Saturday, January 31, 2009
going dark for awhile
we've had a bit of a family emergency. not sure when I'll be back. at least a week, I think. I'll keep you posted.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Remember that judging thing I said?
gonna reiterate it. because I actually really like these books...
Evening Conversation: Body Fluids Edition
me: [using the restroom]
Lily: Mama! [babies apparently think toilet time is perfect for chatting. hence: you never get to go to the restroom alone.]
me: Baby!
Lily: [sympathetic frown and nod] You go poo-poo in your pants?
me: No, I made it to the toilet. But thanks for asking.
Lily: [sympathetic frown turns to philosophical frown] Poo-poo is yucky.
me: I'm glad you're finally realizing this.
Lily: Yeah. Poo-poo is yucky. Don't eat it!
me: Congratulations on learning your first major life lesson.
Lily: [laughs and walks away] Don't go poo-poo in your pants, Mommy!
Lily: Mama! [babies apparently think toilet time is perfect for chatting. hence: you never get to go to the restroom alone.]
me: Baby!
Lily: [sympathetic frown and nod] You go poo-poo in your pants?
me: No, I made it to the toilet. But thanks for asking.
Lily: [sympathetic frown turns to philosophical frown] Poo-poo is yucky.
me: I'm glad you're finally realizing this.
Lily: Yeah. Poo-poo is yucky. Don't eat it!
me: Congratulations on learning your first major life lesson.
Lily: [laughs and walks away] Don't go poo-poo in your pants, Mommy!
Thursday, January 29, 2009
weird or not weird?
I had to go to the public library today (not the weird part) because although the BYU Faculty Delivery Service is the BEST THING EVER, I've been reading books faster than they can keep up.
Here's the thing:
The manager of the library? Margie Mills.
Not *my* Margie Mills. Just *a* Margie Mills. Which is sort of made even weirder by the fact that *my* Margie Mills is actually named something a little different and I made up that name for the whole blogging privacy thing. And maybe a little weirder because my Margie Mills also works with books. Not in the library, but with books.
So vote:
Here's the thing:
The manager of the library? Margie Mills.
Not *my* Margie Mills. Just *a* Margie Mills. Which is sort of made even weirder by the fact that *my* Margie Mills is actually named something a little different and I made up that name for the whole blogging privacy thing. And maybe a little weirder because my Margie Mills also works with books. Not in the library, but with books.
So vote:
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Oh, THAT old story?
This book
is a little confusing because at first you're not sure whether or not this is 1) earth; 2) an alternate reality; or 3) somebody's very strange wet dream. But then you figure out, "Ohhhhh! I get it! This is about how Facebook is secretly a front for the music business so that they can throw orgies in dark rooms and control everyone with mysterious 'organic' substances that make people disappear into thin air and then reappear with no memory! Gee... So cliche."
is a little confusing because at first you're not sure whether or not this is 1) earth; 2) an alternate reality; or 3) somebody's very strange wet dream. But then you figure out, "Ohhhhh! I get it! This is about how Facebook is secretly a front for the music business so that they can throw orgies in dark rooms and control everyone with mysterious 'organic' substances that make people disappear into thin air and then reappear with no memory! Gee... So cliche."
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
As long as I have to read a full friggin novel every single day, I'm going to give you VERY BRIEF book reports! (exciting, right?!)
This book
is about boners. apparently, teenage boys think about these a lot.
is about boners. apparently, teenage boys think about these a lot.
Evening Conversation
superego (SE): if you don't ban yourself from the computer at night, you won't get those 57 books read by March.
id: me love computer! no!!!
SE: that's it. you're banned. no computer until your novel of the day (and you have to read a whole novel every day; no exceptions) is finished. also no TV.
ego: but House is on tonight! I LOVE House!
id: me love chocolate.
SE: banned!
ego: no!!!
id: no!!!
SE: [prevails]
id: me love computer! no!!!
SE: that's it. you're banned. no computer until your novel of the day (and you have to read a whole novel every day; no exceptions) is finished. also no TV.
ego: but House is on tonight! I LOVE House!
id: me love chocolate.
SE: banned!
ego: no!!!
id: no!!!
SE: [prevails]
Monday, January 26, 2009
How many days later is it?
And I have FINALLY, finally, FINALLY stopped thinking about that *&^%$ book.
maybe I'll be able to sleep now...
maybe I'll be able to sleep now...
Friday, January 23, 2009
New Rule: No More Reading Because of Insomnia
Last night I couldn't sleep. Pretty common with me, actually. (Even double doses of Unisom are starting to not work so well.)
Well, when I can't sleep, I shouldn't watch TV, I know, because the TV keeps me up. But reading? Well, reading takes, like, concentration. So if I start to get sleepy, I just can't read anymore and I fall asleep. Perfect, right?
So, last night I looked over by the side of my bed at the various books I'm reading and spotted this one:
"That'll work!" I thought. Because it's a quiet book--gentle and sweet. "Maybe I can finish it!" I thought. "That'll be a nice way to go to sleep! Gentle, sweet thoughts. The book says it'll make me believe in God, so great! God = nice."
So I finished it.
I finished it.
And horror: there is nothing gentle about this book. And I had no idea. No clue. Wait... Maybe I did have a clue. There was this clue and that clue... And why didn't I notice that these could be clues?! And WTH?! And why didn't my BFF warn me about his when she told me to read the book?! Wait... didn't she bring the book up when talking about unreliable narrators? And WTH?! And if this one scene from the book meant something, then FREAK, most of the scenes probably meant something! And WTH?!!!
Brain: munching on itself.
Body: not asleep. not asleep until two in the morning. and then right back up at around seven.
obsessing.
and munching.
on itself.
Dagnabit brain! Stop the voices!!!!
(Most people call them thoughts, Kerry.)
I don't care! Stop the voices! and the munching! and the obsessing! and
W
T
H
?!!!!!
And that, dear friends, is why reading is not a good cure for insomnia.
Maybe I'll try Ambien.
Well, when I can't sleep, I shouldn't watch TV, I know, because the TV keeps me up. But reading? Well, reading takes, like, concentration. So if I start to get sleepy, I just can't read anymore and I fall asleep. Perfect, right?
So, last night I looked over by the side of my bed at the various books I'm reading and spotted this one:
"That'll work!" I thought. Because it's a quiet book--gentle and sweet. "Maybe I can finish it!" I thought. "That'll be a nice way to go to sleep! Gentle, sweet thoughts. The book says it'll make me believe in God, so great! God = nice."
So I finished it.
I finished it.
And horror: there is nothing gentle about this book. And I had no idea. No clue. Wait... Maybe I did have a clue. There was this clue and that clue... And why didn't I notice that these could be clues?! And WTH?! And why didn't my BFF warn me about his when she told me to read the book?! Wait... didn't she bring the book up when talking about unreliable narrators? And WTH?! And if this one scene from the book meant something, then FREAK, most of the scenes probably meant something! And WTH?!!!
Brain: munching on itself.
Body: not asleep. not asleep until two in the morning. and then right back up at around seven.
obsessing.
and munching.
on itself.
Dagnabit brain! Stop the voices!!!!
(Most people call them thoughts, Kerry.)
I don't care! Stop the voices! and the munching! and the obsessing! and
W
T
H
?!!!!!
And that, dear friends, is why reading is not a good cure for insomnia.
Maybe I'll try Ambien.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Bye Bye Bushie
In honor of President Bush's last day in office, I'm going to tell my best (only) Bush story.
It was Summer, 2001. Steve was Mr. NPR reporter man and I was in grad school. Well, anyway, there was this big group of reporters from Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan scheduled to come to town somewhere around late fall of the same year. Wanting to be cordial, the State Department (US) scheduled a dinner that was supposed to be a fun sort of cultural exchange thing. Because Steve was the only reporter they could think of who spoke Russian (in addition to his mission, he did a stint at CNN Moscow) he and I were invited. No biggie.
And then came Sept. 11.
Suddenly, the US was going to invade Afghanistan and they were looking for favorable treatment from the Uzbek and Kazakhstani's since they were right friggin next door and their land would be a fanTAStic place to launch fighter jets. Now, reporters tend to have a lot of influence over things like opinion. And we were going to dinner with, like, a TON of them.
"Great," I thought. "It's going to be WWIII and somehow, someway, it is going to be MY FAULT. Perfect!"
So, I was freaked. Freaked enough that I sat through most of the dinner just smiling and nodding under the guise of the language barrier. (I've gotta be freaked to keep my mouth shut. So, dude. I was freaked.)
Well, everything is placid enough. There's a rough kind of energy underpinning the evening. Every word seems to carry a connotation of importance, every discussion of cheese or grape juice the weight of foreign policy.
And people are getting drunker.
And drunker...
And drunker...
Now, these are former Soviets. They can handle their liquor. But I would be lying if I said I didn't notice the flush of red creeping from their necks to their faces, or notice the way that their voices got just a little bit louder and less cordial.
And suddenly, from the corner, the red-haired Russian translator from the US State Department yells out, "I want you all to know something!" She's holding her glass of scotch steadily on her knee. There is absolutely no quiver of ice against the sides of the glass. I'm impressed.
When she can tell that enough of the room is paying attention she says, "I want you all to know that I LOVE the president."
The room goes silent.
"I do!" she protests. "George W. Bush, God Bless Him, I LOVE THAT MAN!"
No one is moving anymore.
Crap, crap crap. I think. Here is the beginning of WWIII and I'm going to be right here watching. Because, well, foreigners (especially Europeans)... they don't really love our George Bush. Heck, let's be honest, except for my mom who calls him her "Bushie," with such affection that Steve and I feel compelled to set up our signed George Bush picture by her guest bed every time she visits, most *Americans* don't really love George Bush.
Since no one is talking, the red-headed translator decides to keep going. "Do you want to know why I love him? No? Well, I will tell you why I love him." [You need to read her voice with a Russian accent, by the way. Not only is it more accurate, it makes the story better.]
She takes a breath, looks as us and says, "It's because of the way he uses *words.*"
Huh?
I think a few of the drunk guys laugh, but mostly we're just looking at the lady like, WTH?! Because of all of the reasons you might love Georgie Bush, the way he uses words... well, it's not really on the top of anyone's list.
"You see," she explains, "I'm a translator. I care about words. And with your *last* president [said with disdain and eyeball rolling, referring to dear Mr. Clinton, of course] everyone said, 'oh what an orator! oh how well he uses words!' Musor! [that means "garbage" in Russian] You see..."
She took a drink of her scotch.
"When you translate, you don't really translate *words,* you translate *meaning.* So Mr. Clinton would blahblabeddy blah blah blah all these pretty words! But they wouldn't *mean* anything! And I'd try to translate and, well, everyone would look at me like I was an idiot!"
She looked down at her scotch, preparing to take a final drink to make her point, and a slightly wicked smile curled up from the edges of the glass.
"But with your president now?" she said. "The man talks... And I translate... And, well... let's just say that no one looks at *me* like *I'm* the idiot."
God speed, Bushie. May your future be filled with much rest and Texas BBQ. Your picture will always have a place next to my Mom's guest bed.
It was Summer, 2001. Steve was Mr. NPR reporter man and I was in grad school. Well, anyway, there was this big group of reporters from Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan scheduled to come to town somewhere around late fall of the same year. Wanting to be cordial, the State Department (US) scheduled a dinner that was supposed to be a fun sort of cultural exchange thing. Because Steve was the only reporter they could think of who spoke Russian (in addition to his mission, he did a stint at CNN Moscow) he and I were invited. No biggie.
And then came Sept. 11.
Suddenly, the US was going to invade Afghanistan and they were looking for favorable treatment from the Uzbek and Kazakhstani's since they were right friggin next door and their land would be a fanTAStic place to launch fighter jets. Now, reporters tend to have a lot of influence over things like opinion. And we were going to dinner with, like, a TON of them.
"Great," I thought. "It's going to be WWIII and somehow, someway, it is going to be MY FAULT. Perfect!"
So, I was freaked. Freaked enough that I sat through most of the dinner just smiling and nodding under the guise of the language barrier. (I've gotta be freaked to keep my mouth shut. So, dude. I was freaked.)
Well, everything is placid enough. There's a rough kind of energy underpinning the evening. Every word seems to carry a connotation of importance, every discussion of cheese or grape juice the weight of foreign policy.
And people are getting drunker.
And drunker...
And drunker...
Now, these are former Soviets. They can handle their liquor. But I would be lying if I said I didn't notice the flush of red creeping from their necks to their faces, or notice the way that their voices got just a little bit louder and less cordial.
And suddenly, from the corner, the red-haired Russian translator from the US State Department yells out, "I want you all to know something!" She's holding her glass of scotch steadily on her knee. There is absolutely no quiver of ice against the sides of the glass. I'm impressed.
When she can tell that enough of the room is paying attention she says, "I want you all to know that I LOVE the president."
The room goes silent.
"I do!" she protests. "George W. Bush, God Bless Him, I LOVE THAT MAN!"
No one is moving anymore.
Crap, crap crap. I think. Here is the beginning of WWIII and I'm going to be right here watching. Because, well, foreigners (especially Europeans)... they don't really love our George Bush. Heck, let's be honest, except for my mom who calls him her "Bushie," with such affection that Steve and I feel compelled to set up our signed George Bush picture by her guest bed every time she visits, most *Americans* don't really love George Bush.
Since no one is talking, the red-headed translator decides to keep going. "Do you want to know why I love him? No? Well, I will tell you why I love him." [You need to read her voice with a Russian accent, by the way. Not only is it more accurate, it makes the story better.]
She takes a breath, looks as us and says, "It's because of the way he uses *words.*"
Huh?
I think a few of the drunk guys laugh, but mostly we're just looking at the lady like, WTH?! Because of all of the reasons you might love Georgie Bush, the way he uses words... well, it's not really on the top of anyone's list.
"You see," she explains, "I'm a translator. I care about words. And with your *last* president [said with disdain and eyeball rolling, referring to dear Mr. Clinton, of course] everyone said, 'oh what an orator! oh how well he uses words!' Musor! [that means "garbage" in Russian] You see..."
She took a drink of her scotch.
"When you translate, you don't really translate *words,* you translate *meaning.* So Mr. Clinton would blahblabeddy blah blah blah all these pretty words! But they wouldn't *mean* anything! And I'd try to translate and, well, everyone would look at me like I was an idiot!"
She looked down at her scotch, preparing to take a final drink to make her point, and a slightly wicked smile curled up from the edges of the glass.
"But with your president now?" she said. "The man talks... And I translate... And, well... let's just say that no one looks at *me* like *I'm* the idiot."
God speed, Bushie. May your future be filled with much rest and Texas BBQ. Your picture will always have a place next to my Mom's guest bed.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
since when did my computer become part of my body?
I accidentally left my computer at work. (Borrowing my four year old's computer to write this. Tricky because the entire thing had to be sanitized before I could touch it. And even then...) Now, my work is an hour away, else I might just pop over and get it.
But, anyway, it's the beginning of a three day weekend. Four day weekend, really, since I don't work TTh.
And the idea of going that long without my computer...
ack. it's like I've lost the third arm I didn't know I had!
going to go hide under the covers now...
But, anyway, it's the beginning of a three day weekend. Four day weekend, really, since I don't work TTh.
And the idea of going that long without my computer...
ack. it's like I've lost the third arm I didn't know I had!
going to go hide under the covers now...
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Just something to consider before you move to Utah
Someday, your two year old will drop something. Her hands will be full and she won't want to bend down. So she'll let out a full-on martyr sigh (Mormons have PERFECTED these) and she'll say, "Oh. My. HECK."
Since I devoted a post to my non-Mormon friends, this one is for the Mormons.
(Though, really, anyone with an interest in Old Testament scholarship might find it interesting.)
I just finished reading this article. I KNEW there was a reason I'm such a tree hugger!
I just finished reading this article. I KNEW there was a reason I'm such a tree hugger!
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
(Aw, heck. Now I feel the need to clarify.)
that I actually like Barney. he taught Lily, like, *emotion.* no easy feat.
Sam's got a new BFF
A few weeks ago, this conversation took place:
Sam: "You're not the Boss of me."
Daddy: "I am too the boss of you."
Sam: "You're just my daddy. You're not the boss of me."
Daddy: "Who's the boss of you, then?"
Sam: "Jesus."
Hard to argue with.
And apparently, Sam picked up on this because Jesus keeps making all sorts of appearances in our chats.
to wit:
ONE
Sam: [pats my face after he used the bathroom and probably didn't wash his hands]
me: [gently remove said hands from my face]
Sam: "But, Mommy, why won't you let me touch your face?"
me: "Because, honey, I don't think you washed your hands after you used the bathroom. And I'm tired of fecal matter making me sick."
Sam: [frown] "Well, Mommy, *Jesus* told me that I have to touch your face."
TWO
Sam: "You're sort of strong."
Daddy: "Thanks."
Sam: "I'd like you to be stronger, though."
Daddy: "Oh?"
Sam: "Because Jesus is stronger than you."
THREE
Sam: "Mommy?"
me: "yeah?"
Sam: "We need to put lights on Jesus again."
me: "Why?"
Sam: "Because I like Jesus."
Well, I guess there are worse heroes out there. Like Barney. But I digress.
Sam: "You're not the Boss of me."
Daddy: "I am too the boss of you."
Sam: "You're just my daddy. You're not the boss of me."
Daddy: "Who's the boss of you, then?"
Sam: "Jesus."
Hard to argue with.
And apparently, Sam picked up on this because Jesus keeps making all sorts of appearances in our chats.
to wit:
ONE
Sam: [pats my face after he used the bathroom and probably didn't wash his hands]
me: [gently remove said hands from my face]
Sam: "But, Mommy, why won't you let me touch your face?"
me: "Because, honey, I don't think you washed your hands after you used the bathroom. And I'm tired of fecal matter making me sick."
Sam: [frown] "Well, Mommy, *Jesus* told me that I have to touch your face."
TWO
Sam: "You're sort of strong."
Daddy: "Thanks."
Sam: "I'd like you to be stronger, though."
Daddy: "Oh?"
Sam: "Because Jesus is stronger than you."
THREE
Sam: "Mommy?"
me: "yeah?"
Sam: "We need to put lights on Jesus again."
me: "Why?"
Sam: "Because I like Jesus."
Well, I guess there are worse heroes out there. Like Barney. But I digress.
Monday, January 12, 2009
You really know you're old when
your idea of a good birthday activity is to go grocery shopping without the kids.
Margie Mills! I'm feeling out my non-Mormon friends!
Feeling *OUT* people. sheesh. if y'all were Mormon you wouldn't go there, I'm sure.
So, I'm about to go out to dinner. And we all remember what happened last time I went out to dinner, right? Which got me wondering... Sometimes I go out to lunch/dinner with y'all. Sometimes in places with pretty drink menus.
So: Non-Mormon Friends:
So, I'm about to go out to dinner. And we all remember what happened last time I went out to dinner, right? Which got me wondering... Sometimes I go out to lunch/dinner with y'all. Sometimes in places with pretty drink menus.
So: Non-Mormon Friends:
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