Your Sleep Position?

I DVR CBS' Sunday Morning every week because I am 70 years old.

This week featured a Ben Stein segment speaking about sleeping; it really got me thinking. Watch the video, it's short.



I know I don't sleep enough. The truth is that I do not like to sleep. I get a lot more done because I am awake (incontrovertible fact!) (but also anecdotal and not from an unbiased source!) I like being by myself and not having to concentrate on anything but the task I'm attempting to do.

I also know that it's not good for me. When I have the opportunity to sleep uninterrupted (pause for general merriment) I naturally sleep between 7 and 8 hours, and wake without an alarm. I usually sleep between 5-6 hours, and that is rarely without interruption. Last night I supposedly slept 5 hours, but really, I was awakened 3 times. That can't be good, no matter what I wish was true.

Part of me wants to say "Whatever." The baby arrives in about 90 days. My sleep will be so fragmented and nuts at that stage that it's hardly worth trying to sleep as much as I can now--you can't really store up sleep for later. It's GOOD that I'm used to a minimal amount of interrupted sleep and getting a nap or two in during the day because pretty soon I won't have a choice about that. Surrender in the face of the advancement.

The other part of me says, "Maybe you should sleep while you have the chance." It's going to be awful after the baby arrives (until you've had a baby [or been a POW] you have absolutely no idea what sleep deprivation is like.) Perhaps I should sleep more now and try to be well-rested when baby arrives. Sure, it's going to be harder to sleep through the night as the baby and I grow, but I should really give it a shot. Fortify and defend in the face of advancement.


There's a family history of sleep problems hanging over my head: my mother and brother don't sleep well. Sometimes I have insomnia (which is when I want to go to sleep but can't, instead of the usual case of I don't want to go to sleep but could.) Usually I just have the I-don't-want-tos. I am jealous of people who only need to sleep 4 hours a night--like Martha Stewart. I don't want to BE Martha, I simply want to have her sleep tolerance. A new study shows that "short sleepers," as they are called, have a genetic mutation that allow them to naturally function on less sleep. This is a gene mutation I want to have. It's a gene mutation I pretend I have.

But Ben Stein (of all people) might have me convinced to try sleeping more. What are your thoughts?

I've Behaved Badly

I am sorry that I made fun of my cousin’s name (not to her face) vociferously by asking what my aunt was thinking lo those many years ago. My father pursed his lips in vague disapproval, but my mother suppressed a laugh that suggested she's been holding it inside for twenty years.

On the other hand, I did not tell my mother that her roast would be better suited to re-soling my work boots (a slice of roast should be not harder than the table upon which it was served, nor hold its gravy like cream cheese on melba toast.) No need to repent for something you did not say (I think.)

I apologize to my children, but not really, because after spending a day where one would antagonize the other until he screamed his high-pitched scream every five minutes, they do not deserve an apology.

In fact, I am still owed an apology since they so rudely interrupted the sacred Sunday nap on a constant basis; being in a semi-dream like state, I couldn’t actually arise and lock the door. Things did not go well. I resented them for hours.

I may have completely ignored them when they cried. I am not apologizing for that. Moms only have so many screams per day that can be responded to before ignoring the rest.

I do apologize that I made other people handle my children because I was ignoring them.

I am sorry that I sat on the couch Tweeting instead of sitting down to dinner when everyone else was (but brownie points for not telling my mom that I wasn’t TEXTING, I was TWEETING, and they are different.) I needed to be alone for a few minutes before sitting down with a whole bunch of people that might say something kind and innocent that, in fact, is the most annoying thing I have ever heard in my entire life.

Perhaps I shocked my mother by not borrowing a coat for my eldest when he rode home in the dark. I am sorry that she felt bad for my child. I am not sorry that my child was cold because he deliberately decided he wasn’t going to wear a coat. It’s a lesson you learn when you live someplace with Winter. However, asking him out of my car window if he felt cold now was probably unnecessary salt on the wound.

I tender sincere apologies to the church ladies, who greeted me happily at the Sunday night meeting, to which I responded without making eye contact and a curt response. That was rude. In my defense, I wanted to be watching the Super Bowl, which is not really a defense nor in any way excusable, and I feel badly about that. I feel like I should apologize for going to the restroom; you started the meeting while I was using the facilities and I therefore missed conducting the music--one of the only reasons I was supposed to be in attendance. My bladder is penitent; the baby remains defiant.

I was, in general, a miserable person to be around that day, and terribly mean. I am sorry.

Adventures in Music Appreciation

the scowl in its natural state

Deb Fotheringham sweetly offered me a couple tickets to her Time EP release party, to be held at a location inside my ten-minute radius. I decided that this happy occasion would be the perfect night to take El Guille to his first music show. When I giddily told him the news, he scowled at me. This isn’t terribly different than when I suggest anything in the world to him that isn’t what he’s doing right now: from eating his dinner to changing his behavior. (It’s the same disbelieving scowl I probably project when you tell me The Cheesecake Factory is good.)

We arrived at the auditorium and found aisle seats. The opening act was an earnest singer-songwriter accompanying himself on guitar. The first song was a lovely tune, sung quietly yet with feeling. “I’m bored,” E.G. said halfway through.
“Shhh,” I whispered. The song ended and we all clapped. The singer started his next song.
“HEY. NOT THE SAME SONG AGAIN. HE ALREADY PLAYED THIS,” noted E.G., the subtleties of a solo artist falling on unappreciative ears.
“How much longer do we have to sit here?”
“Until it’s over.”
“I want to watch Clone Wars.”
“It’s not on until 8:30, and it’s only 7:15 right now.”
“THIS IS TAKING TOO LONG.”
“Shhh.”
“I’m going to go get a drink.”
“You can’t, see how they shut the doors? They don’t want you to go in and out.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“I can find it myself!”
“It’s probably a good idea if I...”
“NO! I’m really good at finding things. See ya.” And he left the auditorium. After a few minutes he slid back into the room. “I can’t find it,” he declared, which was when I had to slide out. I didn’t dare take him back into the auditorium so I watched him run around the installations and play with the drinking fountain. He nearly careened into Deb as she tried to center herself before the performance. I talked him into returning to our seats by promising that he could watch Star Wars: The Clone Wars for the very first time that night IF he sat quietly for Deb’s show. I immediately handed over my phone so he could play Pac-Man.

Now, were I you (single, childless, possessed of respect for the performing arts,) I would have made a disgusting face at this kind of parenting. A cell phone? Yes. But they’re so bright and tacky! Yes, but really, Pac-Man is on a black background so not that bright. They are loud! It was on silent. Shoving a screen in front of your child, it’s just lazy! Yup, lazy and desperate. And really, how dare you bring a child to a concert who would misbehave? I had to try it one time. I hope you learned your lesson. That I did. No more shows until he is at least 8, or Mötley Crüe comes to town.


In Summary:


Deb is really pretty, did you know that? If your name is Nick, you probably did. She’s also one of eleven children, did you know that? Chances are you’re related to a Fotheringham by this point. She’s also funny and endearing on stage, which, as it turns out, is kind of how Deb is when she’s not on stage. Deb also does this. I really like her music; it’s on heavy rotation in the car (especially track one--what’s that one called, Deb? Paris?) Next time I won’t bring someone who has a permanent scowl attached to his face, who keeps asking me when we can leave because he doesn’t want to miss The Clone Wars, who rolls his eyes and makes choking noises during songs, and would have been happier surrounded by Legos instead of culture.

Not that Legos aren’t culture.

Oh, you know what I mean.

Guest Post: Is This Really My Life?

Emily asked me to fill out a Mad Libs Monday for her, and then

(SPOILER)

I DID.

Go check it out!

What Year Is This?

My name is Carina.

I am thirty-four years old.

And I wrecked my dad's new car last night.

Thai Spring Cream Rolls

Tonight I made Veeda's Thai Spring Rolls for dinner. Here are the wrappers you use for spring rolls; they're thinner and larger than egg roll wrappers and quite light.

I ran out of filling with two spring roll wrappers left. I didn't want to throw them away, so I opened the fridge to see if there was some fruit I might fold into the wrappers for a fun treat. All thoughts of fruit flew out of my head when my eyes landed on the vanilla pastry cream I'd accidentally* made the night before.

I spooned the cold vanilla cream onto the pastry and rolled up the wrapper. I carefully sealed the edges as I went with egg white because compromising the border could lead to mass chaos in the pan.

And then I fried those suckers for a minute or two in the hot leftover oil.

France met Thailand in a sinful tumble.

Oh, man. Crispy and smooth.

WHAT HAVE I DONE?

They were unbelievable.

Recipe

Make a vanilla pastry cream:

2 cups milk

1 split vanilla bean

2/3 cup sugar

4 TBL cornstarch

Dash salt

6 egg yolks

Boil milk and vanilla, remove and let steep. Strain bean out of egg. Beat yolks and sugar 'til ribbon forms. Add cornstarch. Slowly add hot milk and return to stove and cook until thick.

Cool it thoroughly.

Spoon cream into spring roll wrappers. Roll and seal with brushed egg white. Fry until golden.

*Yes. I know, I'm the only person you know who accidentally makes pastry cream. I used a vintage French cookbook from the famous Lenôtre. The recipes are plain with very little to distinguish them. I'd been making a Bavarian cream for a dessert that cjane and I were due to assemble, when the pages flipped and I didn't notice. Just like

Joey

Rachel in the famous beef-peas-onions-cake-trifle, I started one recipe and finished another. The ingredients were almost the same except one had cornstarch and one didn't, plus or minus some prep steps. So I put the pastry cream into the fridge and started the Bavarian cream over (6 MORE egg yolks.)

EVO '10

Turns out that I'm speaking this weekend at EVO conference.

Why me? Because I'm an expert.

In what? EVERYTHING*.


I tried to tell Jyl and Rachael not to invite me. "You have to come!" they shrieked at once.
"No, you don't want me to go, I'm not good at conferences."
"What? You'd be so fun!"
"I'm disruptive."
"That's why were sitting next to you!"
And then I caved, because you'd cave too; they squeeze a person like some sort of mutant blonde-brunette-human vise until they get what they want.

As far as you know I'll be speaking about SEO and blogging, but let's be honest, things could go pear-shaped fast. I make no guarantees that I won't start talking about SEO and end up giving a quick, yet timely, lecture on Soviet collectivization and the resulting widespread famines. Also, how much Kristen Stewart bugs. ANYTHING could happen!

*Notable exceptions: calculus, Asian languages, ostrich farming, bear hunts, the internal combustion engine, Cairo, server upgrades, the PAC 10, industrial solvents, nuclear fission **, Patricia Cornwell, reciprocating saws, casseroles, light welding, what in the H is happening in South Carolina politics, North Face clothing, tuber cultivation, and counterinsurgency strategy.

**Update: Am now an expert in nuclear fission. I looked it up.

A Random Story

A few weeks ago I read a story on The Awl (that's not unusual, they post 20,000 times a day.) The post was a funny invitation for The Awl's normally liberal readers to ask a few questions of a conservative in the name of open dialogue, furthered mutual understanding, and to un-wad some panties over conservatism in general. This particular conservative happened to be a Mormon originally from Utah. I posed my own question and then followed the link to the blog he runs with his brothers: Don't Do Dumb Things. (Seriously solid and funny writing right there; you should probably subscribe.)

I recognized one of the brothers from some guest posts he'd done on other websites. I followed a link to his wife's blog where I read that they were moving back to the UC from another state because he'd accepted a new job and definitely Did Not Want to Move to P-Town. You know me, I had to defend P-Town, it's a requirement of my not-shut-up-ingness. This sort of thing happens all around the internet all the time (usually by me.) So that was nice I did that.

Hey, remember that job I started a month ago? It's pretty sweet. I like it, and yes, they actually do stuff and it's an actual business (because I know some of you Kacy were worried.) My team is five people, including me, and that's great. On Tuesday a new guy came over to our area and introduced himself. He and I stared at each other for about 30 seconds before we simultaneously said, "NO WAY."

Turns out it's the brother. I was giving moving advice to my new co-worker. THE INTERNET, EVERYONE!

That night I told Other Half the story as I brushed my teeth. "Isn't that random?" I said.

"No," he responded, "It's coincidental."

"Sure, but what are the chances, right? Then again, I got to thinking about it and the chances probably aren't as astronomical as you'd think because they're originally from Utah, went to the B.Y., and we probably have a lot of connections."

"The probabilities are incalculable; the variables aren't measurable."

Gang, this is what it's like being married to Math Guy. He starts talking absolute and existential and then pretty soon he's proving unicorns don't exist again and I don't need that heartache.

Run free, brave Unicorn Kitten Pegasus that I know exists.

source

And go read DDDT.

The Casserole Changes Hands

Friday morning one of the neighborhood ladies arrived at my home to pick up the casserole I made for the homeless. She bustled up to the door, dressed to the nines by 10:30am, her immaculate 20 year-old Mercedes coupe idling in front of my house.

I handed her the big aluminum tray filled with some sort of nearly unidentifiable, possibly unholy mixture of egg noodles, ham, veggies, cheese, cream of chicken soup, milk, sour cream, seasoned salt, and topped with corn flakes (hand-crushed.)

"Oh!" she said, "It's homemade!"
"Uh," I answered, "Yes, it is. Is it not supposed to be homemade?"
"No, that's wonderful! And so kind! Normally people just buy a casserole from Costco. They will love it at the shelter!"

I...

I'm Pretty Much the Worst Mormon Ever

A few women in my neighborhood work with a homeless shelter in town. These women do great work, and I'm just lucky to live even near them. Every month they send around a sign up list to have a few of us make casseroles to be used to feed the homeless. That's our scene: I need to make a casserole for the homeless.

Let's make something clear: I am not a casserole snob. I just didn't grow up with them, my parents never cooked them. In fact, every year on my birthday my friend Jenny actually MAKES me a potato casserole called "funeral potatoes" which thrills me to no end (two months and counting.) Unfamiliar as I am with those peculiar American gastronomic beasts, casseroles are things of awe and confusion. I do not know how to make them. I can guess, I think, but really, they're stupefying in their complexity. How do you know what to put inside? What is the sauce? I'm at a loss. I'm the worst Mormon ever. What Mormon doesn't know how to make a casserole?

Which is how I ended up at the grocery store tonight aimlessly pushing a cart and having Petit Elefant, raised good 'n' right as a renown casserole expert, talk me through the experience.
"Are you at the grocery store?"
"Yes. I have to make a casserole for the homeless."
"Of course you do."
"Only, I don't know how."
"Seriously? You take a bunch of stuff, mix it all together, throw some cheese on top of it, bake it and done."
"Ooh! Cream of chicken soup, I use that don't I?"
"Yes, or mushroom."
"Oooh! I could mix cream of chicken and cream of celery together! Oooh! I could mix the chicken and the nacho cheese soup together!"
"It doesn't matter."
"I should get some frozen vegetables, right?"
"It doesn't matter. Sure."
"I feel like there should be sour cream. There's sour cream in casseroles, right? Should I get the full-fat or low-fat? Are the homeless concerned with calorie intake? Hey! I could make tuna casserole!"
"No."
"I like tuna! That sounds good."
"No, you can't make tuna casserole for the homeless, promise me you won't."
"What about Canadian bacon! Is that a thing? I could do Canadian bacon in a casserole! That could be yummy."
"It doesn't matter."
"What kind of pasta should I use? Egg noodles, rotini, radiatore..."
"*Snicker* What kind of pasta...EGG NOODLES."
"But what about a nice penne?"
"Listen to you. No. EGG NOODLES."
"I need a topping. All I have at home is Japanese Panko crumbs."
"Stop it."
"Should I buy corn flakes? That's a topping, right? You know, if it was me, I'd toss the flakes in a bit of butter to help with the browning and then sprinkle them evenly on top."
"*SNORT*"
"Do the homeless like season salt? I think I'll put some in, that could be good. I should buy cheddar cheese because I only have gouda right now."
"Do the homeless..I can't take this."

I piled all the ingredients into the store cart, paid, and made it home. I started opening cans and packages, stirring, trying to taste the beige glop as I went. I have to say, cold canned cream of chicken soup is not tasty, not even with season salt. No measuring, just stirring. Weird. I figured out that I would probably need to cook the pasta first (right?) I did make sure the noodles were drained a touch before al dente so they don't lose all integrity when baked. Wow. I'm hopeless. You casserole people are so mysterious.

Anyway, I hope the homeless like my casserole. Maybe next time I'll go bananas and put tater tots on top. That's a thing, right?




Read what happened the next day here.

The Finisher

Years ago I was cutting squares for a quilt. I exclaimed happily how it would look so great when I finished and then I caught my sister laughing. "What's so funny?"
"You're not going to finish it."
"Yes, I am!"
"No, you're not. You never finish anything."
"I am this time!"
"I'll believe it when it happens," she snorted.

I got so angry about it that I didn't ever pick up those cut squares again. Really, I showed her!

I'm still afflicted by the same un-finishing I ever have been. Just when I think I have a project in hand I OH LOOK SOMETHING SHINY OVER THERE.

It drives my loved ones crazy. It would drive me crazy too if I remembered I was supposed to finish something or other.

I made a promise to Other Half: every day this week I am going to tackle one project, one abandoned area, one neglected space and fix it. I think it will help if I share with you exactly what I'm fixing and organizing (public humiliation at a task unfinished helps, right?) I'm going to try really hard to LOOK IT'S SHINY finish something I started. I can do this.

Day One:

The vintage sewing table!

Featuring:

1. The vintage sewing table that I was going to turn into a bathroom sit-down vanity way back when I got it thrifting in the first week of December.
2. The orange table has been in my family room for so long, poised to make it up the stairs after what would surely be a quick makeover, that I think I've started decorating around it. Maybe I don't want to move it! Maybe it should stay! Maybe I should stick with the original plan.
3. Gift bag that we used to carry presents home from La Professora's house on Christmas Day. Still contains presents.
4. Wrapping paper, yes, from Christmas Eve.
5. The camera box from my new camera that I can't use because I don't have a memory card for it yet.
6. The instructions for the camera that Other Half unfolded when I called in a panic from Costco to make sure I was buying the right memory card. Still have no idea if we have the right kind.
7. Someone's PJs are on the floor.
8. Someone's sweater and jeans on the floor.
9. Baby wipes.
10. Outgrown baby church shoes.
11. Oh, and there's still a sewing machine inside the table that needs to be removed and the surroundings cleaned off.

This is going to be fun.

The Hissy

Almost precisely one year ago I had a breakdown. Some might've called it a hissy fit.

I was tired of ice and snow flying up through the hole in my car and hitting me. The novelty of driving children around in something with minimal safety features had long since worn off, along with the paint. I don't know what precisely had taken me to the edge, but I came home and just threw a hissy as hard as I could.
"I refuse to drive it anymore!" I nearly screamed, "How can I drive my children around in that thing? The seals are falling out, it's 20 years old, there's no L.A.T.C.H., there aren't any airbags, it's a TUNA CAN!" We both agreed, after I I hyperventilated into a paper bag*, calmed down and saw reason, that we would wait until we had a house. Guess what? Now the car is 21 years old, and I'm still driving it, but we do have a house.

Two months ago I ran over a hunk of ice. Immediately the temperature started rising and the car nearly overheated on the 5 minute drive home. When I dropped off the family and pulled out of the driveway I noticed a large green puddle. Antifreeze. That ice hunk punctured my radiator. For some reason, I thought I could make it back to work for a 3pm meeting even with my car rapidly expelling antifreeze. (I probably thought this because all last summer my car overheated with pin-point regularity. I knew that I'd have to turn the car off at all intersections and blow the heater during all of July. There was the panicked case of me having to pull off the side of the freeway while caught in a traffic jam until the vehicles moved and my car cooled down enough to drive. Misty water-colored memories.)

I made it to the intersection of Orem Center Street and 800 West, a lovely intersection on the crest of a hill. I sat, hazards flashing, smoke/steam pouring from under the hood, through two light cycles, and revised my plans. Clearly, I would not be making the remaining commute to work in my present state. Fortuitously, my regular mechanic was at the bottom of the hill: if I could just get the car started again, and coast through two lights and under the freeway overpass, I could make it to the mechanic half a mile away. And that, with the help of divine providence, is what happened. I called Other Half from the mechanic and said in a low and rage-filled voice, "If this is over $500, I. Want. A. New. Car." I think he was too scared to disagree.

The total came to $300.

I paid it and drove off with my fancy new radiator.

The check engine light came on 400 feet from the shop. I called Jenny and cried.


I picked up my friend Noelle so we could go to IKEA to price some things out for an OrangeSoda project. I made a joke about my car, and then mentioned that I saw one of the housekeepers in my new neighborhood driving the same car. All my neighbors probably think I'm the housekeeper. Sounds about right. "Honey," giggled Noelle, "I hate to break it to you, but my maid drives a nicer car than you."
"I know," I sighed.

Other Half drove my car today. "Does it...always sound like this?"
"Yes."
"Like it's all metal, and metal is being used to stop the car?"
"Yes."
"And like a cat or a small child got stuck in the wheel well?"
"Yes."


I'm just sayin....



I've been frugal enough, right?




*Just kidding. No paper bag. I've always wanted to become that hysterical, though. Do you think corsets are required?

Christmas FAIL

Guess what?

No, guess what?

My Christmas tree? It’s still up.

I know.

I know.

It gets worse.

This year I didn’t really do Christmas decorating, which is a shame since I don’t decorate for other holidays (and if you bring up the working disco ball that is currently hanging in my foyer, sure, we put it up for Halloween, but I like it so much I’m turning it into a permanent feature.) I usually go all out for Christmas, well, all out for me: some lights in windows, a wreath, a tree, uh, I think that’s it.

All of that rigamarole at least once a year!

I pulled down the plastic containers with the ornaments and lights from the garage shelving and slide them along the carpet to the living room the day after Thanksgiving. Those containers stayed in that living room undisturbed for almost two weeks. It was only El Guille’s persistent nagging to put up the ornaments that finally got the tree up.

The wreath? First the weather was too cold to hang the wreath hook, and then I had to repair the wreath with hot glue. The hot glue gun stayed in the living room with the wreath for two weeks. The wreath is still sitting on the side table where I set it to cool a month and a half ago; it never made it onto the door.

I have these really cool bulb lights on a string that I was going to hang in my windows, they look so cool and mod from the outside. I couldn’t find the cool lights from whatever diaper box they ended up in during the move, and since they were the crucial first step in the lighting design, no lighting went up. Don’t you fret, I BOUGHT MORE lighting for the outside, which is currently in its original packaging, including the plastic bag from Target, in the garage. See, I went outside to test the external plug and it didn’t work. And it was that week in December when the high every stinking day was 5 degrees (and pansy California was crying because they were in the 40s.) I couldn’t bear to be outside to figure out why the external plug didn’t work, so that was it. The test string of lights was literally kicked around the foyer for four weeks. That was my guest prep: a vicious kick of the white string under the leggy 1920s settee, which is hardly a stealthy move and totally not obvious.

I...

I just couldn’t this year. And I’m having just as hard of a time taking down what I did do.

(Container of lights? STILL IN LIVING ROOM.)

Is this the kind of thing people call Oprah about for help?

Cheetah

El Guille came out of his room after bedtime tonight and told Other Half, "I think I want to run fast like a cheetah."


"OK, but you really need to go back to bed fast, like a cheetah."


"Would it be OK if I looked like a cheetah? Would that help?"


"What do you mean?"

Yes, he'd already used a black marker to color in spots.