City Lights

Just yesterday I was looking down over the hive of Times Square in New York and thinking how ironic it is that the busiest part of Manhattan holds the fewest New Yorkers. It's mostly tourists and the vendors who hawk their cheap souvenirs to them that fill the streets. Pretty funny stuff.


I got back today. It was heaven to hold hands with my husband and take big gulping whiffs of my kids. But Kazzy's husband, formerly Professor Burton to me, posted a quote on Facebook today that best sums up my experience. "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime." — Mark Twain (The Innocents Abroad/Roughing It) 




Now, I know it's true that all profound words ever spoken in the history of mankind before 1950 are attributed to the same four men: Abraham Lincoln (anything about justice), Winston Churchill (anything about courage) and Ben Franklin and Mark Twain (anything pithy and clever). But that quote sounds exactly like Mark Twain.


Anyway, it says better than I can the exact thoughts that had been running through my head through my whole four day trip. Even as I spent a few days with my old college girlfriends preoccupying ourselves with eating and shopping, my mind kept expanding in spite of itself.


It's uncomfortable sometimes. But I'm coming back from vacation more charged up than ever with ideas about things and people and time and art and culture. And my contribution and my gain.


I love New York.

Firing up the Alice Cooper

Today my oldest "graduates" from 6th grade. You know what that means, right? 


I DID IT! Whoohoo! I survived another year! I will proceed to Zappos.com immediately following this post and reward my awesomeness with hot shoes for making it through elementary school and more impressively, pre-algebra. Also: fractions.


Today is a potpourri of things that smell nice on the Internet. First, if you want to read The List or give it as a gift to someone, or just hold it and stroke the cover because you wore out the copy you own doing that already, you can win a copy of it here, plus a bunch of other books, and it's EASY. Like, leave a comment easy, even.


Second, a little while ago, I posted the first page of my new manuscript for an anonymous editor to critique. I was all freaked out about it and stuff because I'm working on something different this time around, but it went well. If you want to do know what I'm doing, or offer your feedback, you can check it out here on Julie Bellon's blog.


I feel like I should write more, but really, I've got nothing to say. I guess this is a great opportunity for me to practice the principle of NOT TALKING JUST BECAUSE. Besides, a picture is worth a thousand words so here's one of the shoes I think my husband is about to buy me (thanks, honey!):


(Oh, and a quick side note. If you sort ballet flats on Zappos by popularity, the first twenty that come up are Crocs. To the guilty party buying these: STOP IT.)

Here's another tip. Wait. NO.

My husband is an excellent tipper. It's one of his many great qualities. I didn't have to reform him. He was tipping well before I ever came along.


I'm a pretty good tipper. I understand the difference between tipping, and oh, say... tithing (I'm looking at you, UTAH). Answer: at least 5%. AT LEAST.


Here's what I don't understand about tipping:


Why do I have to tip EVERYBODY?


It's because of freaking Starbucks and their stupid tip jar. They're ruining it for the rest of us.


Example: I worked at an upscale Chinese restaurant in high school. I seated people and packed up take out orders for people. I never once expected a tip. It certainly wasn't as hard as what the servers did and it was just part of my minimum wage job. Not a big deal.


I managed Nielsen's Frozen Custard in Orem during college. I made a lot of sandwiches and concretes. We never put out a tip jar. We never even thought about it.


And then Starbucks happened in a one-on-every-corner kind of way after I graduated college and somehow I'm sure that's to blame for why I see tip jars everywhere I go and WORSE, why I see a look of expectation on people's faces with the tip jar.


I'm like, permanently George Constanza and the deli tip jar.


The thing is, I'm always happy to tip for good service. My hair girl? I do right by her. Ditto my waxer and manicurists (although mine are PUSHY. I tip 20% and they always act like I shorted them by $10. Puh-leeze. And no, I don't want a stupid flower on my toe.) (Um, on a $30 mani/pedi, is a $5 tip okay?). We often tip the babysitter. Always the server. 


But the hostess at the Thai restaurant who packed my to-go order? No. And not the Subway sandwich clerk. And not the grocery bagger who walks me out. In fact, even when I desperately need the help to my car, I won't accept it because I never have cash for a tip.


Also, girls at Golden Spoon yogurt? You did not have to work very hard for me to get my yogurt. So no, I'm not tipping you. And I'm definitely not tipping at the self-serve yogurt place. Why do you even have a tip jar out?


Not every single service worker deserves to be tipped. 


They don't. 


But I wish they would quit looking at me like that!

Here's a tip.

Under the heading of much awesomeness:


Check out my friend Brittany's blog and welcome her to our crazy dysfunctional blogging family, won't you? She's brand new to blogging. And by that I mean she's had a blog for about eleventy-billion years but only just decided to use it this week. But I think you'll be able to see in the two posts she's done why you're going to want to keep going back. First post? 

Definitions of Computer Terms: or Why I Shouldn't Have Cheated Off That Guy In My 9th Grade Computer Class Who May Have Had a Crush on Me but Was Also My Cousin By Marriage

Also, read her "About Me" section. It's about as entertaining as DeNae's.


Also, Charette shocked my socks off with this surprise review of The List. It made me laugh. You can check it out on her blog. Apparently, once you read it, your summer is allowed to begin.


You can also read a review from the Deseret News that my husband posted on my website. Ignore the contest info. That's outdated. (Also ignore the fact that the reviewer spelled my last name wrong DESPITE IT BEING ON THE COVER OF MY BOOK [I used to not care but every time this happens, people I know suddenly start spelling it wrong. Aaargh). But check out the little flip flops in your browser window tab. He did those for me. How hard does that rock? 


Lastly, I would like to publicly announce that I suck at online Scrabble. Everyone thinks I'm going to be good. I'm not. Now you know.


All right, as you were. But seriously, in a few days, we're talking about why Starbucks is making my life harder than it needs to be. Stupid tip jar.

Do you KNOW what my skill set is?

Today we're going deep. Come back in a couple of days and we'll talk about how Starbucks is ruining my life. But for right now, wade in with me.


Mormons get callings. These are jobs at church. They are voluntary. They are varied. I have taught 11-year-old Sunday School and been in charge of the ward newsletter. And a lot of stuff in between.


I wasn't really involved with church in my twenties. I ran wild, showed up often enough to keep my place at BYU. That's about it. After BYU, I more or less didn't show up at all. And then I decided things needed to change and I stuck a toe back in the water and by thirty, I was up to my eyeballs in church and pretty happy about it.


When Kenny and I got married and moved to our ward (congregation) in Huntington Beach, I expected the bishop to call me in and put me right to work. I had just left a teaching career where I had also coordinated a major program that attracted national interest. So . . . I was good at my job. Lots of life experience. Lots of job skills. Lots of life skills. Blah, blah, blah.


Here's the thing. If you're ever in charge of something, trust me, I'm the best right hand woman you'll ever have. I won't bore you with a list of the reasons why, but I promise you it's true. 


So when we met with our new bishop, I fully expected to be called to teach something. I mean, that's what I DO, you know? Or lead something. Probably run the activities committee because the chairperson was leaving. That would be fun. I'd only need two months for our ward activities to become legendary.


The bishop sat us down. Husband gets called as ward mission leader. I get called as . . .


The stake building scheduler.


What?


What the what?


To say I felt underutilized would be an understatement of massive proportions.


But I smiled and said, "Sure."


And then I did the job. I did it as well as I knew how and to be honest, it was so easy, it felt like cheating.


And to be even more honest, I really wished I had something more to do.


But whatever. I did it.


Months passed and my bishop, who was in charge of our stake building shared by three wards, called me in for something else. I don't remember what. And he asked me how the building scheduling was going and I smiled and said, "It's great."


And something funny happened. A look of total relief washed over his face and he thanked me profusely for handling it. He couldn't believe there hadn't been any problems and he was amazed at how smoothly things were going.


And I realized right then and there that the Lord had put my skills to use right where he needed them most: with me in a position to remove one major stress from my overburdened bishop's shoulders. 


It was a humbling lesson and one that taught me that the most important thing I can do in any calling is to make sure that my piece of the puzzle is one that whoever I serve under never, ever has to worry about. Doesn't matter how large or small that piece is; it shouldn't ever have to cross their minds other than for them to think of it and dismiss it immediately as "taken care of." Then they can throw their energy to other more important things.


I don't think I'm meant to be a captain because I'm so effective as a lieutenant. And it feels really good to make someone's life a little easier that way.


I love figuring stuff out, you know?

Are you ready for your close up?

Fame seems like hell on earth.


I have never wanted it.


If I were in a famous rock band, I would definitely want to be the bassist and I would never, ever dress like a rock star. I'd dress like a soccer dad so no one would ever figure out I'm famous. 


My kind of fame is the author-y kind, where few people recognize you on sight. Like my friend's dad for instance, who casually mentions to his daughter that some author lady had been attending their (my childhood) ward for a few weeks because some movie was filming in town. It was Stephenie Meyer. 


I can deal with that kind of anonymity and the checks that come with it.


But Mitt Romney and the South Park guys are indirectly dragging me into the spotlight whether I want it or not. Tony nominated musicals, Republican presidential bids . . . this week's cover of Newsweek:


http://www.newsweek.com/2011/06/05/mormons-rock.html


Sigh.


I'm not voting for Romney. I have way too many issues with him. Jon Huntsman is potentially more interesting. But I may vote (again) for Obama because I DON'T VOTE FOR PEOPLE JUST BECAUSE THEY'RE MORMON.


I do other stuff just because someone's Mormon, like buy their book or album, which I may not ever read or listen to. But I certainly don't vote that way. I don't even vote on American Idol or SYTYCD that way. (Um, I don't actually vote on either of those shows, anyway, to be honest.)


But that's a different post.


This is about the spotlight being on me. My neighbors know we're Mormon. Most of my closest friends aren't Mormon and I'm sure they can't miss the national spotlight we're getting. 


Am I ready for my close up?


I hope so. I hope I've lived my beliefs with thoughtfulness and I match up favorably with the good things they will expect.  Because now . . . everyone's looking.


Speaking of spotlights, the always excellent Melissa Bastow has produced another issue of Barrel of Blogs magazine and yours truly is in there unnecessarily taking up two pages to tell you what I'm doing this summer in case you couldn't stand not knowing. Wander over and find yourself some new bloggers to read. Also, look at all the pretty pictures!

Losing It

Here is a list of things that could drive me to murder. Bookmark it so when I inevitably turn homicidal, you can point the cops in the right direction.


1. Working with my kid at 12:42 in the morning on a project for school. After nearly eight hours on said project. And repeating myself for the fiftieth time when I say, "I said do it neatly."


2. Driving behind someone going nearly twenty miles under the speed limit. That happened today. I honked. But all my fingers stayed firmly on the wheel, thankyouverymuch. ALL of them.


3. Getting stuck in an intersection when the arrow turns red because some batty woman decides to cross without a walk signal. Slowly. I honked again. Fingers still followed the commandments.


4. Rules about comma usage.


5. Commas.


6. Costco when people swarm the burrito sample lady while I'm trying to get to the frozen chicken tenders.


7. Library fees racked up people whose names are not Melanie Jacobson but who live in my house and screw with my library good-standing.


8. These TV shows: the local news (any channel), The Real Housewives of Anything, any VH-1 non-musical programming, Two and a Half Men.


9. Cutting carbs. I'm serious about this one, though. It must never, ever happen or else "rage issues" will take on a whole new meaning.


10. The birds who start chirping at TEN AT NIGHT. NIGGGGHHHHHHTTTTTTT. TENNNNNNNN. I hate them. They are loud. They are not as cute as they think they are. They are the lady in the ward choir that everyone hopes will forget to show up on the Sunday of the actual performance. They are that loud. They are that discordant. They are still going THREE hours later. I hate you, birds!


(But Sheridan, I really don't hate nature. I just don't like it when nature happens within a six foot perimeter of my house.)


So here's a thought. I shouldn't blog at (now) 1-freaking-a.m. when I am furious with my child, his teachers, our school district, the state of public education in general, the egregious use of algebra in schools specifically, and . . . 


Oh, wait. He's done.


Good night.