So Telling...

So, Mom and Dad are selling their house and planning to go on a mission soon. They have asked some of the kids to "babysit" some items for them while they are "homeless". Dad and Mom and Chip spent most of Saturday loading a huge U-Haul to bring all this stuff down to Provo and it was 10:30pm before Dad even got to my house to unload.

All day I had promised Dad a nice cold drink and had made a special batch of limeade with pureed strawberries and Pellegrino just for him. Just as we were finishing up with the unloading, I asked Todd to go into the house and put ice in a glass and pour a nice cold glass for Dad. Todd came back with the glass sweating with condensation and Dad said, "Thank you," and took a huge sip and kind of just sat there.

We chatted for a moment, and then Dad said, "Well, I've got to get going..." He took another HUGE gulp, and I offered to put it into a cup he could take with him. He said, "Oh, no.. that's fine. Thank you."

As Dad walked to the truck I looked at the cold glass and since there was so much left I took a big old gulp myself. Instead of tangy-sweet strawberry limeade I got a mouthful of raw tomato juice. Todd had seen the pitcher of red liquid on the counter (drained from tomatoes cut up for salsa that day - so no salt or anything...) and had thought that was the limeade. Poor Dad! And he was too polite to say anything like: "I don't think this is limeade," or "this limeade sucks."

I laughed so hard and then ran to the truck and made sure my dear, sweet, hard-working dad knew that we had not intended to give him a cold glass of tomato juice. He gently said, "I didn't think it tasted right..." He would rather suck it up and drink the gross juice than to offend me in any way even though I could have handled the humiliation. So telling...

I love my Dad!

Dream a Little Dream

"To sleep; perchance to dream..." wrote the bard. I love to dream. Dreaming is the only good reason to sleep. I have been fascinated with dreaming since I was very little and still remember some of my dreams from my childhood (and some of the nightmares which are not dreams... like I said, they are nightmares...).

While I have not come very far in controlling my dreams, I have become good at remembering what I dream. When I am almost asleep (meaning very, very relaxed and letting my mind be "loose") I tell myself "Remember your dream, be conscious of your dream...". It totally works.

From 1995 to 1999 I wrote down my most memorable dreams in a journal. You know how a dream is like a detailed movie sometimes with distinct feelings and emotions? Well when I re-read those dreams I am taken right back to those feelings and emotions with astonishing clarity. I can see the movie all over again including details that are not necessarily spelled out in the journal, and I can feel the feelings I felt the first time I dreamed it.

One of my most memorable dreams is the "Oh, Joe" dream:

I am standing on a stage in Scotland and I am a missionary. I am wearing thick, darkish nylons and white mary-jane tap shoes. The curtain is closed and I am waiting to dance with the other chorus girls in a performance at the church building in front of a large audience. The problem is: I can't remember the dance because I procrastinated rehearsing and now I have to perform. Yuck. In front of the curtain there is a trio of sister missionaries singing a light ditty to the accompaniment of an old church upright piano. As a diversionary tactic from my inability to remember the dance steps, I know that if I stick my head through the curtains and sing part of the song in a funny voice I will get a big laugh, and who doesn't like a big laugh? So I wait for the part in the song and stick my head out and sing, "Oh, Joe, I love you so, you do so much for me..." Instead of a laugh, I get crickets. I feel the sensation of a deep rush of blood to my face as I withdraw my head. I walk off the stage in disgrace.

I am also really good at dream interpretation.

One thing that has puzzled me through the years is the question of why I dreamed about celebrities for so long. I don't anymore, and I have never followed celebrity gossip, but during my college days people like Julia Roberts, Kurt Cobain, and Robin Williams were frequent guest stars.

These days I wonder why my dreams aren't more... wonderful. I am working on this. I have a lot more responsibility than I used to, now that I am a full-fledged adult, and I am concerned that I can't control my dreams to be more restful and pleasant. Once I am lying on my bed my brain can get out of control, so to reign it in I have an exercise (one that used to be more pleasant than it is now, but it is habit). I imagine that I am walking down my street towards my house and I begin with the exterior and imagine it in its perfect state (with all the features and amenities I could ever desire included... my dream house). There is a white picket fence holding back the roses, and a brick-paved path, and inside, everything is complete and clean. I imagine going through each room and seeing it is a perfect fantasy form. I rarely get past the front living room before I am completely loosed from my conscious moorings and "asleep".

I am glad that I dream. I feel sorry for people who say they don't. Dreaming can be an escape. It is a way for us to work through the day, or a way to work through or problems. It's self-therapy. I know what's going on in my head when I wake up and remember last nights fanciful scenarios. I can correct and move forward.

So go ahead and give yourself permission to dream a good dream. Lay down and think to yourself, "Remember your dream tonight, be conscious in your dream..." and see what you are trying to tell yourself. Sweet dreams...

Viva Las Vegas: Part Deux

OK, this isn't going to be as much interesting as it is a practice in blogging more often.

So, in Vegas...

People at Todd's work like to eat good food, which I fully appreciate. We ate at Stack in the Mirage, Maggiano's at Fashion Show Mall, and Boulud Brasserie at the Wynn. Our meal at he Wynn was my favorite. I don't freak out at expensive food. It is one of the rare pleasures of this world. There is a magical quality to 5 star dining, which is why I was drawn to studying the culinary arts early in my education. As a true woman of leisure, I must attend a proper culinary school at some point... I need to get on that.

Todd's cousin Robbie is in the show "Spamalot" at the Wynn, and it was SO FUN to see him perform. He sings and dances for a LIVING. When I pointed that out to him he said: "I know, and I work like 14 hours a week." A sweet life. Robbie is a talented singer and dancer. He also has very muscular legs which were highlighted nicely in a certain number (he knows which one I mean...). He also gave us the backstage tour of all the costumes and props and amazing wigs that NO ONE is allowed to touch (not even the actors).



This is Todd being calmly bitten by the killer rabbit with the "sharp, pointy teeth". Robbie is helping the rabbit.

This is me holding the naughty, jiggly jello desserts from the "We're knights of the round table..." song.My face looks crazy in this photo, I must have wandered into an unflattering patch of utilitarian lighting.






It was funny to go to a "Broadway show" and have people there drinking beer from giant plastic "grails". We also got to see the actual albatross from the albatross skit. Robbie told us that the stuffed albatross was brought over from the UK for the Python's live performance at the Hollywood Bowl, but that they passed the endangered species act in the meantime and to take that albatross back across the ocean would be a criminal offense. So here it is at the Wynn.















On the last night we were there, HP (who was hosting the event) held a big bash for people who wanted to pay a lot extra, but since we were technically staff... It was held in one of the huge ballrooms and was decorated in a semi-swanky manner. The live performance was by none other than Bob Marley's son, Steve. Yeah, I didn't know about Steve either. But he sang good songs and all the ones you wanted to hear that his dad performed. For those of you who know me (and know me well) you know why I don't dance at dances or clubs. So I was a happy observer of the evenings festivities, and boy was I entertained. People generally don't dance well, add to that the fact that they are systems analysts, programmers, and other nerdly types. Throw into this mix, co-workers, alcohol, and reggae... and you have yourself quite an entertaining party.


Todd ended the evening with the largest shrimp we had ever seen. Everyone was dancing and drinking and ignoring the jumbo-est jumbo shrimp... only in Vegas. All in all, this was a great trip, one of the best. Good food, good accommodations, good shopping, everything I needed a vacation to be. It would only have been enhanced by family and friends, but having Todd all to myself was heaven. We enjoyed our time together, especially before we went to bed each night and we'd snuggle into our robes and gaze out at the artificial world before us. We felt like the King and Queen of... well of us. King Todd and Queen Carrie.

Todd has informed me that he will be going back to the Venetian in November. If anyone would like to join me, the details will be forthcoming...

A Word on Phlebotomists...

Here's what NOT to say to the person drawing your blood:

"My left arm is better than my right, but I do have really small veins so my hand is usually a sure bet."

The phlebotomist hears:

"You can't do your job very well so let me tell you how this is going to go down..."

I can't figure this out. I am just trying to be helpful. Phlebotomists begin to sweat when they see my arms; while I am quite robust, my veins are puny, shy things that hide deep in my flesh... really deep. But throughout the past few weeks, I am beginning to see how the veterans are separated from the neophytes.

After my "I-have-small-veins" speech, the neophytes head straight for the butterfly needle (commonly used to draw blood from an infant's head... it's so small) and disinfect my hand, but the veteran will completely ignore me and tie off my right arm and begin sniffing out the best vessel. If the newbie decides to go for my arm they will draw the needle back and forth and side to side perforating my much abused vein and declare "I just... can't... seem... to get it." The master will poke the needle in way more forcefully than you think necessary, and immediately draw a vial.

Today's blood-letting was miraculous in many ways, but the best part of it was the phlebotomist herself: her name was Rose and she was as big as a house and as loud as a fog horn.

When we arrived at the lab there was a long line. If people are getting blood drawn on a Saturday, you know they HAVE to be there. The waiting room was small, and since Rose is most likely incapable of a whisper, everyone's "malady" was made known.

To the teen-aged girl, "Are you capable of urinating?" (They were still standing in the waiting room.) To us it sounded like: "ARE YOU CAPABLE OF URINATING!!?" After a mortified nod of the head Rose went on: "DO YOU THINK YOU COULD PRODUCE SOME URINE RIGHT NOW!!?" The poor girl went ahead, surprisingly not right there in her pants, and we then heard all the instructions on what to do with the sample and a reminder to wash her hands. The girl was unable to face us in the waiting room and waited for her mom outside.

The young boy before me was with his dad. Obviously, if a kid is getting his blood drawn it can't be that good. What we heard through the wall was: "ARE WE TAKING BETS TO SEE OF YOU'LL CRY!!?" Todd and I were agog and aghast buy this point and I was determined to say as very little to her as possible.

But by the time we got in there and she made a million phone calls on our behalf to make sure everything was going to be done on time, I was a fan of large-and-in-charge Rose. She proved herself to be a pro (a master!) and even managed blood out of my right arm. And then to seal the deal, she drew a smiley face on the tape covering my cotton ball... a smiley face. I am grateful Rose was there today.

Viva Las Vegas: Part I

We are counting this as our vacation for the year, though it was a quasi-vacation at best. Todd had to be in Vegas for two weeks running conventions so I came down for a week to hang out with Abby and to “keep Todd company”. I usually hate Las Vegas, but had I known the magical time I was to have last week, I would have spent the full two weeks down there enjoying sister time, romantic evenings with Todd, and eating out at really good places on the company’s dime (so to speak).

We stayed at the Venetian, which was a pretty sweet deal. Our room was on the 33rd floor over looking the pools (including the “European-optional-clothing-pool”) and Treasure Island hotel and casino (so we could see their new “show” each night… totally lame with scantily clad “sirens” singing “let’s go all the way!” to crowds of adults and children).

Here is the view of the pools: the “topless” pool is the one at the very top. We had binoculars (a must in Las Vegas) but we didn’t see anything untoward. You know the only people who would actually swim topless would be real Europeans who you would NOT want to see topless.



This is our swanky room:






It was fun. I fell in love with the bathroom. It was perfect. Todd and I mused about selling our home and moving into a hotel. It had everything we needed. It was big enough, too, with the nice couch and separate “bedroom” area. I figure to live at the Venetian it would break down like this:

For two people…
Room (daily rate): $200 – ish
Small breakfast: $26.00
Lunch: $50.00
Dinner: $80.00
Daily water supply: $12.00

Daily total: $368
Yearly total: $134,320

So we’re not going through with that plan; it’s like having a monthly mortgage of $11,000 (although utilities and upkeep are included). Las Vegas is expensive. Throughout the week I had become so conditioned to my $4.00 water bottles that by the time Abby and I went to the movies I was thinking I was getting a screaming deal with $7.00 popcorn.

Speaking of spending money… thank goodness for gift cards. I still had my Anthropologie gift card from Mom and Dad from Christmas, so I hauled myself out onto the strip (I felt so exposed after being safely cloistered in the Venetian!) and headed to the Forum shops at Caesar’s Palace. So many details to mention and so little attention span. Each moment was an adventure. I found a dress


and a shirt


and a necklace.


I wore my heels out walking up to the Miracle Mile Mall. The H&M sucks there (yes, it can people) and Urban Outfitters is in a three story space and all the clothes are on the third floor. It didn't stop me from buying a lovely, light, luscious, tissue thin cardigan (a sophisticated lady layers... even in the summer).

I am SO grateful for the illegal vendors who sell ice cold water on the bridges. Seriously. They saved my life a million times... well, two times. I love them. They are the smartest people in Las Vegas. And what a bargain! Bottles water for a dollar! "May you be invisible to the cops..."

Here's what Todd was doing all week:

There he is!

This whole week he and the crew had to wear black shirts and black pants. They looked like hair stylists. But it was SO strange to have Todd so close, but so far away. I would walk down and say "hi" sometimes and feel so guilty for walking away and going to the pool...

One of Vegas's LARGEST attractions that week was hanging out with Abby> and Caleb

(again while her husband James slaved away... Oh, the searing conscious of a woman of leisure...). We went swimming, we ate, we went to the movies, we went to Target, we went to get our nails done. Heaven except for the 104 degrees (the fact that people spit their gum out on the pavement in Las Vegas is unconscionable... do you know what that kind of heat does to gum?) Here we are being pampered...

(See that full sugar Dr.Pepper? I know... who does that? Oh yeah, Metabigail McCoy.) This is Abby from the side:

She actually looks normal here, but the size of her bump loosed the mouths of every sales clerk and stranger we encountered. "Oh my gosh, are you having twins!?" "When are you due?" Abby handled it with grace, and now she's got a darling little lady to show for it!>

More to come!

Quiet Pets

I've had enough. I cannot stand Fiona's barking. We've been through two bark collars already and it's time for number three. I realize that she can't help it. She LOVES the sound of her own glorious bark. The more ferocious the better. She bristles, she tears down the stairs (messing up the rug at the bottom of the stairs everytime) and jumps up on the window to make a visual and to make sure the person at the door KNOWS that SHE knows that you're invading HER territory. Stupid dog. It's MY terrritory, and I'm not barking! Cesar the dog whisperer himself couldn't break this tragic display of ferocity.

So I went to PetsMart and looked for bark collars. While standing at the locked electronic training display, I noticed a little girl holding a little Betta fish in a cup. I immediately noticed how quiet her new pet was. I got the new shock collar and walked right over to the fish displays and wieghed my options. I found a cute purple tank with purple rocks and a little green suction-cup plant (all in one package for $8.99!) and chose a red fish so he would stand out against all that purple. My new fish's name is Solomon, because he is "...arrayed like Solomon in all his glory...". And he's quiet. Fiona might be quiet if I put her under water, but I wouldn't bet on it without the bark collar.

Rule of Thumb: January 2008 edition

Rule of Thumb:

If you already did it, you can't do it again. If you haven't done it yet, go for it.

Example 1: If you wore leggings the first time around, you cannot wear leggings now. Let your daughter wear them.

Example 2: If you wore skinny jeans and high heels the first time around, you probably shouldn't wear them now.

Just a rule of thumb.

BUT... my question is:

How do you feel about leggings and tunics for the endowed?