Kicking back

I got 8 comments on my last post.


It's odd for me. I'm used to double digit comments, usually starting with a 2.


I should probably care more than I do. I should probably care more that I checked Google Analytics out for the first time in forever and my numbers are down by half. There are reasons for it, like not having time right now to swing by a hundred blogs a day because Eden is usually on my lap. Babies are needy like that. So my numbers fall.


I should probably care more. But I don't.


I guess that's part of growing up, right? Right now I'm not blogging to make money. I'm not blogging because I need people to see what I say. I'm not blogging because I have a particular platform. I'm not blogging to chronicle my family's life for posterity.


All of these are good reasons to blog.  But they're not my reasons for blogging.


Right now, I'm blogging because in the few leftover minutes I have in each day, I like to hang out with my friends. So I swing by whenever I can. And there's that handful of friends that come by and I expect them and I'm happy to see them show up, just like I thought they would. 


And it's good.


Maybe my reasons for blogging will change in the future. Probably they will. I don't know.


But for right now, I'm happy. Thanks for hanging out with me.


*Um, I just read Mommy Snark today and she says it way better HERE.

On the other hand . . .

The universe giveth and it taketh away. And then it giveth again.


In my old bathroom, I didn't have any natural light. I had very poor light. Imagine a single bulb, hanging from a chain in a musty room presided over by a Central American guerilla soldier, dangling cigarette and all.


Have you imagined that? Good. My old bathroom wasn't that bad, but it didn't have any windows. Just sayin'.


Anyway, my new bathroom has a big ole picture window. Right over the tub. Think about that for a minute. I take a bath and it's just me, the hummingbirds and the backyard neighbors enjoying the view. Of me. Because there's a picture window over my tub. What the what?


So this picture window sheds lots and lots of light all over the place. It sheds so much I have to use a lint brush to remove all the extra sunlight from my clothes. On the upside, it's way better for things like applying eyeliner and plucking stray hairs putting on mascara. 


But . . . it's also the reason I discovered new wrinkles. Not the eye ones. I don't mind those. It took a lot of smiling to get those. And ditto the mouth brackets. I earned those through honest laughter. The ones between my eyes are not my favorite, but I thought hard and worried long to carve those furrows out.


No, these wrinkles are on the cheek and only show up in very strong sunlight when I tilt my head just so, and they look like pillow creases. Did I really earn permanent wrinkles by sleeping too much? REALLY? Whatever happened to beauty rest?


So on the one hand, I've got new lines. That's sad. But the universe giveth, too. Guess what showed up on my cheek under my right eye?


A heart shaped freckle!

Yeah!


Good trade!


(Pictures to come.)

More about the Pope

Back in January, I blogged about an incident at a mystery writers' luncheon where I ran into an author who thought "Big Love" was somehow related to Mormons. I was frustrated and didn't have the opportunity to clarify anything at the moment, but I hunted down her website and sent her a letter. I watched for a response to my letter for a couple of weeks but didn't see one. Turned out, it showed up in my little used email account (you know, the one you give to spammers?) but she actually did respond. Since a lot of you wanted to know what she said, if she said anything, I'm including my letter and her response. She is a very gracious lady.


Dear *****


I enjoyed meeting you at the Cerritos library mystery event on Saturday. I hope you had time to explore the library a little. It's really cool even though it gives me a chronic case of library envy.

I wanted to clarify a little bit of conversation we had before lunch began. When you asked what I write, I said, "Mormon chick lit." You said something about how it's good that there's a television show supporting the genre and you mentioned Big Love.

I didn't feel like it was appropriate to address it at the time as you had other people who wanted to chat with you, but I wanted to take a quick minute to correct something. Big Love isn't about Mormons. It's about people who call themselves Mormons but no true Mormon would recognize themselves in that program.

I guess I'd offer this analogy to explain: Let's say that I decided to wear a yarmulke and call myself Jewish. Then imagine I ran around indulging every perverse impulse I had but sanctioned it under the cloak of Judaism even though it had nothing to do with their religion.

The faithful Jews would be hurt and frustrated by my actions, and that's pretty much how Mormons feel about Big Love. Despite the label FLDS, there's actually no such thing as Mormon fundamentalism. You don't get to slap a label on your lifestyle when you appropriate it from a people and religion who in no way share or condone your beliefs. (And when I say "you," I don't mean YOU.)

The fundamentals of Mormonism are that God lives, his Son atoned for our sins, and all of us benefit from that gift. We also believe that God still talks to a living prophet, Thomas S. Monson, and through continuing revelation and careful study of the scriptures, including the revealed scripture of the Book of Mormon that strengthens what we already know from the Bible, every person can learn about God's plan for our happiness and how simple it is to live it.

Thanks for taking the time to read this and I wish you the best of success with your writing career.

Sincerely,

Melanie Jacobson

Hi Melanie,

I'm really appreciative of your clarification of the real Mormon response to Big Love.  I'm actually glad to hear it, as I am not a fan of that show and in fact find it unwatchable -- maybe because of the excesses you describe.  I find it a strange anomaly for usually brilliant HBO.  My comment was just a general conversational response, and I apologize if it was offensive.  (From your letter, I know you understood it wasn't meant to be.)  I completely understand the frustration with untrue and hurtful representations in the media -- it's an important message to keep repeating to the viewing/reading public that what you see isn't any kind of ultimate truth, simply someone's (or a group un-educated executives') perception.  Thanks for reminding me of that.

Take care and good luck with your writing.

Best,
*****

Say Cheese!

What are you supposed to do in a mug shot?


I think smart celebrities need to have a game plan in place as soon as they earn their first mention in a gossip rag. Maybe one day the "Stars: They're Just Like Us" runs a snapshot of you picking your nose while you eat your Pinkberry and then it's a short, slippery slope until you're flashing your new thousand dollar veneers for your mugshot because you either


A) Pull a Winona and shoplift your next designer outfit so you can compete with all the starlets at some launch party for, oh, I don't know . . . a new lip plumper made from sea urchin venom and dragon flies milked by Tibetan sherpas on blue moons in January.


B) Pull a Paris Hilton and get caught with pot two weeks in a row, pot that conveniently belongs to a friend in your entourage each time.


or


C) Pull a Mel Gibson and lose your ever-lovin' mind, causing your mouth to become a combination sewer and vent for noxious, racist brain fumes.


So pick your idiotic infraction. Let's fast forward to you being arrested and then booked and taking the lovely mug shot. It's absolutely going to be broadcast on every available media outlet. "News at 10: President Obama announces free diamonds for everyone in America but first, a minor (talentless) celebrity was busted for a misdemeanor!" Then for the next ten minutes as your crime is discussed, your mugshot will be on the screen. And online everywhere you click. And so on.


It's really hard to pull off a good mugshot.


You get your Gary Busey mugshot:

This earns you the perma-crazy label. As in you will now permanently be considered crazy.


But if you go the other route and attempt to not look like a straight up nutty pants, then you get this:

Apparently, this is considered smirking. (And no, I don't check the TMZ website eight times a day. Ahem.) 


I never even thought of it as smirking until the news told me that's what she was doing. 


That's why I say you have to think this through. If you attempt to have any sort of dignity at all, maybe offering a long-suffering smile, you will be judged as not contrite and if you try to look contrite, you will come off as looking crazy or shifty or something else not good.


You can't win with a mugshot.(That's probably the most obvious sentence ever written since the foundation of time.) And I think Lindsay Lohan is an idiot but she's an idiot who has been totally, utterly, and irrevocably screwed up by her parents so I feel the teeniest bit of sympathy for her. And I think that the girl has enough trouble as she starts her stint in jail that she doesn't need people reading stuff into her mugshot. 


Lame.


Lame, lame.


And now I've got some face pose practicing to do before I'm a big time author and lose my mind and end up doing my best crazy eye after I get busted at the Walmart for braining someone who loiters in the middle of the "Seasonal Items" aisle while I'm trying to get to the swim floaties.


Not that I've ever considered that . . .


*Several eagle-eyed readers pointed out that the first mug shot is Nick Nolte, not Gary Busey. Weirdly enough, I Googled "Gary Busey mugshot" and got what you see. I probably would have figured this out if I hadn't blogged after midnight, but now I'm going to let it stand or people's comments won't make any sense and I love you all so much that I"ll continue to look dumb.


Oh, and the spelling correction in the comments came from my sister. It's pretty much the only time she comments. Sometimes she emails the corrections to me. Mostly she'll just do this.


All I have to say is: It was AFTER MIDNIGHT! And I fixed it now anyway.

Rules I live by

I was at my best friend's wedding this weekend. It was a great opportunity to wear rhinestones and catch up with my college friends. At some point in the evening, we decided to organize a girl's trip to NYC next year. Then they started teasing me about how I had to pick the restaurants because all my vacations revolve around food.


I can't deny it.


Possibly my whole life revolves around food. You know, the non-gospel, non-family parts. Although food is pretty close to a religion for me.


Here are the commandments I live by:


1. In any recipe, thou shalt double the garlic.
2. There must needs be opposition in all things: sweet and salty together are heavenly.
3. If thou shalt have a sandwich with meat, thou shalt also have onion. Otherwise, it's just plain wrong. Oops. I mean, it is an abomination.
4. If a recipe has cream cheese, surely thou art being guided rightly.
5. Tony Chacere's is any meat's crowning glory.
6. I only make one dinner. If thou don't liketh it, thou better learn to nuke your own frozen burrito.
7. Muenster is a holy sandwich cheese. Swiss is merely holey.
8. Artisan breads are divine. Man can't live by bread alone but I bet I could.
9. All hail the Fry Daddy (but not in a golden calf kind of way)
10. Home can be a heaven on earth. So can a dang good barbecue joint.
11. Woe unto you who do not know: food doesn't have to be fancy to be delicious.
12. But verily I must admit, sometimes fancy food is delicious, too.
13. This commandment I give last of all: thou shalt eat slow and savor. Remember you're blessed to have it.


Amen.

Life is good.

I had lunch with Becca Wihite today.

I love her guts!

Stuff and nonsense (What's new?)

I had every intention of writing something fresh and clever here today. Then I was like, "Screw it. I'm going to be serious." Then I was like, "Wait, no. I already did that Sunday which pretty much means I met my quota for the month."

So I settled on random.

But settling is such an ugly word. It's more like I'm embracing it, that's what.

First up, my absolute new favorite blog right now. It's a cross between the Far Side and the Pottery Barn catalog. There is no other way to explain Catalog Living. It's a pretty new blog so you can read through the archives in minutes. Trust me, you'll thank me. Tell Gary and Elaine I said hi and thanks for the game of Wood Fish. The knot on my head is almost gone.

Third (because second wouldn't be random now, would it?), I recently heard someone I know describe herself as "unintentionally romanticizing everything." That's just therapy-speak for being a drama queen, right?

I scored a Sony point and shoot digital camera for $20. It's used. But did you read the part about $20? Suh-weet.

I'm doing my own version of Mystery Science Theater 3000 right now. Somehow the TV ended up on the Lifetime Network which is a deliberate choice in Kristina P's house, but is generally an accident here. Not judging. (Totally judging but pretending I'm not so I seem cool. Shhh.) Anyway, it's been there for three hours on mute while I've been revising my currently sucktastic-but-becoming-progressively-less-so novel. There is a Will and Grace rerun playing and I have no idea what's going on but it don't look right. I'm supplying my own dialogue. This will only end badly for Jack and Karen.

Eden has been smiting people with her cuteness all day.

I finally got a nursing bra that fits right last night. It's like finding religion.

I had a proud parenting moment at a baby shower tonight. (By the way, it was for a woman in my new ward and since there were three pregnant women there, I had no idea who I had even brought the gift for until she started opening it. Nice one, Mel.) The hostess is the nursery leader and insisted I bring my kids when she found out Kenny had band practice. At one point, I turned to discover that Grant had stolen a spoon from one of the fruit salads and was shoveling M&Ms from the candy dish straight into his mouth. Classy. So was the yogurt pretzel he licked and set aside.

I'm tired. It's 12:01 on the wrong side of the day and I shouldn't still be up. I'm going, going, gone.

Blessings

Last Saturday, we went for a walk. We meandered through the neighborhood toward the park, ready to take the kids for a swim. We strolled in only to discover that all hell had broken loose. A young woman stood sobbing on her friend's shoulder. Her 53-year-old father had collapsed in the park. Someone had the presence of mind to run into the city pool and find a lifeguard to do CPR. The teenaged guard was doing chest compressions while sirens wailed in the distance and the family wailed over his shoulder.


It was devastating. The victim wasn't breathing. Everyone stood around feeling helpless. It reminded me of the several times the paramedics had to come get my dad in the two months before he died. That made me cry. I wanted to help. More than anything, I wanted Kenny to give the man a priesthood blessing. In our faith, we believe that through the priesthood, a person can be healed according to their faith and God's will. I've witnessed it happen many times in my life and I've experienced it myself. Knowing that Heavenly Father has provided us with this power has been a source of incredible comfort to me many times. Asking for and receiving priesthood blessings for myself or my family is also empowering; it helps me feel like I'm doing something when I would otherwise feel utterly helpless.


That's how I felt at the park. Helpless. (And really stupid for crying.) Kenny couldn't offer that family a priesthood blessing because they don't know about the priesthood. He said that instead we could say a prayer in our hearts. So I did. I prayed really, really hard. I slipped over and offered the young woman a bottled water and then crept closer to her father, keeping an ear open to see if there was anything else I could do. The EMTs showed up and began working on him. They called for damp cloths and every male there, young and old, immediately whipped off their t-shirts and wet them in the drinking fountains, anxious to hand them over and help. Other people stood over the paramedics with beach towels held up to create a sun shade. Other people ran to the road to guide in the other emergency vehicles racing toward the park.


Everybody tried to do something. It made me happy to live in my new neighborhood, where strangers will literally give the shirts off their backs to help a stranger. It made me sad that the one thing that could help the most wasn't something I could extend at the moment. But it made me feel blessed to know that my husband strives to live honorably to be worthy of the priesthood. And it made me determined to open my mouth and share what I have and know.


Anyone can get a priesthood blessing, LDS or not. They only need faith to be healed. I want to be sure that I have relationships with all my friends and family that are strong enough that they would feel completely comfortable getting a blessing like that from Kenny or anyone with the proper authority. I'm excited to share new restaurant discoveries, or tell everyone about a sale. Why wouldn't I share the one thing in my life that makes everything better?


I am grateful for the restored gospel and the blessings of comfort and healing given through the priesthood.


The man regained consciousness before they loaded him into the ambulance. His wife stood near him and called his name over and over again, with words of love and encouragement. "Hold on!" she said. "I love you! I'm here! I love you!"


It was so simple. And so great. Say it to someone you love today, okay? It'll make both of you feel better.

The barbaric yawp.

I've been yawping.


Deep, satisfying, soul-stirring yawps. (See Dead Poets Society. But first brush up on your Whitman.)


I had to put my writing aside for a while to deal with moving into our new home and preparing the condo to rent out. It involved a lot of mind-numbing contractor coordinating, paint picking, errands, and . . . well, you get the point.


It wasn't creative. It wasn't making something new. It wasn't about flexing brain muscles and wrestling words into a shiny, happy flow. It had moments of fun, but not the kind that makes your soul smile.


Now things are settled enough (not completely, but enough) that I CAN WRITE.


Oh, I miss this place, this place where everything is a story and I can't type fast enough to squeeze it all in. I feel like a conduit for wonderfulness. Ideas are hurling themselves at me from all directions, from the community pool to the neighborhood block party. To wit:

Didn't I tell you?


How could I not put this guy in a story? And he hangs out at my neighbor's house a lot, so I'm going to have all kinds of great material.


For anyone who thinks I embellish some of the crazy things I tell you, believe me. Just believe me. I have a combination radar/magnet for wackiness. I don't have time to make anything up when my life is ripe with Pakistani Elvises. (Elvi?)


Just wait until my next post when I reveal the cast of characters I've run into for some future novel that you won't believe. But what did I say? BELIEVE ME.


Also, for all those of you who felt cheated by my wardrobe malfunction non-story, here's the euphemistic Cliff's Notes version, and it's all I'm going to say: Imagine a car with its high beams on whose headlights are seriously out of alignment. You're welcome.

Let freedom ring . . .

You might think you had a great 4th of July. But unless you can top a fifty year old drunk Pakistani man in a full on Elvis jumpsuit doing karaoke for the cul-de-sac against our wishes, I win.


And no, I'm not making that up. Pictures to follow.


P.S. There was also another drunk dude who played MC and he gave a nice sermon comparing Elvis to Lazarus for "those of us who are Christians." It had something to do with rising from the dead. I'm not sure. That's pretty much the point where I went inside.


Happy Independence Day, everyone!