Zip it!

Question: Which is worse? Being told by a stranger that your fly is open, or going an entire day and then finding out later that your fly was open?

Saturday morning, there I was: minding my own business at The Wal-Mart, doing shopping for my Christmas party in T-11 hours. As I turned the corner to almost every aisle, there he was - Open Fly Guy. Fly wide open, so far open it was clearly open. You know what I mean; your fly can be open, but still flat, or it can be open and not flat.

His was not flat.

I saw him once by the ketchup and ignored it. No big deal, right? Then I saw him a second time, by the soup, and ignored it again. A little uncomfortable, but not the end of the world. A third sighting by the milk almost did me in. I wanted so badly to tell him, but I didn't want to embarrass him.

I am of the opinion that if I have a wad of TP stuck to the bottom of my shoe or something equally embarrassing, I would want to know. Thank you so much in advance for telling me.

Andy says he'd rather just figure it out himself than be told by a strange lady. Which is worse for you? He also wonders why I even noticed it in the first place. Because it was wide open! And I do mean open.

Let us not even ponder the fact that maybe he wanted his fly to be open, and just hope that he was blissfully unaware of the indiscretion until much later in the day.

What would Jesus do?

I think if he discovered his Christmas tree tipped over because the plastic stand broke on the cheapest $50 tree he could find at Target, Jesus would return it and fork out the dough for a better tree.

Wouldn't you?

At least that's what I'm going to do.

Maybe my super-snazzy-retro-glittery-starburst-star from Crate & Barrel (AnJ!) will stay on top of a more expensive tree? Andy keeps telling me not to be cheap.

I guess I should start listening to him.

Update

Our fake tree just tipped over. Luckily it decided to fall into a corner, instead of forward, so it's still kind of propped up.

The super-snazzy-retro-glittery-starburst-star fell from its perch on top and severed a limb on my one and only Christmas poinsettia.

I think it's the Spirit of Christmas getting back at me for making a mockery of the season.

Good grief

A part of me died inside over the weekend.

There were many conversations, multiple shopping trips, and a last-minute run to Target that all led up to it, but it finally happened: I bought a fake Christmas tree, and as I handed over my debit card, I felt a huge "whoosh" as the spirit of Christmas left me.

I am pained just typing it.

A fake Christmas tree. As in, not one real branch protruding or real scent emanating from the tree I carried into my house in a box. Just like I would have done with a brand new tent.

I couldn't help but think that I had succumbed to the commercialism of Christmas, a la A Charlie Brown Christmas. In fact, I almost considered getting a pink aluminium tree; I figured, if I'm going fake, why not go all the way? It seems almost everyone I know has started buying fake - you know, the modern commercial Christmas spirit Lucy was so inclined to favor. In fact, I think Lucy put it best when she said, "Look, Charlie, let's face it. We all know that Christmas is a big commercial racket. It's run by a big eastern syndicate, you know."

It used to be that I got excited about the tree, picking it out, tying it to the car, bringing it home, and setting it up. This year I had thoughts about whether the tree would catch on fire while we were in Utah for a week, or how many needles I'd have to vacuum up because we wouldn't be here to water it for a week. So not only am I getting older, but I'm getting more practical and also a little more lazy.
Good grief!

But after the tree was up, I realized that Sally was clearly the smart one. Christmas is not about what your tree looks like, or how many decorations you have hanging in your house (including fake garland on the staircase), or how much baking you do.

It's about getting presents. And right now there are two big ones under that fake tree with my name on it. Hallelujah and Merry Christmas!

(You know I'm kidding. I know Christmas is about Jesus. Good grief! Don't you know sarcasm when you hear it?)

What smells like burnt pumpkin pie?

What would you do with one cup of leftover canned pumpkin? I thought making homemade pumpkin pie spice doughnuts was the answer to that question. Let us pause for just a minute to ponder two things:

1) Um...yum!

2) No wonder I can't lose 15 pounds. Ahem.

While in the throes of this blissfull, flour-encrusted domesticity on Sunday, I thought hot apple cider would go very well with said doughnuts. But once I started making it, I realized we didn't have enough apple juice to make it work. Raspberries don't taste too strong, right?

Wrong.

Mixing half plain old apple juice, and half apple-raspberry juice made a delicious raspberry-flavoried drink. With cinnamon, allspice, cloves, and oranges. It tasted just okay, but that stuff smelled awesome. So for the past few days, it has sat on my stove, and I've heated it up here and there to make the house smell Christmasy and drive away the smell of death that seems to lurk in every room here (that is another post for another day).

And yesterday, we heard the good news that Garrett was in town. It's not every day a brother-in-law drops in to see us (though we wish it was), and we were caught unprepared. Kitchen a mess. TV room a disaster from my failed felt ball-making activities from the previous night. And the house was smelly.

So, as soon as I got home, I started up the pot of raspberry cider, and in a few minutes, the house smelled divine. But when you go to dinner and a movie without turning off the burner, you come home to a house that smells like burnt pumpkin pie, and a pan that is covered in a sticky brown goop.

That's right. In this season of fire-safety awareness and the coldest time of year to lose everything you own to a flaming pot of hot raspberry cider, I left the house unattended for five hours with the burner on. Luckily, nothing burned down, and the worst we had was the smell of burnt pumpkin pie.

Which I'll take over the smell of death any day.

Here's what I've been thinking a lot: can we move yet?

How is it that I let a month pass by without blogging?

While I can't remember exactly why, I do know that we dealt with a few things that took up my time. Mainly this:

• I had a huge project at work. Like 28 hours of overtime in one week huge. That lasted for three weeks.
• After that, I lost access to my login ID at work, and couldn't get to my laptop for three days.
• My laptop died. I think it was fed up with all the work I made it do. Getting it re-imaged took a couple of days.
• I spent a weekend making Muppets. Watch Episode 3 here to see how they turned out.
• Andy and I both got food poisoning. Down (and up and down) for several days.
• And then Andy had surgery.
• After surgery, we had Thanksgiving - parents visited and made a most scrumptious dinner. And then cleaned it up! (thank you)

I hereby make a promise not to let another month go by without blogging. So sorry for my absence.

Still

Still recovering from my first 5K. (Ran last Friday - finished in 38 mins, will post pics soon!) Felt like I got hit by a bus for a good three days post-race. Sheesh.

Still recovering from being scared silly after watching two (2!) scary back-to-back Friday night. Am now in the habit of locking my bedroom door - NEVER used to do that. What? I get claustrophobic, okay?

Still happy I ate less than five (5!) pieces of Halloween candy this year. I just decided not to buy any.

Still excited about Christmas present from Andy that I found out about and completely spoiled. By complete mistake, I discovered he bought me Wii Fit, so we popped it open this weekend and I realized I'm in pretty decent shape. However, my BMI is borderline normal/overweight, and my Mii is quite chubby, based on my weight. Need to work on that.

Still laughing about our recent project for Heather, our friend diagnosed with breast cancer. Check out this video (first in a series of 12) we released on Friday.

Still (although I have only told Andy) contemplating doing this to my hair at my appointment this Saturday.

Question: Is it okay to cut one's hair this short, if one has an extra 15 pounds to lose, and one's body shape isn't quite as pixie-ish as it was the last time one had such a haircut? Audrey is tiny, and she really pulls this off. Sigh. I used to pull this haircut off, but now I wonder if I'm not thin enough. Thoughts?

Still negotiating salary for my new job. What? You didn't know I got a new job? I was offered a permanent position last week with Avaya as a Curriculum Manager. It will be hard, super busy, and have crazy hours, but better pay. And 100% work from home. Good or bad? To be determined.

Still looking for a house. One that's not completely trashed because it was foreclosed on, preferably.

Still wishing I lived in Boulder, after spending a day there with Lara and Megan when they came to visit. Hippies dancing in the city center, anyone?

Still wishing Monday was already over and I could watch Chuck and Heroes.

Why I've been quiet

My last post about cancer was meant to be funny. Last week, I read an article in the October issue of Self magazine about BCP plastics, and its link to breast cancer. After looking at my Nalgene bottle, Andy decided he didn't want to risk me getting cancer and bought me a new one.

Literally the day after he bought me that bottle, we received an email from a great friend, Eldon. Eldon and his lovely wife Heather have been tremendous friends to Andy over the years. We have so much love for them and their kids.

Eldon's email let us know that Heather had been diagnosed with Stage 3A breast cancer. Today my last post isn't looking so funny.

Now. I know this is not about me. At all. But I have been busy thinking. About our friends. About trials. I keep wondering how something like this happens. Why something like this happens. And what we can do to help. Because cancer completely snuck up on them, and their lives will be forever different.

Heather just gave birth to the most beautiful, perfect boy in August. They have two other children - gorgeous girls. If you don't believe me, just look at this picture. (Hopefully they don't mind me sharing this on my blog, but how can you not want to share these pictures - they're gorgeous!)

I have been so grateful that they have allowed us into their lives to serve them during this time. Most astounding to me about this situation is the way they are handling it - with humility, grace, and lots and lots of love. I've taken a lesson from them about facing trials.

Thank you Eldon and Heather for helping me see that our trials do not have to make life unbearable. And that we can in fact, get through them with our happiness intact, if maybe just a tiny bit bruised.

Andy doesn't want me to get cancer

That's why I came home to find this happy bottle smiling at me next to a bouquet of flowers and a love note last night. Isn't it adorable?

And best of all, it is not made of polycarbonate #7 plastic like my cute (but deadly) flower-pink Nalgene bottle. No stinky cancer-causing chemicals for me anymore, and I will be around to pester Andy for many years to come.

Thanks Andy! I love, love, love my new Siggy (as it has now been christened).

What's yours like?

I have dropped my phone precisely one thousand, two hundred and ninety one times in the last year and a half.

And I have thrown it at the wall exactly twelve times in the last two months.

The front cover plate of my phone fell off in July, and refused to stay put. Andy glued it back on with Gorilla Glue. Now there is bubbly Gorilla Glue in all the seams of the front cover plate.

Call after call keeps getting dropped, which is highly inconvenient when I'm running conference calls for work.

I think it's time for a new phone, don't you? The only problem: I have no idea what phone to get.

I have always had flip phones, and I want to try something new and non-flippy. They've never been great; in fact, they've been a complete and thorough disappointment. But they're like that comfortable old pair of Converse sneakers I keep: even though they're not always comfortable and I don't always love them, they're familiar. We have good memories together.

In the past, I've always picked a phone based on looks, but this time, I need a good phone. I've always settled for the cheap phone just to get by, and I would up being frustrated with the phone more than satisfied.

Andy says I should get an iPhone, but I just don't know if I want to cough up that much money. Or if I'll even use everything it offers. (Although the GPS would be very nice. And the iPod. And some of the apps I can download to keep my mind tack-sharp.) Or if I'll just end up coughing up more than that much money down the line. I always tell people I work with, "You can pay now, or you can pay later." Which really means, "Come on, don't be an idiot. It makes so much more sense to take the time/money/energy up front and do something the right way, instead of rushing/cheaping out/procrastinating now and doing a half-assed job/getting a half-assed product later."

I can suggest it at work, but when it comes to my bank account, I just don't know. I usually try to be cheap and end up paying later. A lot.

We're shopping for cell phones with Andy's parents tomorrow (Hello! and welcome to the 21st century!), and we think we should just get a new phone for me. So...what do you think? Trust me, I don't care about status, I don't care if I'm keeping up with those Joneses; I just need something that works. And that looks cute. And that won't make me want to throw it at the wall. Or require any Gorilla Glue to make it happy again.

Do you recommend your phone?
Do you wish you had an iPhone?
Do you think I'll use an iPhone to its most ultimate capabilities?
Do you think I should pay now or pay later?

There is a mouse sitting on my kitchen floor watching me type this

Gross! Andy's only suggestion via text message is to feed him some cheese. Um, I don't think so - we all know I like me some cheese!

Why do these guys gross me out so much (mice, not Andy, that is). They're cute, furry, and look so cute when they're sitting there eating some crumbs.

Maybe it's the viruses they carry.
Or the way they scurry across my floor.
Or the way they can squeeze through a hold the size of a dime.

Gross!

I really am trying to love all God's creatures. But I'm just not feeling any love for this guy sitting on my kitchen floor.

Anyone know where we keep the D-Con?

How do you find a house that fits just right?

Shopping for a house is a little bit like shopping for a new pair of pants. Is it too small? Too big? How does it make my butt look?

Last week (if you are obtuse enough to figure out from my previous post), Andy and I decided to finally, finally, finally meet with our realtor instead of scheduling and then cancelling. We saw more houses than we knew were even for sale on the entire planet. And then we decided that we are too poor to afford a house that is big enough that it doesn't make our butts look big, but small enough that our butts don't feel claustrophobic and enclosed-upon, that is not out in the middle of Nowhere, Colorado.

What is it about looking for a house? You look on the World Wide Web at the pictures and you think, "This is it! This is most positvely, absolutely the house we were meant to own! I know it in my heart! And my butt, because my butt would look very small in that vast (but not too vast because we already have determined we don't want that ever again) house."

And then.

You actually go to look at the house, all up-front and in-person with your realtor, and you realize that the ghetto is not just around the corner, but that it actually resides next door behind the chain-link fence and the BEWARE OF DOG sign. And that the "bark, bark, bark" from Bosco the Rottweiler behind the chain-link fence is, in all actuality, NOT happy to see you. He is saying "Beware! Beware of the ghetto and houses that appear too cute to be true." And also, "I will bite you if you take one step closer to me."

You realize that when a house description says "quaint," it actally means "smaller than a mouse's attic and anyone over 5' 1 1/2" should not attempt to squeeze into here at peril of suffering from at the very least claustrophobia and at the very worst death." And if the description says "needs TLC" or "great for first-time buyers" it actually means "the dumpiest dump dumpier than any dump you've ever been to and by golly be sure to plan on spending every single second of all your waking hours in the next two years to get rid of mold, gross smells, and to repair the damage done by Rick the Unhappy Owner Who Was Foreclosed On."

And you start to feel very sad, and wonder if you will ever find the right house that makes your butt look just perfect. And then. You think, quite possibly there is no way you are ever going to be happy with a house and then...

...you find it.

The House. The House that you will look perfect in.

The House that doesn't have a huge garish garage covering the front of The House in such a way that it is difficult to see even the front door, but instead has a quaint (and actually for-real Old Fashioned quaint, not code-for-tiny-quaint) little front porch that makes you want to sit on it and sip the lemoniest lemonade of all time (which actually comes from Chik-Fil-A in case you were wondering).

The House that has the highest of ceilings and the most spacious of kitchens with ample, and I do mean as ample as Pamela Anderson's bosom, cabinet space.

The House that has just enough rooms for the activities which you desire to persue over the next five to seven years, namely, eating, sleeping, cooking, playing, loving, and living. And watching TV. In no particular order, of course.

The House that has a yard that is the delight of your soul - just big enough to manage decent-sized gardens (of the vegetable and flower variety, of course) and small enough to accommodate small-ish parties wherein you cook for your fabulous and hilarious friends who will now have to drive 40 minutes each way just to pop in and say hello. Which means approximately 99% of said small-ish parties will only accommodate two guests: me and Andy.

And then.

You realize that to find The House, you drove so far out into the boondocks that you do not even know if you are in Colorado or Kansas and you begin to fear for your life due to whirling tornadoes. To find This House, you will have to give up morning runs with Anna, quick and easy drives to Sonic for Cranberry Limeades with Sam, last minute movies with Dennis, Chris, and Barb. And many other such activities to which you have grown accustomed.

But, on the other hand, you do have a yard large enough to host a family of beautiful lady chickens to lay fresh eggs for you.

How is a girl ever to choose? How does one determine what is the very most important thing that they must have to help them decide where to reside for the next five to seven years?

You ask yourself questions like, "Would we be happier in a house we don't like as much near people we love, or in a house we love near people we don't know yet?" Or even, "Will our old friends ever visit?" and, "Will we make new friends?" And most importantly, "Why is Clay Aiken bothering to come out of the closet in People magazine when the entire population of the known galaxy already knew he was gay?" Really. This is an important question.

Perhaps it is time to petition The One Who Answers Prayers. I'm still waiting to hear back about the orange coat, and maybe He can just give me both answers at once, like a two-for-one. Now that's a deal!

My little secret

I may not have told you this, and right now it's still kind of a secret until I know I can really, truly do it (I hear it takes 21 days to make a habit, which was true for exercise so I have my fingers crossed), but (whispering)

I'm seriously contemplating becoming a vegetarian. Shhh, don't tell anyone yet - especially Jared's work self, who might just come harass me.

No, don't worry - not a vegan. Certainly not a vegan, because that's just too masochistic. And why? I think those Vegans frown upon eating cheese, and that most certainly will not work.

The first I tried to become a vegetarian lasted one week. Exactly.

A few things prompted me to head down this deep, dark hole of self-introspection, but mainly I can think of two:

• A few months ago, Andy and I studied the Word of Wisdom and I realized I'm not following it very well. I don't eat meat "sparingly," or "only in the time of winter, cold, or famine."
• Also, I'm darn tired of biting into a meat-filled something, for instance a burrito, and chewing a big ol' chunk of gristle. It's just not at all delectable, and I have a hard time getting past it.

Now. This is very difficult to do, especially when you are married, such as I am, to a "meatarian." After Andy and I visited India, we realized that we eat a lot of meat, and that the meat in India grossed us out, and we were going to try to be vegetarian. We bought expensive frozen veggie burgers and everything. But when that turned out to be just Too Hard and most of the stuff was filled with soy, which we later learned can cause infertility in men (um, pass please!), we gave it up and went back to the bacon, a la Homer Simpson - "Mmmm....bacon."

But I just haven't felt right, colonically speaking, ever since I gave up being vegetarian. On the other hand, I didn't feel right when we tried being vegetarian either, and eating no meat. So, I've been pondering the idea for a couple of months now, wondering why. And how (and how!). How could I be a successful eater such that my colon doesn't spaz out on me (thank goodness I can work from home) and that I actually feel full? And get all the nutrients my body needs?

And then: in my inbox a few weeks ago was an email from Whole Foods, the Giant Loving Mother of All Foods Healthy and (mostly) Delicious. And the place where I want to live. The email contained many recipes using grains. Grains that had lots of protein. Like quinoa. And lentils. And other such food-type items that are difficult to both pronounce and find in a regular grocery store, like The Wal-Mart, causing you to go to upwards of two (two I tell you, two!) stores when you go grocery shopping. I am telling you, it takes great amounts of dedication to be a vegetarian.

And I started to think that maybe, perhaps this was what I overlooked during my first stint as a vegetarian: not enough grains (protein-filled). And not enough stick-to-it-iveness. And not enough creativity to figure out how to feed both a (kind of) vegetarian and a (very much so) meatarian.

So, I started again. Except this time, I eat fish. Like when Andy grilled steak on Sunday, I ate salmon. And when we had breakfast burritos for dinner, I strained the pork chunks out of my green chile sauce. I tell you what, I am a very committed almost-vegetarian. Even though my strainer was too small, so there were still a few chunks of meat in there, but I tried to pick them out, so I think it's okay. And when we had Chinese food, I ate only the shrimp in my pan-fried noodles. And a lot of noodles - it's okay! They were not composed of any meat product whatsoever. And when Andy ate leftover Chinese food, I had a BLAT (A stands for avocado). Two, actually. Wait - B is for bacon, which is meat, you say? Crap. So I'm not a perfect vegetarian. But I'm trying.

I'm not doing this because I feel bad for meat that starts out as happy smiling animals (or scared, crazy-eyed animals for that matter). Although I do. It's really sad when you learn how the animals are treated. At least try to eat free-range meat. Meat that was happy and grazing in a lovely meadow before it became the meat on your plate.

And I know the Word of Wisdom says to eat meat "sparingly." (Remember? I mentioned that above - I know it says sparingly.) In fact, I might still eat a little meat, if it sounds good. But for now, it doesn't really sound good, so I'm eating fish, fruits and vegetables, and grains. And M&M's, the much overlooked and unacknowledged other food group.

Someday I'll find the right balance, but for now, I'm just trying to eat in a way that makes my body happy. Colonically speaking, of course.

Thank goodness vegetarians can eat doughnuts! Mmmm...doughnuts.

It's the little things that make the biggest difference

Dear Andy,

Thank you ever so much for taking me to Chipotle last night. I have been craving a vegetarian burrito since Monday. (You remembered!) it was delicious, but please don't ever let me eat after 9:00 pm again. Ever. That was just a bad choice on my end.

Thank you for telling me you think I'm pretty. Some days I don't feel that way, but knowing that you think I am helps. (A lot.)

Thank you for making such wonderful, fluffy, scrambled eggs for my breakfast burrito after I ruined two innocent, unsuspecting eggs in that pan of ours. Eggs are definitely your forte. (I promise to never scramble any eggs for you again.)

Thank you for taking me house shopping. I know I'm picky, and it means a lot to me that you are willing to indulge my ideas of fixing up an old house. (Won't it be beautiful when we're finished?)

Thank you for taking such wonderful pictures. I love the pictures you take. Someday we will do something cool and fancy with them to show them off in our new (old) house.

Thank you for reading my blog. Aren't you glad I'm writing? It is the advice you have been giving me for over a year now. (See? I do listen to your advice!)

Thank you for being understanding of my compelling need to exaggerate and embellish our conversations for dramatic effect when I write about them on my blog. I know you don't always say exactly what I write, exactly as I write it. (But if I didn't exaggerate, my posts would be boring.)

Thank you for being happy and fun to be with. Have I mentioned how much I love it when you're happy? (Well it's a lot.)

Most of all, thank you for being so good to me. You really are pretty darn awesome. It sure is those little things that count. (For me, anyways.)

Love,
Lish

PS: I might just consider living in Brighton. (Seriously.) If we can have chickens.

Dating, or trying to find that ever-perfect match: is it out there?

Tonight, we have a date.

Our friend Dottie wanted so very badly to set us up with him. "You guys are perfect for each other!" she said. One skeptical eyebrow raised (from my face) (in her direction) prompted her to spill out all his perfect qualities that made her to want to set us up in the first place. (Setups? Who needs 'em? Seriously.)

"You're both young..." Here, right out of the gate, she makes a mistake that is often made in our general direction. Married with no kids = young. Ha! As if! My dentures fell into my lap and my hip spontaneously popped out of its socket just to prove my point. We. Are. Old.

"He just got married and his wife is so cute..." I guess, we "just" got married too? Haven't we been married for like 10 years? Oh wait, no. It just feels like 10 years because we're so old. And am I a cute wife? Are we supposed to become fast friends with other newlywed couples sporting cute wives? Now I'm nervous and sweaty - definitely not characteristics of a cute wife.

"He's a member of the Church, and that was just so important to me when I was looking for someone." It's like my friend Marisa says: Just because you're single and someone else is single, does that mean you have to go on a blind date with them? Just because you're Mormon and someone else is Mormon, does that mean you have to be friends with them? Yes, because Mormons are nice and friendly to everyone, of their faith and not of their faith. Jell-O eaters and non-Jell-O eaters alike.

"He's, he's, he's just," she gushed, "he's just so great! You will love him!"

So I said to her, "Dottie, what is his name?"

"Well, his name is Seth."

And I said: "Ah. We have already met Seth. In fact, we had lunch in June, and soon we have a date with him again. Thursday, in fact."

"Oh good!" she exclaimed. "Now I feel much better about your plans."

And now I'm nervous. Are we young enough? Am I cute enough? Are we Mormon enough? I haven't been out on a date like this before. Do we bring flowers? What do we wear? What if we don't like what he has to offer? What if he doesn't like what we have to offer? What if we don't like where he takes us? Is it impolite to ask him to take us somewhere else?

I'm just not sure because we've never been out with a realtor before. I sure hope it goes well and he helps us find a house we like. Because if not, well, that would just be awkward. And who needs another awkward first date story for their dinner party repartee?

Not us.

A few uncomfortable conversations (mostly started by me)

"Andy," I said last night, "When we went home teaching at the H's house and they had that double-wide chair (bigger than a chair, smaller than a loveseat) for us to sit in together...well...did that make you just the tiniest bit uncomfortable?"

"It only makes me uncomfortable when I sit in it with Greg." (Greg was Andy's home teaching companion who recently moved, which explains why I am now his home teaching companion. And with whom he has never actually shared the chair.) "Why? Did it make you uncomfortable?"

"A little bit, yes. But not physically uncomfortable. It made me feel ever so slightly emotionally uncomfortable."

"To clarify: It made my wife emotionally uncomfortable to sit in a double-wide chair so close to her husband?"

"Hmmm...yes. I'm not sure why though, but I am supposing it made me uncomfortable that they just assumed we would want to sit squished in a barely-big-enough-for-two-people chair such that my shoulders would be pushed in and I would have to sit hunched over while my legs fell asleep because it was impossibly uncomfortable to keep crossing and un-crossing and re-crossing them. Or maybe it was because I was marinating in the fresh steak marinade that soaked the front of my dress in the car as we drove their dinner over to them. Anyway. What if we wanted separate chairs? They never even asked. They should have asked. Of course I would have said yes, but that is beside the point. And it's not because I don't like sitting near you. It's because I don't like being uncomfortable - physically or emotionally."

"I'm uncomfortable knowing that sitting that close to me made you emotionally uncomfortable. Let's go get some doughnuts." And we did.

* * *

"I work next Tuesday and Wednesday just so you know. I'm working with people modeling underwear." (Guess who started this conversation. Wrong. It was Andy.)

"I'm uncomfortable with you working with half-naked models all day long. Half-naked and in their underwear."

"I'm uncomfortable with that too. There are going to be half-naked guys there! I don't want to look at half-naked guys."

"So...if there weren't half-naked guys there, you wouldn't be uncomfortable? Which means that if they were all half-naked ladies, you would be completely comfortable?"

"Yes!" (Resounding and enthusiastic.)

"I'm uncomfortable that you're shooting half-naked ladies in their underwear."

"I won't be shooting them."

"Wait! What? Then...you'll be putting microphones in their cleavage?" (Because everyone knows that a woman's cleavage is the best place to hide a microphone. Unless you're me, and then sorry! Mic will be utterly and completely visible. Don't worry, I'm not sad or embarrassed. It's just a fact. Question: Is it okay to talk about cleavage on a blog my mother reads?)

"No, we won't have audio. It's just a photo shoot."

"Then why are you there? You're an audio guy. Are you just going so you can look at half-naked ladies in their underwear?"

"It's really low-budget. So....can you even imagine what these models look like?"

"Just promise me you won't think they're prettier than me."

"Done."

* * *

"My mom said Ethan's baby is super cute." (Andy's brother and his girlfriend just had a baby boy. I'm not at all surprised he's super cute.)

"I'm sure he is. But don't worry, our kids are going to be cuter. I just know it."

"How do you know?"

"Because everyone I know told us we are going to have beautiful children. Someday. And I believe them."

"Well, usually good looking people have funny looking kids." (Which, technically, I know is not true, because we have many beautiful friends with beautiful children. But this does not stop the myth from being Out There.)

"Hmmm... Maybe that's why we'll have cute kids?"

"Did you just call me ugly?"

"Technically, I said both of us are non-cute. Ish."

"Oh. Well. That's really not any better. Let's just go eat our doughnuts." And we did.

* * *

"When we have kids, they won't look like me."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because look at all those kids on Jon and Kate + 8 (I'm obsessed with TV shows about women who give birth to innumerable amounts of children. TLC is a good channel for these shows). They have a white lady mom and a half-Asian dad - just like us! And none of those kids look like their mother! Not that I'm dissing your Asian heritage or anything. I'm not. It's just that the Asian gene is highly dominant, you know." (I didn't really say "dissing." I thought it though. Then I didn't say it because it felt wrong, like when a missionary returns from Chile and sounds weird speaking English with a Spanish accent. Just something sounds...not quite right.)

"I'm sorry."

"I kind of am too. I have some good features that would be nice to see on our kids. Like, I have nice feet."

"And also your face."

That Andy. He sure does know how to save us from my uncomfortable-ness. Thank heavens because that was almost more uncomfortable-ness than a person can stomach in one night.

Are you a Fridge Thief?

While in the breakroom at work today warming up my lentil soup, I caught sight of a menacing letter taped to the giant stainless steel refrigerator.

It read something to the effect of:

WARNING!
There is a Fridge Thief in our midst. I have had several sodas stolen out of my bag over the last few days, and I am not happy about it.

I want you to know that this is stealing, and it will not be tolerated. I will call Corporate Security when I find out who you are.

Even though I am not the Fridge Thief and have nothing to refute, I am thinking I should respond also via a letter taped to the fridge. If I were to write such a letter it would read something like this:

ATTENTION!
Maybe you shouldn't put things in your lunchbag that others will want to steal. This is precisely why I bring lentil soup, apples, dry wheat crackers, and fine foreign cheeses for my lunch (all of which I buy in bulk at The Greatest of All Stores Ever, Costco). No one wants to touch that stuff! Including my husband, who I am forever trying to convince to eat in a healthful manner for his own general well-being in addition to my own peace of mind.

And by the way, I would not tolerate someone stealing my soda either - soda is delicious and lovely to drink while eating lentil soup and dry wheat crackers. Unless you are drinking cream soda (of any brand), in which case I would think you would praise heaven that someone took the wretched poison from your sack.

At one of the many and numerous jobs I have worked in the years since I left graduate school, I was once upon a time a Fridge Thief. I will tell you the story.

I was so very sick and on the verge of going blind and passing out due to the insanely painful migraine that was striking my head, just behind my eyes. I so desperately wanted to avoid this, as embarrassing and unhappy things happen when I pass out, which you will never know unless you call me and ask me. Then, of course, I will be happy to tell you if, and only if, you swear to a vow of secrecy.

Anyway. At this point (the point of being on the verge of passing out, not the point of telling you my passing-out secrets), I remembered two important pieces of information:

• If I catch the migraine early enough, food can help it go away.
• I stored some string cheese in the refrigerator several days prior and I should go eat it, because it was early enough to fix the migraine.

So. I went to the fridge, took the string cheese back to my desk, opened it, and ate it. Upon throwing the wrapper into my trash can, I noticed a first string cheese wrapper already in there.

Of a different brand. Now. I feel it imperative to inform you that I do not make it a habit to purchase string cheeses of various brands purely for my amusement, or actually, at all.

At this point in the story, the pounding had left my head, and I came slowly to the realization that I was a Fridge Thief! I had stolen some poor, unsuspecting soul's string cheese with nary a thought that I had already eaten my string cheese and this string cheese might not be mine. (In case you are wondering, I am trying to go for the world record for using "string cheese" the most times in one sentence.)

Utterly freaked out and unsure of what to do next, I promptly quit my job and started another one, located miles and miles away from the scene of the crime. To my knowledge, I have not yet been reported to Corporate Security. Or perhaps I have been reported, but there is still a warrant out for my arrest.

Which begs the question, are YOU a Fridge Thief?

Sometimes it's hard to know what to do, or should I really buy this?

If there ever was a time in my life when I need a distinct and personal revelation via the Holy Ghost, it is now.

This is because right now I am trying to plan my fall/winter wardrobe. This is because the end of summer has officially descended upon me and after a very thorough review of all contents of my closet, dresser, Rubbermaid full of winter-type clothing (sweaters), and twenty boxes of clothes that no longer fit me and are waiting to be delivered to Goodwill, I recently came to the realization that I have one pair of jeans that fits me, one sweater, and a bunch of T-shirts. And five coats. Because let's be honest, it's really tough to outgrow a coat, as hard as I might try because I really want to get a bright orange wool coat with a hood and cute buttons, and I can't justify buying a new coat as long as I have five working ones in my closet.

So upon great contemplation and much starving, I mean fasting, in my wardrobe's behalf, I have crafted four very specific and distinct questions that I am hoping my forthcoming revelation will answer so as I know how to proceed due to my current wardrobe dilemma and current money fast (have I told you about our money fast? another post for another time).

These most important and hopefully revealing questions are, in no particular order:

1) Am I going to be fatter (perhaps in the midsection area only thanks to a great and long-awaited and prayed-for blessing) anytime soon? Like before the end of the fall/winter season?

2) If the answer to question 1 is no, then: Am I going to be skinner before the fall/winter season really gets underway, due to the excessive amounts of exercising in which I have partaken, and my great efforts at eating only those foods which will make my hair shine, my skin glow, and allow me to be constantly overdosed in folic acid? Oh, and some M&M's, but those don't count because it is during That Week of My Monthly Visitor, which we don't have to talk about, but all know that any and all M&M's eaten during that week do not count due to being excessively depleted in chocolate and sugary minerals during such a strenuous time in a woman's life. And exceedingly sad because I am not yet getting fatter in my midsection only.

3) Should I give in to the fashion craze because it's just so hard to withstand temptation and buy the cute pair of pinkish-reddish-orangeish Mary Jane Crocs that I saw at Costco, mostly because the color is so very happy, and I have a hard time passing up Mary Janes, even ugly ones? (If the answer to this is "yes," I must move fast. Things do not last at Costco.)

4) And lastly, should I buy a bright orange wool coat with a hood and cute buttons?

I know that if the Holy Ghost were any one of my sisters, I would be directed to replace my entire wardrobe and ship the current contents to Bountiful, Utah, whereupon the sharing of much joy and the saving of money would be celebrated amongst the females in my family. Probably by eating ice cream, because let's face it, who doesn't like to celebrate by eating ice cream? Hmmm...this attitude will most likely have a direct effect on the answer to question number 2.

If the Holy Ghost were Andy, I would be directed to clean out my overflowing and abundant closets, dressers, and boxes and deliver the contents to Goodwill to share with those less fortunate than me, and to just choose only those clothing items that would allow his clothing items to breathe and feel at home in their own home. They currently feel like homeless orphans who used to have a whole huge room to themselves and a parent who loved them enough to hang them up and put them away, but now the evil stepmother (me) has moved into the house and displaced them to the dungeon to clean the floors, and to move in all her own frilly girly clothes to take their place, not allowing them to be hung up and put away. What? You didn't know clothes had feelings? It's true, they do.

It must be noted, Andy has never once said anything about the displacement of his clothes. I just know it because his clothes whisper mean things to mine. Like, "Get out of our room, you brightly colored ruffly frilly things! A man needs space to breathe around here, and we feel suffocated! Who needs so many polka-dots anyway?" And other such nonsense as that.

Since the Holy Ghost is neither my sisters or Andy, I wonder what direction I'll be given? Maybe to just hang in there, continue sticking to my budget, and be patient that someday I will be bigger in the midsection area in the way I want to be bigger - the good "I am finally carrying a child and I have wanted to be this fat for such a long time now" bigger.

And maybe I'll be directed to buy bright orange wool coat with a hood and cute buttons. Stat!

Because nothing says, "I've been working my butt off all summer and haven't dropped a size - please reward me" like a bright orange wool coat with a hood and cute buttons.

Choosing an arch-nemisis is never an easy thing to do

When it comes to having an arch-nemisis, you want to make sure you pick a good one. Like those Dalmations. They picked a great arch-nemisis, who really gave those cute spotted dogs a run for their money. Now didn't she?

I only know of one other person (besides myself, of course) who has an arch-nemisis. If you already have one, (publicly proclaimed or secretive), you will be familiar with how to pick a good one. If you do not already have one, allow me to offer you some extremely useful tips when choosing an arch-nemisis. Because we all know that everyone needs an arch-nemisis in order to live a full and balanced life.

An arch-nemisis may or may not, depending on who the nemisis is nemis-ing, have any or all of the following characteristics. When choosing your arch nemisis, please ensure that potential said nemisis has at least two (2) of the following characteristics:

a) A gratingly high voice, much akin to an evil cackle.

b) The propensity to proclaim to one and all throughout the land that she (or I suppose he, if you must choose a he as your arch-nemisis) knows all, when really, you and I both know that she (or he) does not.

c) The incessant need to pontificate wildly about the room each time a public meeting is held. Said pontifications entrance those in her (or his) presence to the point where she (or he) becomes much like The Pied Piper and those in the room are the mice. And they follow her (or him) right off a cliff. Or into a disastorous and expensive business situation and you are left to pick up the pieces with people asking questions like, "Why did this happen? It makes no sense. Such and such said this would work!" When all along you knew that would happen, despite such-and-such's pontifications to the contrary.

d) Is much skinnier than you. Even after having a bazillion children. Or even after not having a bazillion children - it only matters if it matters to you.

e) Asks you to do something and tells you how great you will be at it, and then goes back to redo it just because she (or he) was worried it wouldn't get done right. And then lets everyone know she (or he) did it, confusing all in the land.

f) Responds to your email inquiries with snotty comments that start something like, "This is why..." and ending in multiple exclamation points. And cc'ing your manager or the person in charge, I presume to get you into trouble.

g) Wears a goatee minus the moustache, much akin to Ye Olde Non-Beards that people wore in the Days of Yore when Brigham Young was in charge of the Mormons.

h) The ability to incite in you the desire to wave your fist wildly about in the air while shouting, "I'll get you for this, you evil arch-nemisis, you!" Or some similar exclamation.

i) An evil laugh delivered while steepling the fingers together. The laugh will usually go something like this: "Mwa ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha. Mwa ha ha."

For example, I have several arch-nemises. One displays characteristics b, c, g, and h. Another displays characteristics b, d, f, and of course, h. Yet another nemisis does e and f on a regular basis. I think all three have done i at one point in time. And thus I know I have done a terrific job of choosing an arch-nemisis, because I have not one, dear readers, but three of them!

Now. What if you are having trouble choosing an arch-nemisis because you are just generally an all-around nice person who looks for the good in all humankind? To that I say, "Liar!" Just kidding. If you are having trouble choosing an arch-nemisis then you probably shouldn't read my blog because I choose and even switch them out on a regular basis, much like I used to choose and change the outfits on my paper dolls as a little girl.

And then: What if you choose an arch-nemisis, and she (or he) turns out to really be a nice person, albeit deep down inside? Keep looking - it's probably waayyy deeper than that. Well, that's okay. Even nice people can be someone else's arch-nemisis. In fact, I consider myself to be a very nice person, despite my blog postings of complaint and general unhappiness, and I am fairly certain I am someone's arch-nemisis.

But at least I don't have a weird non-moustache-goatee hybrid.

Do you have a nemisis? What does she (or he) do that made you choose her (or him) to hold that special arch-nemisis place in your heart? Or are you someone else's nemisis? What did you do that made them choose you to hold that special place in their heart?

How to love someone when you really don't want to: a step-by-step guide for overcoming the grumpies

I have a friend who I love. Except for one problem: sometimes This Friend is completely, unabashedly, frustratingly, unloveable. Unloveable, I tell you! Unloveable!

So yesterday I said, "Self, you need to be better at loving This Friend. You need to stop the complaining. And the whining. And the wishing this This Friend was different. And you need to just love This Friend until you can't love anymore." Except we all know that it is difficult, almost completely next to impossible, to run out of loving for someone. Unless they pay with a check at The Wal-Mart. But if they do you could think, "How quaint - paying with a check. They are so Old Fashioned." Then you would love and admire them for being quaint and Old Fashioned. See? I even surprised myself with that one.

Note: While I do not smile upon check-writing, I only frown upon it when people are slow about it. Mom and AnJ, this does not apply to you. Feel free to write all the glorious heart-dotted i checks your tender little hearts desire!

But loving someone when they say mean things to you like, "Woah. You sure look all wide and jiggly (yes, wide and jiggly - super bad combination) in those pants. Maybe you should just stay home in your pajamas instead of going out where people will actually see you." Or, "It's really too bad you tried to cook an amazing exotic dinner of macaroni and cheese, because your homemade sauce turned out a little gluey, which we all know happens when you use too much flour and not enough milk. You usually do better - I'm so disappointed in you." Or even, "Good grief, lady! Why can't you keep up with the laundry so your husband doesn't have to ask you why his clothes are always in the dryer and never make it into his drawer?"

So. This Friend of mine can sometimes be a little tough. But, just in case you have a similar friend, you are in luck! You have come to the right place! Because you are going to find out just how to love such a friend who is not always nice, but maybe sometimes is nice like when they buy a Cranberry-Lime slush for you from Sonic because they know you're having a bad day. It makes it just a little easier to overlook the chronic grumpiness. But still. We have to know how to handle friends like this when they are not buying you Cranberry-Lime slushes of delightful wonderfulness.

Step 1: Find out what your friend likes and what makes her happy. Does she collect red lipsticks in her search to find the perfect one? When she sees fresh bouquets of flowers, does her face light up? Does she absolutely adore Chipotle burritos? Chocolate chip cookies? Tap dancing? Just find out.

Note: You might have to ask lots of questions, or be very observant. This is hard work. Hard work, I tell you! I never said it would be easy-peasy.

Step 2: Give your friend something that she likes and that makes her happy. Maybe all it takes is just your time. Spend time with your friend. Do whatever she wants to do. Even if it is just writing checks at The Wal-Mart and laughing at Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's choice of names for their children.

Step 3: Say something nice and supportive to your friend. Maybe try something like, "Hi Friend. You look so beautiful today! You should wear red more often - it is most definitely your best color." Or maybe, "Dear Friend. I'm sure happy to see you! I know you're struggling right now, but NO MATTER WHAT I am here, and I love you. And you will get through this bout of the grumpies."

Step 4: Give your friend a hug. Or pat her on the back if you are afraid of hugs. If you are afraid of hugs, that is a completely different post.

Step 5: Repeat steps 1 through 4 over. And over. And over.

How will you know you have successfully loved your friend? Well, sometimes you might not know until way later that you were successful. Sometimes, you might not ever know. Ever. But the secret is that you just keep doing it. Even when it's hard and you don't want to. Even when your friend is YOU, and you don't want to be nice to yourself because you're grumpy. Which in my case it often is and let's be honest: only I would be thismean to myself. If I had a friend who was thismean to me, would we really be friends?

Anyway, you should still do it. Because it's what Heavenly Father does for us, and because we are worth it.

All the time.

A suggestion for all you check-writers out there, or one of my biggest pet peeves

Just last week, I made many a trip to The Wal-Mart, otherwise known as The Downfall of Society Today. Or at least I think that's what the people who wear those "No Wal-Mart" t-shirts really think of the giant superstore.

On each occasion, while waiting in line to purchase my goods, the cashier rang up the goods of the shoppers in front of me. On each occasion, the ringing-up took several minutes. Just for your reference: several=more than three, less than 10.

On each occasion, said shoppers watched as their goods were rung (oh shoot, is it rang? ringed? all three look funny) up by the cashier. At the completion of the ringing-up process, the cashiers cheerfully (as full of cheer Wal-Mart cashiers will allow themselves to be) proclaimed the final total for all to hear: "That will be seventy-two twenty three" or "Nineteen thirteen please!"

On each occasion, said shoppers then responded with something like, "Oh! Okay." And then, it was as though a giant light bulb went off and they realized that they actually had to pay. Pay for their goods. No, scanning goods is not just a requirement so The Wal-Mart can track inventory - they had to provide something, namely cash money, in exchange for their basic life necessities, like 20-lb bags of dog food and feminine hygiene products. And Skittles.

On each occasion, said shoppers then (after a good thirty seconds of confused staring), then reached into their purse to pull out a checkbook. A checkbook. One more time: a checkbook. A blank check - that had nothing filled in, by the time the cashier was finished ringing up their purchases, and the line had grown from two people to 10.

Now. I'm all about taking life a little slowly, savoring the roses and whathaveyou. And I have nothing against paying with a check. Nothing. I don't think everyone has to use a credit card, or a debit card, or even cash. But I would like to make one teensy, weensy suggestion to those of you who write checks: Please Be Prepared.

It would help those of us hurrying home if you could start writing your check before the final total is proclaimed. Three to 10 minutes is sufficient time to write the date, the store name, your signature, and start an entry in your check register. Plenty of time. I know this, because I used to be a check writer myself. Then, when the cashier proclaims the final total, you can just zip, zip, zip, write the amount on the line, in the box, and in the column in the register and be on your merry way.

Which means that the rest of us waiting in line will not have to be grumpy at you and the cashier (even though we know it's not the cashier's fault we are now missing the beginning of our favorite TV show). Which means the rest of us waiting in line will not have to sigh loudly and shake our head at your being unprepared. Which also means that the rest of us waiting in line will not have to put the People magazine back, ready to get our order going, only to realize we put it back too early and we could have actually finished reading that article to find out what boy-name-ending-in-X Brad and Angelina just gave their seventeenth adoped son.

Please, check writers: it's just a small request to help make our shopping experience at The Wal-Mart a little more enjoyable.

New

If you don't work in corporate America, you will not know the nightmare hell that is IT Services. Sorry IT readers, but it's true. In my experience, IT Services is most generally extremely very un-helpful.

Where I work now, when I have an issue, I go online and submit a helpdesk ticket. That ticket is routed and re-routed until it ends up in someone's "Crap To Do" pile. Depending on the nature of the issue, it will go to India. Wait, no; it always goes to India, regardless of the nature of the issue.

Then, someone calls me. Now, I do enjoy the people of India. Unless they are trying to get me to ride in their rickshaw/buy their handpainted sarong/get in their cab/give me a tour of a fort/etc. They are a very generous people. But when I speak to an IT person in India on the phone, I have such a hard time understanding him (yes, it's usually a him). We go back and forth trying to resolve my problem, and the ticket is ultimately re-routed. Usually back to India. At some point, we figure each other out and either the issue is resolved, or we don't figure each other out and I realize that living with the problem is easier and much less painful than the conversation I'm having and give up.

So. Wednesday morning I came into the office, submitted my ticket, and prepared to wait it out. At approximately 4:00 pm Wednesday afternoon, I received an e-mail stating that an item had been shipped and would arrive at my desk on Thursday. I assumed it was a new power cord, docking station, or maybe just maybe a new hard drive.

Giddy and light-headed at the prospect of receiving some gift in the mail, I arrived this morning to find a huge box on my desk. After ripping it open and digging through styrofoam and plastic, I shrieked with glee to find a laptop!

Ah, the little things that make my heart go pitter patter. It was new. Brand. Spanking. New. My ticket had been resolved, and I had to just swap out the hard drives. And that was it - I was back up and running in less time than it takes to change a baby's diaper. (Well, for me to change one anyway, because let's be honest: first you have to undress the kid, then do the whole diaper-removal process, then you have to chase after the kid when he runs away from you stark naked. Then you have to apply booty condiments and such, and then you put on the new diaper and clean clothes. Then you clean up the mess he made when he peed across the room...suffice it to say, it takes me a while to change a diaper.)

I guess this is how IT rolls at my office. What is your issue? Your laptop won't start without the docking station? Send a new laptop! Your "H" key is sticking? Send a new laptop! Your monitor is a little fuzzy? Send a new laptop! You have ants marching across your keyboard because they know you eat at your desk and drop cheese crumbs in there? Send a new laptop! Okay, I'm exaggerating, but I did find it a little odd that no one even called to discuss the problem with me. They just placed an order for a new laptop and here it was today.

Just don't tell my boss. She has an ancient laptop and her requests for a newer, faster one have repeatedly been denied. Shhhh...

My commute ain't half bad, if you can ignore the crack

Remember, I commute now because my laptop got fried when the power went out a few days ago. Turns out I have to have my entire hard drive replacedm or whatever is in this giant box sitting on my desk. It seems much bigger than a hard drive. Bigger than a breadbox, even. Until IT opens it and puts whatever is in the box into my laptop, I will be driving into work every day.

Anyway. Even though I was commuting, and sitting in this (in a stick shift, no less), I tried to think positively and focus on the things that were nice about my commute. So, I enjoyed this. And very much enjoyed this. And also these - brand new, and I'll enjoy them all day long, and for a long time after that. Actually, I hope I don't enjoy them much longer because they will be a) too big because I lost weight, or b) too small because I am pregnant. No, I am not saying I am pregnant. Just that I wouldn't say no if the opportunity presented itself.

See? There were lots of nice things about my commute. And then. I tried to avoid it, but drove behind this on a motorcycle for a good three minutes. The guy with the crack, not the little girl with the balloon. Come on - I'm trying to be a *little* tasteful here and not show a real picture of a guy on a motorcycle showing crack. That would just be crude. And okay, I'll admit it - a little bit funny.

All in all, a delightful commute. Despite the crack.

Good news

When Andy and I were dating, he surprised me one day by filling my freezer with Graeter's ice cream. If you are not from, nor have ever been, to Ohio, you may not know the delicious wonderfulness that is Graeter's. That is the best ice cream ever! It must come from happy, relaxed cows.

So imagine my surprise and delight when I opened my freezer, just two years ago, and found several pints of my favorite flavor, Black Raspberry Chip, and a couple of other random, yet equally delicious, flavors. My tiny freezer was filled with love.

On Saturday, we received some good news akin to that of finding my freezer filled with love: Graeter's is now going to be sold in select King Sooper's grocery stores in the Denver Metro area. Hip hip hooray! And to make it even better, we get a free pint. Two pints for the price of one! Have I died and gone to heaven? Or Ohio? Not that they are the same thing - they most definitely are NOT.

What's making me laugh right now

Read these comments about my recent IKEA post. Call me crazy, but it sounds like Karlenn is calling me cheap aaaaaaaand cute. Okay. Thank you?

Time for a change

I originally started (and named) this blog, thinking that it would be about me. And Andy. A+A = Me and Andy. Well. Turns out this blog's mostly about me. Not that Andy's not completely interesting, but he has his own blog to write his own thoughts, so what's it matter anyway?

So. Here I am, changing up my blog, to be about ME (Lish). This is to prevent some man friend of Andy's from happening across this blog and mistakenly thinking they are going to get information about the both of us, and then all the sudden he's reading about struggles with trying to get pregnant and complaining about church callings. I don't think Andy wants his good name dragged through the mud being associated with topics such as that.

So there you have it. Enjoy just lish in all its glorious, girly pinkness.

If you want to know what Andy finds interesting, head on over to his blog. You'll find a mighty fine video that was part of Daniel & AJ's wedding video - we shot it about a month ago. In one of them, I look fat. Fat-ish. And I walk clumpy, and I am a terrible actress. But it's still pretty flipping funny. Enjoy.

Will a hearing aid improve your marriage? It might just help mine.

Andy thinks that when you get married, you lose your ability to hear. Or, to be more exact, you lose your ability to hear anything that comes out of your spouse's mouth. "Not true." I said. He then proceeded to list no less than five examples of our friends experiencing this baffling phenomenon. It took him almost as long as it just took me to write the word "phenomenon." Twice.

Well. Sometimes in a marriage, your husband is right, and okay, today, I realized that mine was right. For today. Yes, our comments, requests, musings, and whatnot have a tendency to fall on deaf ears. On occasion. Take for example, an innocent exchange between Andy and myself via phone this morning:

Him: Did I get any checks in the mail?

Me: Yes, you got one from Dave. A big fat one.

Him: Did you deposit those other checks?

Me: What other checks?

Him: The checks I asked you to deposit. Yesterday. And the other day when I was on the phone with Chris and I said, "I'll have Alicia deposit them."

Me: I have no recollection of that conversation. But you bet your cutey booty those checks will go into the bank today. Along with the new check from Dave. (Okay, I didn't really say "cutey booty," but now at this moment I am wishing that I did.)

Him: Thank you.

Me: Excuse me now, but I have to go into the office. Because the power went out yesterday, my laptop is now refusing to start. Apparently, I need to lock it into my docking station and that is the only way I can turn it on to check MSN, write blog posts, and send emails to Relief Society sisters about our upcoming activity, of which I am in charge. Oh, and get some work done writing training materials.

Him: Okay, goodbye and I love you.

A phone call four hours later revealed that I am not the only one in need of some sort of marital hearing aid:

Him: Are you at home?

Me: No, I'm at work.

Him: Where are you?

Me: I'm in the office.

Him: Oh. I needed you to find something at home for me.

Me: I'm in the office. My laptop wouldn't work - remember? I had to come into the office. Can I take care of it from here, or when I get home?

Him: No, you need to be home. Gotta go.

Me: Okay, goodbye, I love you.

Hmmm...do they make a Miracle Ear for this ailment? I sure hate when Andy's right.

To my friends who are mothers

Dear Friend,

Ho much I love you! When we met, I had no idea what a close bond we would develop. I have loved serving with you, laughing with you, and have so appreciated all the times you were there for me. Especially through those really rough spots - remember those? Yikes. But I made it - thanks in part to you, my dear friend.

Over the years, I have watched as you became a mother. I have loved sharing that experience with you - anticipating the new life, watching your family change, and seeing you flourish in such amazing ways as you fulfill your role as a mother. But I have a confession to make to you, dear friend: sometimes I am happy for you, and at the same time am reminded of my own struggle to fulfill this role. It seems the reminders are becoming more and more constant.

I have several friends experiencing this happy occasion for the very first time, and I must confess, I have not been a very good friend to them. In a little over a month, a new friend will become a mother for the first time. When she first shared her happy news with me last February, I could barely eek out a smile and whisper a tiny "Congratulations." Sadly, seven months later, it is still just as difficult for me to watch her stomach expand and feel happy for her.

I have certainly loved hearing about all the fun, wonderful joys that come with being a mother. I have enjoyed sharing that motherhood experience with you. But with each birth announcement that arrives in my mail, each updated family portrait I see on your wall, I have to wonder - will I ever know what it feels like to become a mother?

I don't share this with you because I want you to stop sharing your motherhood experiences with me. And I don't share it with you because I want you to feel sorry, or tell me that I'll have my turn. and I definitely don't want you to stop telling me about your motherhood experiences. I share this because yesterday I received some news that a very dear friend is struggling - she is in the middle of recovering from a molar pregnancy, and she will be unable to attempt to become a mother for a very long time. When I heard this, I wasn't sure which was worse for me - hearing that someone is pregnant and knowing of my own struggle, or hearing that someone close to me who desperately wants to be is unable to become pregnant.

I'm sharing my thoughts about this to let you know that if it seems as though I am not happy for you, or if I become quiet when the topic turns to children and families, you will know why. You don't have to change anything, just please be patient and understanding with me.

Please know that I love you. I love knowing that you are (or are going to soon be) a mother. I love what that means for you, and I am learning how to have faith that someday, those of us who desire this above all else will get our chance to call you with that exciting news. When that happens, I hope that you will be more gracious with me than I have been with you.

I do love you, dear friend. And I thank you for being so understanding while I struggle through this.

Alicia