I trust him so much I'm willing to put a bet down," I said. "Not that YOU should ever bet. Especially on a Sunday. Because gambling is bad. . . but your DAD is not."

"$3, huh? All right." She then turned to her siblings, "Hey guys! Mom's gonna pay us money to go with Dad!"

See? Getting your kids to Church is easy as pie. You just have to pay them :P

"The Diet Coke" by . . . ME!

Hi friends!

A short story of mine was posted this morning over at Wilderness Interface Zone. It's all about Mormon teenage rebellion, which of course starts with everyone's favorite caffeinated beverage!

And, yes, I have a real post on it's way but we have eight days until school starts here so things are getting busy, busy, busy. Hopefully I'll get that other post up sometime this week.

Love,

Laura

An Open Letter to My Mother (Happy Mother's Day!)

Dear Mom--

You probably guessed by the fact that I posted something on your Facebook wall that I didn't get your gift in the mail. Yeah. It's sitting in a pile on my "projects-that-need-immediate-attention" counter, right on top of your birthday cards. Sorry. Again.

I know that nothing I could write in 420 characters or less is really a good substitute for a Mother's Day gift. After all, you were in labor with me for how many hours? 12? 20? 36? And we won't mention the countless hours in doctor/dentist/orthodontists offices. Or the countless meals and loads of laundry. When I think about it that way, even if I got my gift to you on time it wouldn't even up the score.

So, why the open letter on my blog? Two words: Mother Guilt.

Remember when I was young and wore flowy dresses all the time? You know, the ones that I was constantly staining with the dandelions that I never did figure out how to make into crowns? Those were the days when, if wasn't wearing a dress, I was wearing my swimsuit and standing on top of the jungle gym singing my guts out. Those were the days that I used to go to your community health education classes and "help" you teach by drawing on the whiteboard and playing with the example baby and CPR dummies. Those were the days that I was carefree and I was your daughter and, most importantly, you were mine.

My mother-- the lady who picked me up from kindergarten and took me to the KFC drive-through for those chicken nugget sandwiches that were the perfect size for little fingers. The one who actually watched me at my swim lessons and willingly retold the story of how I jumped in the pool when I was less than two years old because I was destined to be a good swimmer. The one who had the nerve to tell me that all the kids at the bus stop were making fun of me because I was acting like, well, like a geek.

I don't remember when exactly it was, but there came a point--probably during my tween years--when I realized that you weren't just mine. There were things you had to do for other people. And things you had to do for yourself. I know you knew I didn't get it. You'd get this far away look on your face and a sort of heaviness would settle on you.

There was the day you told me about a box. That there was this box inside you. And it kept getting smaller. And darker. And you felt like you couldn't breathe because, even though the box was inside you, you were inside the box. So you were going to go back to school. You were going to try working. You were going to get out of that box. You weren't going to suffocate.

The look you gave me then--that searching look in your eyes, that lift in your eyebrows, the dip of your shoulders--that was the look of Mother Guilt. I know it is because I have looked at my own children with searching eyes, lifting my eyebrows, and slouching my shoulders. And what I feel is a crushing, frustrating feeling of Less Than: Of being less than the other women around me; of being less than my children want and need me to be; of being less than I want myself to be; of Mother Guilt.

I bet that when I was young there were times I told you I hated you. I probably slammed my door and yelled. I probably called you names and tried to sneak around you. I don't remember any specific thing, but I bet you do. I know I remember all the times my kids have yelled at me and said they hate me. Those moments were so shocking that they are seared into my memory. The pain of those moments fades with time but the memory of them is uncanny. And that give me a new kind of mother guilt.

Did I mention I was sorry?

A lot of folks at Mother's Day talk about how perfect their moms were/are, how preternaturally perfect women in general are. But you and I both know that while women the world over may have natural inclinations toward goodness, beauty, and truth they are also human and frighteningly imperfect. I remember the pain I felt as a child when you let me down and I now know the flip side of that pain when I let my own children down. None of us are immune from the frailties of mortality, not even mothers.

But here's the important thing. Mom, please don't skip this part. I'm glad that you weren't perfect. It's okay. In fact, it's more than okay. It's exactly as it should be. Please know that I learned and grew from the moments that you were wonderful and the moments that you weren't. Honestly, I wouldn't have you any other way.

Now, since you are a mother I'm pretty sure that you will still feel sad and embarrassed that you ever had shortcomings. You will wish I didn't mention them here. I bring them up only to let you know that I love you--and not just in spite of, but rather because of.

Because you had shortcoming and struggles and difficulties, I knew it was okay when I started to flounder. I knew it was okay when I started to question and wonder. Those things made you a person and, over time, made me into a person. So while neither of us are cardboard cutouts of Donna Reed, pictures of perfection in shirtwaist dresses and pearls, we are real. When people look at us they know what they are getting. And that's a good thing.

I love you, Mom. I love your good intentions and sensitive heart, your tenacity, your sense of humor. I love you like a daughter loves her mother and like a woman loves her friend. I hope you hear that love in my voice when I call you just because I'm bored or when I solicit your advice because my kids are sick. I hope it shines between the lines of Facebook messages and emails. And I hope you feel it now radiating across the ether.

I love you.

Happy Mother's Day.

And, yes, I will put your present (and birthday cards!) in the mail tomorrow.

Love,

Laura

New Year's Resolutions and Changes to the Blog

So I am aware that it is now the second week of March. It is officially too late to blog about New Year's Resolutions, but I'm going for it anyway.

(As a side note, it would be very interesting to me to go back and see how many posts I start with the word "so". It's probably nearly every one. So . . .)

Resolutions have a pretty mixed implications for those of us in the mood disordered world. On the one hand we usually know there are ways we could stand to improve our lives and (unless we're really feeling low) we'd like to change for the better. Of course, on the other hand, we are prone to guilt complexes and anxiety that can make it almost impossible to stick with goals long term. Not to mention the fact that the stuff we have to do (therapy appointment, psych evaluations, extra sleep, etc.) to stay mentally healthy take up a fair amount of extra time and energy. It seems like good mental health is my perennial goal.

Even understanding all that every year around January 1st, I spend days pondering on what I can do to make my life better without stressing myself out. This year I almost resolved not to do anything. I'm feeling pretty good these days; why mess with what works? But then I realized that my writing brain was reasserting itself and I started getting grand ideas about NaNoWriMo. For about two weeks I resolved to participate in that this year. I started trying to figure out how I was going to write 50,000 words in a single month and how many things were going to have to go and what kind of planning was needed. Somewhere along in there is when I realized that more than I needed to have another draft of some unfinished piece of writing I needed to have a finished piece of work I was proud of.

One of my biggest weaknesses as a writer is that I am horrible at seeing projects through the revision process. I love brainstorming ideas. I enjoy the rough drafting. I especially love telling people that I am working on something fabulous. But fairly often I don't seem things through. I seldom finish and polish a piece--especially long things.

I like to blame this on the cyclic nature of my mood disorder. I go through those up periods where I'm feeling great and agree to do everything under the sun and then I inevitably hit a slump and find myself begging off projects or just ignoring them altogether. To any of you readers who have been with me through this process, I sincerely apologize. Really.

My mood disorder is probably only part of the problem, though. I'd love to use it as an excuse, but you (Dear Reader) and I both know that mood disorders are not an excuse for bad behavior. Rather they are just one more thing to work with. Everybody and anybody can come up with excuses for why they can't do things. Strong people come up with reasons why they can do it anyway.

All of that finally brings me to my actual resolution: to finish the unfinished projects. That means I'm going to finally get the rest of my food storage out of my friend's basement (Sorry, Kelly!). I'm going to finish getting the garden put in. I'm going to finish that paper on Stephanie Meyer that I've started about a gagillion times. I'm going to get those half written blog posts dusted off and polished and posted. I'm going to catch up the scrapbook and my kids' journals.

Okay, well, I might not actually finish all those things, real life (and the crazies) might get in the way, but I'm certainly going to try. And I'm not going to sign on to anything else until I get those big things done.

Another part of getting the big things done is transitioning this blog a little big. I've wanted to write about a number of things here but feel like I can't. I guess in my brain I've defined this as a place where I am going to write about mental health issues and mental health issues only. I don't think that's really working for me anymore. So I'm going to widen the scope of this blog and lean a little bit more in the Mommy Blog direction. Don't worry. I'm not going to start posting things like "How to Use a Bulb Syringe" or "I made the most awesomest cupcakes ever!" or even "My kids are better than your kids because ______". It's more like I want to start blogging about my mental health in the context of my roles as a wife and mother and in the context of my church callings. Also, I need a place to organize my thoughts and post all the info I've been gathering about different things (like my son's experiences with eczema, gluten free diets, and sleep disorders and my oldest daughter's experience with hemolytic uremic syndrome). My blog seems like the most logical place to do it.

I hope the changes don't drive you away. If you skip some posts simply because they aren't interesting to you I totally understand. But it just seems like it's time for this place to evolve a little.

I'm interested, what are your New Year's Resolutions? Now that it's March how are you doing with them?

15 Authors in 15 Minutes--Mormon Style!

A challenge over at A Motley Vision! I sure hope you all weigh in :)

P.S. Hopefully I will be able to put together an on-topic post for you all soon. I've been ruminating on depression and personal revelation. . .

Ammonihah Revisited--the reader's theater!

Hi folks. A while ago our ward seminary teacher asked me to write a reader's theater about Ammonihah for one of her lessons. I was honored that she asked me and delighted with the opportunity. There wasn't a lot online when I researched and wrote this so I decided to post mine here. I've been meaning to go back and cite all the scriptures that I used, but I haven't had the time. Look around in Alma; you'll find 'em. It's a little serious and a little campy, and our seminary students really enjoyed it. If you'd like to use it for Church or seminary feel free, just email me at lolapalooza AT hotmail DOT com with Ammonihah in the subject line so I know (I'd love to see if/where this things travels) and be sure to run it past your bishop. I mean, I don't think it's controversial but you never know how people will take these things! Enjoy!

Also, check out my post at A Motley Vision about writing for Church assignments. And please leave a comment if you feel inspired--I promise the AMVers won't be mean!

ANCHOR (in best, most serious, news broadcaster voice): Good Evening and welcome to a special broadcast, Ammonihah Revisited: Destruction from God or Impending Lamanite Scourge? Tonight we will be exploring the history of that great city Ammonihah—examining its culture, its peoples, and its torrid religious history—all in the effort to answer the question on everyone’s minds. Was it, as the so-called prophet Alma declared, “the anger of God”? Or was it simply an ironically timed attack by vicious Lamanite war mongrels? However, before we get into our story this evening we here at the Nephite News Network wish to offer our condolences to those whose lives have been scarred by this horrible tragedy. Now, we turn to our first correspondent, Sariah, to take us into the lives of the Ammonihah-ites. Who were they? What did they do? And could it be possible that its destruction was an act of God? Sariah, we turn to you for answers.

SARIAH: Ammonihah was like most other Nephite cities: lively and bustling with commerce and culture. People here enjoyed prosperity, ruled by judges and receiving the fair sum of a senine of gold or silver for a day’s work. However, the lives of the people of Ammonihah were shaped most recently by the debate between three men: the Nephite “prophet” Alma and his partner-in-proselyting Amulek and, on the other side, Zeezrom a skilled and high-profile lawyer who was known for his ability to make people eat their words. Most of our viewers probably remember these debates well and remember the main points they were centered on: the existence of God and His intentions for the Nephite people--especially the Ammonihah-ites, a majority of whom did not believe in God at all. Zeezrom even went so far as to offer Amulek money to consider his way of thinking, but Amulek was firm and repeatedly stated his beliefs regarding the existence of a supreme being and the importance of keeping that Being’s commandments, saying, “An angel hath made [these things] known unto me.” Alma probably did more to incite the people and Zeezrom than Amulek, contending that the people of Ammonihah were wicked and making, what seemed at the time, ridiculous threats of destruction. Alma claimed, “O ye wicked and perverse generation . . . repent, or [God] will utterly destroy you from off the face of the earth; yea, he will visit you in his anger, and in his fierce anger he will not turn away.” Their teaching turned especially powerful as they spoke of a Christ, an atonement, and a resurrection. Zeezrom claimed that both were liars but as Alma continued to preach Zeezrom’s resolve faltered and he threw himself in front of the judges of the land, begging for Alma and Amulek’s release. We turn now to file footage of an eye witness to Zeezrom’s retraction.

EYEWITNESS: I was there when Alma and Amulek were speaking and even I was a little convinced. Well, not convinced so much as swayed. But as soon as they stopped speaking I came back to my senses. Zeezrom wasn’t so lucky, just like a bunch of my neighbors. They seemed to actually believe what Alma had said about repentance and God and eternal life. I saw Zeezrom just a while after his confrontation with Alma and Amulek and the guy was still shaking. It was crazy! I mean, he ran right in to the judges and said, “Behold, I am guilty, and these men are spotless before God.” He looked all of us in the eyes as he said it and, I have to admit, he was convincing, but then I remembered that Zeezrom was a lawyer and couldn’t be trusted. I spit on him and told him to get out. We all did. That’s when everyone started throwing rocks and all the believers took off.

SARIAH: Zeezrom recuperated with Alma and Amulek’s other escapsed followers in Sidom. People were slow to believe that claims that Zeezrom was baptized by Alma, but we have confirmation of that fact tonight. Zeezrom himself said, “Yea, I believe according to [their] words.”

ANCHOR: Thank you Sariah. Even after Zeezrom left Ammonihah continued to make headlines when the judges imprisoned—some would say unlawfully—Alma and Amulek. Then in a savage and ill-advised stroke the Ammonihah-ites proved their reputation as especially hard and wicked people to be true. They gathered together the remaining believers and burned their women and children, along with their scriptures. As Alma and Amulek were forced to look on Alma reportedly told Amulek, “The Spirit constraineth me that I must not stretch forth mine hand; for behold the Lord receiveth them up unto himself, in glory; and he doth suffer that they may do this thing, or that the people may do this thing unto them, according to the hardness of their hearts, that the judgments which he shall exercise upon them in his wrath may be just.” It was then that people remembered what Alma had said about God destroying Ammonihah. We turn now to another correspondent, Jerusha, to fill us in on the beginning of that destruction.

JERUSHA: With the smoke still rising from the burned scrolls and bodies, Alma and Amulek were again imprisoned—but this time they were mocked and abused. In the face of so many gruesome deaths other people might have backed away from more violence. But not those in Ammonihah. According to sources, they were just getting started. I have with me one guard who was willing to tell what he observed. Although we are keeping his face shadowed to protect his identity, this man did work for the judges in the now obliterated Ammonihah prison.

GUARD: Well, um, it was hard, you know. I think it would take a real mean person to not feel bad after what happened to all those women and children.

JERUSHA: Wait one moment. Are you saying you are a follower of Alma and Amulek?

GUARD: I wasn’t then. But I am now. And, you know, even if you don’t believe the same as someone, well, there are still laws and morals. The people who threw others into the fire were evil and they kept being evil once they got their hands on Alma and Amulek. They starved them and beat them and kept making fun of them. Shouting things like, “If you’re so powerful then free yourselves.” Or, “If your God is so great then how come he didn’t save his followers?” It was obvious from the looks on their faces that Alma and Amulek were disheartened and hurting, but once they got a moment alone they mustered their strength and they did the most surprising thing. . .

JERUSHA: They attacked the guards?

GUARD: No. The entire time they were imprisoned they were honorable. No, what they did was pray. I’ve never heard a prayer like that one. Alma stood up and in a voice that pierced all of us within earshot called out, “How long shall we suffer these great afflictions, O Lord? O Lord, give us strength according to our faith which is in Christ, even unto deliverance.” By the time Alma got to “deliverance” it seemed like the air was vibrating around them. There was just this power, you know, and, wham!, their ropes broke. Now I know the man who tied those ropes and they weren’t meant to come off.

JERUSHA: What are saying? What kind of power are you implying?

GUARD: Well, at the time I didn’t know exactly what kind. But it was an undeniable power—the air itself seemed to crack and shimmer—and the moment those ropes hit the ground they sent out shockwaves and the walls crumbled. Alma and Amulek were fine and I made it out with only a few injuries, but a lot of men were lost in the rubble. Maybe it was the shock or maybe people were starting to think Alma could wipe Ammonihah off the map or maybe they were thinking about what kind of power Alma’s God really has, but nobody protested when those two guys walked out of the city. To be honest, I wasn’t the only one who followed those two right out the gates. I’d seen enough and I was sick of wickedness parading as justice. I knew what they said was coming was true. I threw in my lot with them and never looked back.

JERUSHA: Thank you for your story. The result of the quake at the prison was complete destruction. As our witness said very few survived and nobody but Alma and Amulek walked away unscathed. People in Ammonihah were subdued for the time, perhaps even scared. But nobody imagined the terror that awaited them.

ANCHOR: Now we turn to our final correspondent to detail the end of Ammonihah. Gid, for many of the Ammonihah-ites that morning started out like any other. Correct?

GID: That’s exactly right. In fact, the period directly before the siege of Ammonihah was one marked by peace. It had been about a year since the destruction of the prison and the people in Ammonihah had put their own spin on those events, discounting Alma’s words saying it was the power of the devil. However, one clear morning, a group of Lamanites who had been attacking the Anti-Nephi-Lehies changed their minds and decided to attack the Nephites who they felt had caused all the trouble with the Anti-Nephi-Lehies in the first place. They snuck into the land of Ammonihah’s through the wilderness borders and the carnage was immediate. Before the Ammonihah-ites could even begin to raise an army the Lamanites were laying waste to them and their powerful city. The attack was swift and bloody. Spending less than a day in Ammonihah the Lamanite scourge moved on to other cities. A few days later when a scouting group from the city of Noah returned from Ammonihah their report was startling. Heaps of bodies mangled by wild animals were all that was found. It was clear that no one was left in Ammonihah. The scouting group covered the bodies in a layer of dirt but the destruction was so complete and the smell so bad our crew couldn’t even make it into the city itself to investigate. Interestingly, people in these parts no longer refer to Ammonihah by its name or even as a great city. Now they simply call it “Desolation.”

ANCHOR: An apt name for a city that suffered such an ignominious doom—one that will forever haunt Nephi civilization. But what of Alma and Amulek, these prophets who not only foretold the destruction but claimed that the very people destroyed brought it on themselves through their evil? Tonight we conclude our broadcast with a statement from them. We invited them for interview but they declined saying that “the work of establishing the Lord’s church” was keeping them too busy—which is understandable considering the number of converts they’ve found in cities all over the land of Nephi. People, both Nephite and Lamanite, are returning to the ways of their forefathers. Now, the letter:

ALMA: “[We would remind you of ] faith—faith is not to have a perfect knowledge of things; therefore if ye have faith ye hope for things which are not seen, which are true.”

AMULEK: “[Our] brethren, [we] think that it is impossible that ye should be ignorant of the things which have been spoken concerning the coming of Christ, who is taught by us to be the Son of God; yea, [we] know that these things were taught unto you bountifully before your dissension from among us. [We exhort] you to prepare your minds; yea, and [we exhort] you unto faith and to patience . . . that ye may try the experiment of its goodness.”

ALMA: “[We] testify unto you of [ourselves] that these things are true. Behold, [we] say unto you, that [we] do know that Christ shall come among the children of men, to take upon him the transgressions of his people, and that he shall atone for the sins of the world; for the Lord God hath spoken it. Yea, [we] would that ye would come forth and harden not your hearts any longer; for behold, now is the time and the day of your salvation.”

ANCHOR: There you have the words of Alma and Amulek. And indeed, many who have heard their teachings say that a new spirit of peace is filling the land. So, was the destruction of Ammonihah the fulfillment of prophecy? Or was it just another example of savage Lamanite hostilities? Like so many other things in our history, the answer to that question seems to come down to individual belief. Alma and Amulek themselves proposed an experiment, a testing of belief. We encourage you, our viewers, to try this experiment and share your thoughts by logging on to our website at NNN.com/experiment. Thank you for sharing this journey with us. From all of us at the Nephite News Network in Zarahemla, good night.

How do you (gently) turn down the missionaries?

You know all those old jokes about how Mormons are always getting mistaken for Jehovah's Witnesses (and vice versa)? Well, I'm living that joke and it feels more like the Twilight Zone than anything else.

Here's the situation: for the last few Saturday mornings two sweet Jehovah's Witness sister missionaries have been stopping by to share a scripture with me and bear their testimony of God's love. They usually stay for about five minutes and chat with the kids and ask about my life and then open up their Bibles. (Side question: Do they use the NIV? Because theirs is slightly modernized and sounds a little different, and my inner literati wants to know.) They smile so big and they are so genuine, I think they think I'm their golden investigator!

The first time they stopped by I made sure to mention that I was Mormon twice during our discussion and I even mentioned the Book of Mormon and that we read it every single day as a family. I think what the JW missionaries heard was "Yes, we're religious and we'd love to hear what you have to say!" But the truth is, I don't want to hear what they have to say--at least not in the way they want me to. I DO want to be respectful. I DO want them to know that I am happy that they have a testimony of Jesus and His love for them. I DO want them to know that I appreciate their good intentions. But I also want them to know that I am deeply committed to the religion I have and that they are not going to change my mind. I don't want to be a Jehovah's Witness. I'm a Mormon, a Latter-day Saint, and I firmly believe that the priesthood we have and the covenants I have made make the LDS church the right one for me. However,I don't want to be rude or insensitive to their beliefs. I also don't want to waste their time.

I have to admit that the part of me that was a ward missionary back in college keeps thinking that there must be a way to turn this around and share my beliefs with them. Who knows, maybe THEY are the golden investigators and they just don't know it! Doesn't that sound like the kind of story that would make the Ensign or a General Conference talk?

But that's just the thing. That's a story. Not real life with real people. Real people and real testimonies are a lot more complicated. I want to do right by these women because I know that they are doing the thing that they believe in and I respect that. And I think about our missionaries and how I want them treated even when people are not interested and I hope that they are being nice to them too. There's some sort of missionary karma out there, I'm sure. Politely letting them down seems like the right thing to do. I just don't know how!

The whole thing is so ironic because we used to live about a block from a Kingdom Hall and we saw the JW missionaries ALL the TIME. They knew that our neighborhood had been completely tracted out and the most they were going to get from us was an offer to give them a cool beverage. But now that we're in a different spot they just keep coming back.

What would you guys do? I seriously need some tips. If you served a mission what was the best/most polite way you were turned down? If you run into missionaries from other churches what do you say? If you aren't Mormon (and don't want to be!)and you run into our missionaries how do you turn them down without being rude?

A Private Loss

Hi folks. This is a post I'd written for A Motley Vision, but I chickened out and couldn't post it. It's too girly. Too personal. I also couldn't let it go. So I'm posting it here. Sorry it's off topic.

In 2007 I gave birth to my third child and simultaneously vowed to myself that I would become a "real" writer by 2010. I'd be published. I'd have a solid resume. And I'd be proud of the direction my art was taking.

I have not reached my goal.

As many of you probably already know, the third child is quite often when the proverbial diaper contents hits the fan and it was no different for me. My third child had severe eczema, acid reflux disease, and obstructive sleep apnea. He screamed so loudly and so often my oldest child, who was then four years old, suffered panic attacks. Baby Number Three is two and half now and still doesn't sleep through the night.

When he was in utero I was flush with possibilities--for my unborn child, myself, and my writing. I truly believed I was coming into my own. Now, in 2010, I am flush with sleepless nights, piles of laundry, and disillusionment. Conspicuously absent is my writing success.

And I am having another baby. A hoped-for and wanted baby. But a baby that means my literary aspirations will continue to suffer.

Pretty much every female writer since Anne Bradstreet will tell you writing is a lot like having children. But I'm beginning to think it's a sign that God never sent me twins: he knew I couldn't raise two babies at once--just like I can't raise babies and write fabulous literature at the same time--I'm not meant to multi-task.

Those same female writers, including greats like Maya Angelou and Madeleine L'Engle, will tell you writing and mommying is a balancing act. But I'm beginning to wonder if that isn't a bit misleading. Nothing about having children is about balance and nothing about creating art is balanced. Both require complete surrender. You can't get out a scale and put a pile of children on one side and a pile of literary accomplishments on the other and have them ever be equal. They honestly don't compare. Writing opportunities missed--workshops, conferences, contests, little inspirations that don't make sense when I can finally devote time to the random notes I've made--always occupy an ungainly portion of my thinking. But what about the sting of guilt I have over snapping at my kids because I stayed up too late the previous night writing as if I was going to win the next Marilyn Brown Award. It isn't just apples and oranges. It's apples and Winnebagoes.

My children's cravings for parental affection and attention cannot be approached in a balanced, methodical manner. Our best moments are when I am wholly theirs, forgetting my notions of who I should/would be and immersing myself in their world--their problems (oh, the woes of sharing! the frustrations of shoe-tying!), their dreams (to fly, for real, and not in an airplane; can't I feel the wings growing in under her shoulder blades?), their realities (which, since they are not yet burdened by constraints of calendars and clocks, are basically extended dream sequences).

Those moments are the only times I come close to fulfilling the Savior's injunction to lose myself in order to find myself. In their minds I am stronger, wiser, and much more lovable than I perceive myself to be. And the more I am with them the more I become that superhero they think I am. Seeing the growing (and inevitable) realization in their eyes that I am less than perfectly wonderful is a loss--my oldest is only six and is already questioning my abilities--I need their dreams just as much as they do. After all, it is in their dreams I find reflections and reminders of my own pushed aside aspirations, my own stories. It is intimidating and inspiring and it makes me want to sit down and write but I'm afraid to because me being a writer only makes sense in the dream-world my children inhabit, not in the crowded, sensible, grown-up one I live in.

One particularly worthy project has been languishing for over four years now. It limps along with me researching and writing when I can, but my sporadic efforts are not enough to please publishers and I wouldn't feel right about asking readers to spend money on it when I know the book hasn't had the attention it deserves. For the vision of the book to be fully realized would take a full time effort. Because, just like my children, this book needs me to have more wisdom and experience, to be less limited. Just like my children, this book overwhelms me. But unlike my children, if I don't rise to the challenge nobody suffers, except maybe me. The unwritten words are a kind of miscarriage. A private loss.

In 2009 I had a couple writing opportunities that seemed huge to me: I got to write two reviews for Mormon publications, Dialogue and Irreantum. Finally, I was getting my name out there and building up a cache of "real" publishing credits. It felt like everything--my self-respect being the biggest--was riding on these two reviews. But neither worked out how I thought they would. Both ended up clashing with minor family crises. The first suffered neglect due to a bout of anxiety/depression in my oldest child and the second was only half-baked because of a chemical pregnancy/miscarriage. The sudden neediness of my family sucked all the energy out of my writing and I learned that any creative energy I have--whether it be for producing babies or producing rough drafts--came from the same source and it was tapped. When all was said and published, I felt depleted and frustrated and embarrassed. There was no balancing act, only unsatisfactory compromises on every front.

So in 2010, now that there's another baby kicking it's way toward earth life and a book waiting to be resurrected what am I going to do? I don't know. All I've got right now is what I'm not going to do: I'm not going to saddle either with expectations. And I'm not going to try to balance them. I may even manage to avoid conflating and comparing them. (Because, really, no matter how good the metaphor there are limits. My children are not blank pages waiting to be filled and a novel isn't going to be expelled out of my uterus.)

I'm writing this in the past tense, as if these things are over and done with in my life and I am now truly ready to fight the good fight, finish the writing, and keep the faith of my children in tact. But all these attempts at children--both biological and literary--have taught me that failure and success are two sides of the same coin. Both are temporary states of being and one will always imply the other because that's the way agency and opposition and life work: there's always a cost. The price we pay for the things we love is always the private losses registered only in sighs and faraway looks, is always the things we must give up.

I.O.U.S.A. : Best Movie I've Seen in a Loooong Time

Dear Readers,

Please don't get all riled up because I'm NOT going all political on y'all even though I'm making a statement: the national debt is a problem. A big problem and a problem we can do something about. Watch this movie. It's only a half an hour. It's interesting. It's funny. And you'll be smarter when you're done. And maybe, just maybe, things will change.

Love,

Laura

Food Storage--CSA style

It was great season for our community supported farm. I've been getting a bushel of vegetables a week and a peck to a peck and a half of fruit every single week.

What? You don't know how much a bushel is? Or a peck?

Well, in farm terms, it's really quite simple. Those words mean a lot. Seriously, I've been getting four or five grocery bags of veggies and piles of fruit--like 30 apples a week. (It actually isn't simple. Here's the conversion formula for bushels to pounds.)

A bushel of home grown veggies also means a lot of canning and freezing. I've learned a lot this year and wanted to pass a lot of it on. (That's a lot of "a lot", but now you're getting the idea of how many veggies I have laying around!)

When I was signing up for our share this year I decided I wanted to try and see what it was like to live on locally grown produce year round--people around here call that becoming a locavore. Since I use disposable diapers (although I'm thinking of switching over to Seventh Generation diapers and toilet paper to assuage my guilt) and I actually drive a car instead of riding a bike I figure eating locally is the least I can do for the planet. One study showed that eating locally uses 17 times less oil and gas. Eating locally is actually a big deal and I think it's worth the effort.

BTW, I also aim for a "flexitarian" lifestyle. I aim for one serving or less of meat a day. That's good for the planet, too.

Now, according to my understanding of locavor-ity I can eat things that won't grow in my climate so I do buy tangerines/oranges and bananas at the grocery store. We can't live on only apples! Although, during peak summer harvest when were getting peaches, pears, plums, and melons I bought no produce at the grocery store. I try to always buy US fruit, but, well bananas always break that rule. *guilt* I'm pretty good about buying Colorado Proud milk and other dairy products, but meat and eggs are anybody's guess. I'd love to go organic on those things too but it's too expensive. *sigh* That's one reason I've gone flexitarian.

Back to the canning. Living in an area that has a great growing season but also has a definite winter makes canning and preserving food a necessity for a locavore. (See, it's not just gray-haired, sensible-shoed Mormons that do it! Canning is part of a new, hip cultural movement!) This year I put up peaches, pears, salsas, tomatoes, pickles, watermelon (both canned and as popsicles), greens, beans, squash, beets, onions, and Anaheim peppers. Whew!

For now I'll spare you the recipes and just hit you with the Big Lessons Learned:

*Canning is NOT hard. If you focus, it's not even all that time consuming and you'll get faster with practice.

*Home canned food does taste better. Mostly because you can make it the way you like it. I like my salsa with quite a big of vinegar. I like my beets with cinnamon. I like pickles with garlic. And now I can have them all that way. (As a caveat my kids balked as the first bottle of peaches we opened. But I thought they were pretty good; different from store bought, but good.)

*All that chopping and peeling can be good for your mental health. At least it has been for mine. It's a great way to unwind. I imagine it's the same feeling women get from quilting or doing needlepoint. I can be productive but not feel like a hamster on a wheel. I've got something to show for my work when I'm done and I can do it when the kids are around--sometimes they even help!

*Some tools are necessary. Things I couldn't live without: my potato peeler (which I actually mostly use on apples and carrots), my food processor (great for chopping onion and peppers), a cabbage slicer (cabbage is a pain to chop by hand and the food processor just purees the stuff), and a big ol' colander. I also bought a food dehydrator this year so that I can make apple chips and dry some of the herbs we get. But I could live without it.

Most community supported farms are looking to drum up cash during their down season and to cover their spring start up costs so they are offering discounts on shares. We've had another great year with our CSA--we tried new foods, learned new skills, and I honestly feel like it has given us better health. (No one in our house has been hit with the flu or a serious cold this year. *Knock on wood* We haven't even had an ear infection or high fever. Well, back in September E and J were down for a few days with a fever, but other that we've been healthy.) If you are at all interested check out what's in your area. Then I can start hitting you up for recipes!

Optimism (The Mask)

A friend of mine is working on opening up an expressive arts studio and therapy center. She's been running a couple workshops over the last few weeks and invited me to participate. And, well, since I like artsy stuff and I like therapy, art therapy is like the chocolate truffle of mental health activities; I just can't get enough!

For the last two weeks I joined Nancy and several other ladies in mask making. Last week we made actual molds of our faces out of plaster (and some interesting possible poem thoughts came to my mind. . .) and this week we transformed those masks into something completely different.

Nancy really encouraged me to come to the art-making process with no preconceived notions. No thinking ahead. No planning out. No pushing or prodding or researching. She and I have talked about how my writing has stagnated--possibly because I've been spending too much energy thinking and planning and researching and prodding and not enough time playing. Well, tonight I had notions and I had ideas (it's so hard to let go of my intellect!) but when Nancy pointed out that I was welcome to use her lighter as part of my art all those ideas went up in smoke.

The aim-n-flame and I spent quite a bit of time together and, after Sarah mentioned something about layers and Heather said I was creepy, well, I followed my gut and "Optimism (The Mask)" was born. When I brought it home my husband was kind enough to say he thought it looked like real art--like Nancy had been giving me some professional guidance. (I'm not sure I believe him, but that was sure nice of him to say.) I don't know if I'd call it art--at least not with all the strings that come attached to that word--but it was definitely exciting and interesting and troubling and consuming to create. It definitely stirred people up. It made me feel alive in all the places that being depressed (and pregnant) make me feel dead. And those things, in my mind, make it at least artist-ic.

So here it is in all it's ugly/beautiful glory. "Optimism (The Mask)". Enjoy. Or cringe. Just go with your gut. (P.S. In real life you can tell, but in the picture you can't. The newsprint is obituaries. That was a deliberate and significant choice on my part. And not just because it's morbid. And the things on it's eyes are rose-colored glasses.)Yes, I know. I'm strange. And possibly deeply troubled. *sigh* You'll just have to accept it.

I've always wanted to be a multi-drafter

but most of my writing is done single-drafter style. Mult-drafters seem to have more fun. So I'm taking LDSP up on her Friday Writing Prompt. Hold on to your keyboards folks. This could be really bad.

(Dear LDSP, I'm know I'm supposed to start my piece with "In this one you are" but that is such a weird starting line for me. I'm taking this in my own direction. . .)

Every time she saw the picture on his dresser, Stacey got angry. Her jaw clenched, her shoulders tightened, and she had to remind herself to breathe. She knew it was irrational but seeing that perky, smiling woman staring at her--with one arm around John--she just got angry.

She tried logic. "John, it's such an old picture! After all these years of marriage, can't you just put it away?"

She even tried being honest with him. "Honey, I know it means a lot to you, but for me. . .well, I just . . . I'm just tired of looking at it. It's like she's mocking me."

Most recently she took the picture and hid it, thinking he might not notice. It took John less than five minutes to find it and restore it to its place of honor on his dresser.

This morning she took the picture into the bathroom and held it next to her face in the mirror. She couldn't believe how different the two reflections were. The woman in the picture was so young--no bags under her eyes or on her hips--there was even a little childish roundness to her face. Her smile held hints of laughter and her eyes seemed to meet the future without flinching. Stacey suspected it was lighting of the shot, but the woman in the picture was practically shining. Shining hair, shining teeth, glowing skin.

Stacey's own face was exhausted. Not only were there bags under eyes and on her hips (she silently thanked her five children for that), but her hair was short and her teeth were more mother-of-pearl than shining white. There was no way she could measure up to the woman in the picture. Stacey had done too much and worked too hard. Too many sleepless nights. Too many loads of dishes. Too many children suckled. Too many arguments with John.

In the picture, John was basking in that woman's radiance and whenever Stacey saw him look at the picture part of that radiance seemed to fill him again. She couldn't remember the last time he'd looked at her that way. For all of that, she couldn't remember the last time he'd actually looked at her. Stacey wasn't angry; she was jealous.

But no matter how many times she tried explaining it to John he just didn't seem to understand. Whatever she said his answer was always the same:

"How can you jealous of yourself? That's the woman I married. That's the woman I love. And I plan to look at her as much as I want."

It broke Stacey's heart, though, having to compete with herself that way. She knew she wasn't that woman. She knew John was living in the past. She knew she had changed. She just didn't know if John could love those changes.

Putting your Heart Before the Course

Hi friends. Life feels a little pointless today so I thought I'd solve that by blogging.

Here's a thought that's been rolling around my head for awhile now: a lot of Mormons struggle because they put the cart before the horse. Or, a lot of LDS people have internal struggles with their faith because they usually implement the action before they figure out their feelings about it.

Let me say right now, this isn't necessarily bad. I'm a big fan of the fake-it-till-you-make-it school of thought. My writing is a good example of that. I'm not a great writer, but I'm going to pretend like I am one until I figure out how to actually be one. That idea works for some church principles too. Like being a good parent. You may want to smack your kid every time they dump their snack out all over the pew and you may want to cuss when they break the DVD player for the second time that week but, since you want to be a good parent, you don't. You fake the more adult response until it is your first reaction.

I think spirituality doesn't always work this way though. You can't fake what is in your heart. Very few people can bear a testimony that they don't believe in and keep bearing it without getting bitter. Another example, you just won't keep making visiting teaching appointments if you don't understand and believe in the principle behind the program. People who do keeping trying to fake their spirituality get bitter and leave the Church.

So what's a believing (or wanting to believe) Mormon to do? Well, for me the answer has come in putting my heart before the course. For example, our stake president has recently asked every member to bring a family name to our stake temple day in the fall. My knee-jerk-happy-Mormon self nodded thoughtfully when I heard about this, but my heart screamed out, "No! You cannot make me do one more thing! I have enough to do!!" My husband and I talked and I calmed down. I decided that I am not going to do any name finding until I feel the need in my heart. Now, I do sustain my stake president and believe he receives revelation for me. I do think I should be doing this assignment at some point. BUT, I am going to work on my heart and my feelings about it before I work on the actual assignment.

(Of course, it also helps that my husband is interested in genealogy right now and working on finding some names and I will probably just grab one of his.)

I've done this before. Taken a deep breath and evaluated my feelings before jumping in to some Church assignment and I have to be honest: it felt good. I'm not advocating inactivity or anything like that, but I am saying it's okay to ask some questions about yourself and your relationship with God before doing something you aren't invested in. God wants us to gain a testimony before we try to bear it.

Well, now movie time is over and my kids are sure on my case! Thanks for indulging me, folks :)

The Gift of our Spiritual Childhoods (or, Praying with My Mouth Full)

I have a hard time keeping my eyes closed these days during prayers. This mostly has to do with the fact that my children don't keep their eyes closed during prayers. You know, they are always looking around, picking their noses, giggling, or, if it's a meal prayer, they're stuffing their faces.

The usual culprit on this last one is my youngest. J is always hungry. He usually walks around the house with a bag of cereal or a box of crackers in tow. He also checks all the cabinets, the refrigerator, and even occasionally asks me to open the oven so he knows where all the food in the house is located. If one of my girls leaves food unattended--you know, like if they drop their fork on the floor and have to pick it up--J is there finishing their food for them, whether they wanted him to or not. I don't usually hound him about his face-stuffing habits because I think he's still making up for the weight he lost as an infant due to his acid reflux disease, but, well his behavior during prayers is something else.

J is always the first one at the table. In fact, he follows me around while I cook and questions me. "Food?" he asks. "Snacks?" "Cheese?" "Juice?" "Cracker?" "Food!" From the moment his plate is on the table he is shoving fistfuls down his gullet. I know it's a meal he really likes when his utensils hit the floor and he's asking for more before he's done with the first helping.

There is no stopping his quest for satiation, not even asking him to pray breaks his stride. He's only a toddler so at best his prayers are guttural approximations of the words I tell him to repeat. At his worst (read: normal) his prayers are unabashed shows of what he has already eaten through sprays of chewed up sustenance and drool. This, of course, makes the rest of us giggle quite a lot. The best part is that J doesn't seem to notice how bizarre or ridiculous his behavior is. That's the gift of childhood: the oblivious ability to meet your needs regardless of how inappropriate your behavior is.

I was watching him pray tonight and was quite surprised by the emotions that filled me. I was so touched by his messy, chimpanzee-like behavior. It's the only really babyish thing left about him and it charms me. As I watched him trying to say "Jesus" around an impossibly big mouthful, and felt a smile spread across my face, I wondered if that is how I look to my Father in Heaven. I wondered how many of my spiritual efforts are akin to praying with my mouth full.

I mean, think about it. How often do we read our scriptures while simultaneously tucking ourselves in bed? How often do we fast with most of our hearts and minds while planning our big dinner with the rest? How often do we bear testimony with our logical, socially acceptable phrases instead of the words the Spirit is trying to get us to articulate? For me, I think that the demands of my temporal existence infringe on my spiritual efforts more often than I realize.

The other part of this realization is that, just like I can't help but smile when J prays with his mouthful, I think Heavenly Father smiles when we do the same thing. After all, no matter how old we are we are still spiritual children. Compared to the greatness and the glory of our Father in Heaven, we basically are spiritual toddlers. And maybe the blissful ignorance of our inconsistencies is the gift of that spiritual childhood too. J's ignorance leads him to keep trying even when he's inconsistent because that's how he'll learn; he's not afraid of failing or doing it wrong. What matters is that he's doing it, figuring it out.

So often I get discouraged because of the distance between me and perfection. But maybe it isn't distance that keeps me from my eternal goals, it's time. I just need to grow up and that's something that really only happens day by day, food-filled prayer by food-filled prayer. J is going to grow up and he will eventually stop praying with his mouth full and we too will grow up and be able to give our hearts more fully to God. Life--existence!--is like that. We learn and progress sometimes imperceptibly but we are learning and progressing all the same. And that's why God can smile when we are praying with our mouths full: it's a temporary phase and He knows our potential and He knows we will grow out of it and He can enjoy the small successes we have. That's what makes Him our Father in Heaven, as opposed to some impersonal god, He knows us that intimately and loves us that deeply.

Maybe learning to bask in that love is as much a step on the path to perfection as learning to wait until after the prayer to eat.

ASL Poetry Rocks! (an off topic post)

Since Wednesday's post was pretty, ahem, depressing and my other recent posts have been a little dry I decided to go off topic today. So what kind of randomness awaits you? ASL Poetry.

Ever since I first dabbled in Sign Language (which was, holy cow, over three years ago) I have been keenly interested in ASL Poetry. In my first Sign Language group they didn't have a lot of information for me. This is probably because that group used a lot of Sign Exact English (SEE), which isn't actually a language. SEE is transliterated English--which is different from ASL because ASL has its own grammar, style, dialects, and other distinct linguistic features.

Back to ASL poetry. ASL poetry intrigues me because I love the visuals of ASL. To me, hearing girl that I am, ASL seems a little more nuanced while still being explicitly expressive. Because of the way ASL incorporates the body expression and feeling are very powerful--especially in the hands of a poet.

Since I am back in ASL classes, with a real ASL teacher this time (any friends want to come? You can still join and the price is super-reasonable.), she recommended I look up some stuff on Youtube. I loved what I found so much I just had to share some with you!

The first one is an ASL version of the Beyonce song, "If I Were a Boy"--cause you all know how much I inexplicably love that song. It is set to music which is really helpful for us hearing folks, but the woman is still using ASL. Not SEE. You'll notice there are no signs for to, the, and other little English words that don't exist in ASL. She also has a lot of attitude--which is awesome.



This next one is an actual ASL poem, called "ASL Bully", written by Jon Savage. Just to give you an interpretational hint, the guy in the white shirt is using SEE and the guy in the black shirt is using ASL. Enjoy! (Oh, by the way, my ASL is still pretty limited so if any of you know more ASL than me--which isn't hard to do--I apologize if there are cuss words in this.)

Mirthful Monday: What Day Is It Today?

Over breakfast one morning, a woman said to her husband, "I?ll bet you don't know what day this is."

"Of course I do," he answered as if he was offended, and left for the office.

At 10:00 a.m., the doorbell rang and when the woman opened the door, she was handed a box of a dozen long stemmed red roses. At 1:00 p.m., a foil-wrapped, two-pound box of her favorite chocolates was delivered. Later, a boutique delivered a designer dress.

The woman couldn't wait for her husband to come home.

"First the flowers, then the chocolates and then the dress!" she exclaimed.

"I've never had a more wonderful Groundhog Day in my life!


That groundhog is definitely gonna see his shadow!

Make it a Veggie-rific New Year

I wanted to do a big, long, gushing post about my CSA--how much better I feel since eating all those veggies, how much more exciting our meals have become since we added so many new foods, how much our neighbors love us for giving them that bottle of wine we got with our Christmas delivery (really!), how much I love the challenge and surprise of a box of greens every week--but, my oldest is still out of school (read: "Mom, I'm BORED.")and my other two are sick (there's nothing like the smell of vomit in the wee, small hours of the morning to let you know you're in for a good day) so this sentence will have to suffice. Joining the CSA was one of the best things I did in 2008. Not only did I learn to cook with more veggies (I can now work them into anything. And it *usually* tastes good!), but I learned to freeze and can a ton of things too. I made salsas, pickles, pickled beets (so much better than store-bought!), sauerkraut, pumpkin butter, apple butter, salad dressings, and marinades. I learned to cook with fresh herbs. I learned that I love leeks, kohlrahbi, garlic scapes, kobacha squash, and even kale. Well, love may be too strong a word for that last one, but I do have several recipes that just don't taste as good without the kale.

So here's the link for my CSA--which works if you are in Colorado or southern Wyoming. Or, for those of you who live nearby, you can google it and try any of the others in the Boulder area. And for those of you living in Utah, here's some good news: you have CSA's out there! They aren't just for us hippies on the Eastern slope! Here are a couple to check out (I have no idea if they are any good, but they are worth looking at). Utah's Own, Slow Food Utah, Copper Moose Farm. Or check localharvest.org. They have everybody.

My sister wants me to add that not all CSAs are as good as mine--and they may not be. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't look into it!

Just For Fun!

I literally have five minutes until I have to pick up my kindergartener, but I got tagged by another blogger so here it is:

My Seven Random Facts (because that's what they asked for)

1. I have three sizeable zits right now. I really shouldn't talk about them, but they're grossing me out so I can't help it.
2. If I was going to be on a reality TV show it would be American Idol. I'd get my butt whooped but it would be fun to perform again.
3. The most recent book I read was Kindred Spirits by Chris Bigelow. It was weird.
4. I have watched three full episodes of the new 90210. There's no explaining why; I don't like the show. Maybe I just like to gawk at the main characters extremely thin legs. Really, how can she walk on those things? I looked for a picture online but I couldn't find any. So just imagine two lotion-y fake tanned toothpicks with knobby knees and you'll be set.
5. Hmmm. . . I'll have to come back to this one later.
6. I made a chocolate banana cream pie for the first time on Saturday. Hubby requested one and I was in the mood for an adventure. It was SO GOOD.
7. The most awesome anti-tobacco ads I've ever seen were at a gas station in Wyoming. You should use them in your FHE tonight!




Oh, and, you know, I'm supposed to pass this tag thing on, but I've never been a big fan of chain letters--so if you want to be, consider yourself tagged!

Voting Quandaries

(This is an off topic, but hopefully interesting, post!)

The first time I voted was in the 2000 election. I am quite ashamed to admit I didn't even know it was election day. I had graduated high school the previous June and met my soon-to-be husband that summer. I was pretty young and, well, pretty stupid. I mean, I hadn't even discovered NPR yet. I guess the worst part of it all was that I didn't even know who the candidates were.

It was a warm fall day, the prettiest kind of fall day with brightly colored leaves filtering the sunshine. My older brother, who had just returned from his mission and was in a couple classes with me at USU, let me know it was election day and threw me on the back of his motorcycle (he always let me wear the helmet; so chivalrous!) and drove me to our polling place--which turned out to be my old elementary school. The old ladies working the joint were overjoyed to see a first time voter and pointed me toward the booths with huge grins. I hurriedly asked my brother what to do. "Just mark the Republican box," he called out, "it's just one vote." And then he laughed. I think he voted for Ralph Nader.

When I exited the booth the old ladies proudly stuck an "I voted" sticker to me and showed me out the door. I took the sticker off and wondered if its declaration was true. Had I really voted? Did I make my voice heard? Or did I just waste a very large piece of paper?

Those questions brought me back to one of my earliest memories. I think it was the night George H. W. Bush was inaugurated. All I really remember was that it was extremely boring political thing and I thought it was SO strange that my parents were SO interested. At some point in the ceremony an American flag was raised and my parents stood and, with the hands over their hearts, recited the Pledge of Allegiance with everyone on TV. Now, to my six-year-old mind, this was patently uncool and I laughed as derisively as I could. My father turned a stern eye on me and told me to stand up. When I protested that I didn't know the Pledge both he and my mother stared at me. It took me a moment to register what their expression meant. The Pledge was practically over when I realized they were staring because they were appalled. They were disappointed. I stood up at the end but didn't know the words. I felt irredeemably empty.

That's how I felt that first Tuesday in November of 2000.

Of course, that election was a ridiculous one to learn on and what with getting married in the following year and then finishing my bachelor's the year after, somehow, becoming educated about politics fell lower and lower on my list. Don't get me wrong--I had tried. After September 11, 2001 you couldn't be American and not have some political leanings. We were in Iraq chasing down Saddam Hussein--who, I'm pretty sure, one of my seminary teachers listed as an Anti-Christ. So I listened to NPR and the BBC for hours everyday. I read the newspaper and The Atlantic. I even watched a couple State of the Union addresses. I found myself really liking Colin Powell and even liking the dude I'd voted for: George W. Bush.

Four years flew by and it was time to vote again. This time I at least knew the candidates names. But I didn't feel like I knew much more than that. Despite all the things I'd heard and read I still didn't understand the issues. I'd had my first baby and was wrapped up in the PPD and trying to make a new home in a new state. As I waited in line to vote in the 2004 election I realized I still had no clue what I was doing. I ended up voting for W because I liked how he quoted scripture and that he prayed every day and went running. They were weak but at least the second time I had reasons.

Since then I've added US News and World Report and Newsweek to my magazine subscriptions. I check the BBC online and talk politics with pretty much everyone and try to listen to their points of view. The West Wing and The McLaughlin Group are my favorite TV shows. I even watched ALL the debates, including the VP one (and the Saturday Night Live versions! What? A girl's gotta get some fun in somewhere). Here's the thing, though: I still don't know! I don't know who I'm going to vote for. I don't know what half the stuff on the ballot is about. I still don't know enough and I'm beginning to think I may never. It makes me want to give up.

The last two times I voted left me with regret and I don't want to feel that way again. So, there are eighteen days until I vote for the third time. What do I do in the mean time to figure this out? How do you all figure it out? Do you just go with your gut or is there a more cerebral process? Let me know! I could use some guidance!