Update to the Great Recession

We are fine, everyone, we’re fine.

I feel like I need to update The Great Recession post to add a few details.

First, we are fine now, we aren’t in desperate need. Do not worry over us. The worst is behind us (I hope!)

I wanted to write about how the Great Recession had affected us because I think our children and grandchildren deserve to know about how hard times can be blessed times, how the struggles of everyday life can make us better people, even when the slog through tires you to your core. You should write about it, too.

On the face of it, there’s nothing special about our journey. There are a thousand of you who read that post and nodded along because it was the same story as yours, not in the details, but in the belt-tightening, white-knuckling of daily life during these times. We are far from the only ones, and we are far from the worst of it. We are ordinary. Some of you struggle as single parents; some of you lost houses, cars, or more tragically, loved ones; some of you had trials that were awful, scary, and unbelievably difficult. I learned that no one gets out of this life without experiencing terrible things, that we would do well to be kinder to everyone because someone else’s journey can make yours seem like a ride on a carousel.

The flip side are the grousers who complained about the bright spots, that I got to go to Hawaii on a “vacation.” The truth is that I choose to call it a vacation. I was working, I was in meetings, interviews, and working the whole time. I spent 30 minutes with my feet in the ocean. I spent most of my time in the hotel room with Lulu. And guess what? I still call it a vacation, because I was in freakin' Hawaii; it was in a hotel room in Hawaii. I am GRATEFUL for the chance to work, even if it has to be in Hawaii. Comparison is the thief of joy, y’all.

Get ready, here come the squishy parts...

I believe in the power of tithing. We made a commitment to give back 10% of what we earned in tithes. I know that because we made that commitment, we were continually blessed. When things would get down to the last $40, we’d take a deep breath, and not worry. Something would always come in. A client would pay their invoice. I would be approached for more work. Those ends would always meet, eventually.

And you know what? It was a blessing to learn that if you are open to what the Lord would have you do, if you will try your best, and work really hard, eventually, things have a way of working themselves out. You just have to give the Lord space to work his miracles in his time. Sometimes it isn’t immediate, the route may be circuitous, or come in a way that you expect, but it just works. All things will work together for your good, y'all.

Finally, I have two really great employers right now, one of whom is TodaysMama. I need to publicly thank Rachael for her unceasingly hard work, her brilliant mind, and for the chance to work for her. She makes dreams come true (HAWAII.) The rest of the team I work with are so high-trust and outstanding, it’s wonderful to share the load. There are great things on the horizon for TodaysMama, and I can’t wait to share them with you.

It's been quite the journey, and it's not over. Love you all to pieces!

I haven’t even told you the Parable of the iPod yet, kids, but trust me, it’s a good one. Stock up on tissues.

A Cover Song Makes Me Lose It

The iPod in my car started playing Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah about ten minutes from my home this afternoon. I sang along with Buckley and started crying. In my primary defense, I am thoroughly pregnant. I have no accountability on emotional control. Second, David’s story always upsets me with its trade of eternal glory for obsessive love; it is utterly human.

My friend Andy asked his Facebook friends to name their favorite Old Testament story. I could say David, but he just breaks my heart into pieces, he’s not my favorite. I answered Hannah and Samuel, because her story can make me cry even when I’m not pregnant. (Truthfully, I love the Old Testament and its wild stories: women killing men with spikes, hiding idols under clothes, lies, battles, cursing, prophecies, poetry, and enduring love. Do you remember that after Hannah gave her beloved, longed-for, adored child to the Lord, she visited him every year? And every year she brought a new coat she’d made for him? Sniff.)

With the exception of persistent episodic crying, each of my pregnancies has been very different. Last time, I was sick for seven months. My temper was ever seconds from exploding. I went through most days unbelievably angry at everything. I had a high-pressure executive job with an underground parking space and serious responsibilities. Consequently, my blood pressure was a constant concern. It wasn’t until a strict talk with the midwife and a renewed commitment to daily yoga that I was able to control my temper.

This baby makes me sick and tired.

Not the kind of sick and tired that your mom used to get when you wouldn’t pick up your room, left your backpack in the hallway, and your friends had eaten all the Fruit Roll-ups, but the separate notions of both a.) sick and b.) tired. Oh, and I forget about c.) absentmindedness. I simply don’t have a lot to get angry about. I should be more stressed about the lack of regular income that I’m bringing in, but I have acquired some sort of happy faith that our situation will resolve itself in a happy way.

The angry pregnancy created a calm and sweet baby. Will this calm pregnancy make an angry baby?

I forget where I’m going with this post...

I Open My Big Mouth

Catch me today over at Segullah, where I ask you why you won't open your big mouth so I'm not all alone out here.

Why You Should Have a Mormon Friend: Polygamy Edition

Alright kids, let's talk about the elephant in the room: polygamy. If there's one thing Mormons love it's having to explain how we don't practice polygamy anymore. Oh wait, we don't like that.

See, it's been more than a hundred years since we gave up the practice. Some Mormons who wanted to keep on with the plural wiving decided that they'd rather leave the church than stay in it; they went off and lived by themselves, free to wear long, unflattering dresses and 1940s hair.

Did you catch that, Buster? Mormons aren't polygamists, and the people that are polygamists aren't Mormons.

100 years man, it's enough time to let it go. Most Mormons are too nice to tell you that the jokes are too tired to be funny; we'll give you a chuckle and the whole eye-brow raising that means "good one, man" without giving you the full-on LOL (which you will never get, so stop trying.)

Secretly, it's exhausting having to explain that our dads only have one wife. No really. Seriously. I would know. PROMISE. No matter where a Mormon travels, say, just to pick an example, the gas station two blocks down from Busch Gardens in Tampa, Florida, they're just waiting for The Question.
"Utah, huh?"
"Yup."
"How many wives does your husband have."
"Just me."
"How many wives does your dad have?"
"Just my mom."
"No, he doesn't."
"Yes, he does."
"No, he doesn't." You get the picture. I don't know if there's a sillier time than having to explain to the cashier while she's checking your license that you do know the marital status of the people in your family, and it's all one-to-one. It's even more awesome when they don't believe you. Lady, I'd know.

Not only do we have to defend ourselves from the ridicule of the remainder of Christianity, but a big secret is that WE have a ton of mixed feelings about polygamy. I've seen girlfriends of mine start flashing their eyes, smoke coming out of ears, fists clenching when the topic arises. I've seen dudes take a big gulp at the terrifying thought. We're not all waiting for the day when we can be polygamists again, swear. Just ask your Mormon friend (as soon as you get one.)

But.

But.

For those of us who do have great-great-grandpas and grandmas who were polygamists way back, we have some awesome stories to tell: Mexican weddings, first wife drama, multiple households, the Edmunds-Tucker Act, we've got some doozies. If you know a Mormon from the Western U.S., chances are they've seen a polygamist in their natural habitat (on their way to the Wal-Mart.) That's why you want a Mormon friend: we can give you the straight dope on polygamy, tell you about the time we saw a polygamist, and share with you our feelings about that whole...thing, and we'll talk about it honestly because we don't practice it anymore.



**Now with classic polygamy game in comments!

As for the Big Love thing, most Mormons don't watch the show. First of all it's on HBO, which you have to pay more for, and Mormons hate paying more for anything, especially TV. Second, it's a little too close to home, right? A significant portion of our interactions with non-Mormons are convincing them that REALLY MY DAD HAS ONE WIFE, and that show isn't helping. Yes, the show tries to clarify that the characters aren't actually Mormons, but there are enough people out there that don't understand those stipulations and are a whole heap-a-mess of confused. We won't talk about the other Big Love issues because that makes us stabby (in a nice way.)

In case you didn't notice, here's a peek into the things I don't say.

(Because contrary to popular opinion, I can hold my tongue.)

(Just not that often and not very well.)

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...

Why You Should Have a Mormon Friend: Hoarder Edition

Mormons have a secret we're not telling you. We like food.

Well, duh, you're saying, of course you like food.

No, but we really like food. Look, we don't drink, we don't smoke, we don't latte, we don't do drugs, but we do do food. There's preparing food, eating food, sharing food, going out for food, it's a big deal.

(Like your mom.)

But there's another thing you may not know.

We hide food.

OK, not like, hide hide food. Think of us like squirrels, we put food away, we stockpile it, we built shelves in basements to handle all the food. See, a long time ago, our church leaders encouraged the members to put aside a year's worth of food. A YEAR? Yes. A year. It's not as crazy as you think. Storing wheat, flour, beans, dry goods, canned goods, etc., just requires a little know how, and some space.

Lately, all Mormons have been encouraged to have at least a 3 months supply on hand: food, hygeine supplies, contact solution, Diet Coke, cake frosting, you know, whatever it is that you need to function everyday. How? When you see a sale at the store don't just buy one, buy 12, and put them away. You do it little by little, every time you go to the store, buy more of something and put it on a shelf somewhere. Buy a big pack of meat, split it up into smaller portions and freeze. Eventually, you learn to rotate and keep more of certain things on hand, and you've got an emergency supply.

BUT WHY? Good question. In case, that's the answer.

Just in case you lose your job, in case you run out of money, in case there's a disaster (like a snowstorm where you can't leave your house to get to a store, ahem,) in case of ANYTHING. There's something about knowing that you could feed yourself and maybe your neighbors if the poop hits the fan.

Because if poop hits the fan in your neighborhood, Mormons may be the only ones with the goods to get you all through the worst of it. It's true: a Mormon friend will never let you run out of toilet paper, a Mormon friend will have more pasta, more canned beans, more canned milk than you ever knew you needed. A Mormon friend may even be able to bake you bread from scratch (from the wheat that they ground....yeah, we're hard core like that.) Man can't live on bread alone, but man certainly needs bread.

So there's your answer: you should have a Mormon friend because we can hook you up with the stuff you and yours need to keep living.

Come and knock on our door for a change!

And that's Why You Should Have a Mormon Friend: Hoarder Edition!




Warning: Don't come and try to just take our food storage, some Mormons store guns "just in case." No, it's no religion-specific; it's a Western thing, you know, like cactus, yee-haw, and shoot 'em ups, with a slight ring of militia.

Why You Should Have a Mormon Friend: Poly Edition

Because we know how to pronounce Polynesian names.


Call us, sports commentators, we can help you out.


Fui Vakapuna
Sione Pouha
Jonathan Fanene
Fili Moala
Setema Gali
Fahu Tahi...


So that's Why You Should Have a Mormon Friend: Poly Edition.


Maliu mai!
He mea iki!
Ki ora!
Vinaka Vakalevu!

Why You Should Have a Mormon Friend: DD Edition

Here's why you should have a Mormon friend, because we're always the designated driver.

It's true! You've heard that Mormons don't drink, and that is generally the case, but instead of wrinkling up your sherry-red nose at the horror of a lifetime of buzz-less living, think of how this benefits you.

Yup, that's right, when you've got a Mormon friend, there's no pouting and campaigning over who will or won't be the designated driver, no taking turns, no "I was last time," your Mormon friend will always be the designated driver.

Don't feel bad for us, we're happy, thrilled to be the DD. After all, you're our friends too, and we want to make sure that you make it home safely, relatively intact, and don't hurt anyone else. Mrs. Potts told me recently that her husband gets drunk dials at 2am from his law school classmates because they know he'll make sure they get home safe. How awesome is that?

The thing that I, personally, like about being the designated driver is I have a lot, a ton, a schload of dirt on you.

I remember clear as a bell the night that my friend, let's call her Bethany, showed us exactly the kind of magic potion Jagermiester can be by baring her soul and doffing her top on a really high Slick Rock boulder in Moab. I guarantee that Bethany doesn't remember a thing. I have that one in my back pocket the day I need something from Bethany. I've pulled girls from the backs of motorcycles ("YOU DO NOT KNOW HIM") and away from men ("He's TOO YOUNG/OLD, put him BACK") and held many a pony tail when she was vomiting on the side of the road in the Nevada desert. Just like Fergie says, it's glamorous to be your DD. Well, she doesn't say the "designated driver" part, but I think it's implied.

Sure, occasionally you'll have to see us raise our eyebrows, but you're too into your cups to notice. Sometimes we have to pry the phone out of your hand before you call your ex (YOU'RE WELCOME.) Rarely, you get really angry and storm out of the bar/restaurant/lounge because we looked at you funny (hey, paranoid drunks, r e l a x.) But you're still our mates, our crew, our gang, and we still like you, even if you accidentally hit on us.

And don't you worry, I know exactly what happened the last time you blacked out.


So that's why you should Have a Mormon Friend: Designated Driver Edition.

Rated What?

I'm over at Segullah today, talking about how I watch R-rated movies.

SPOILER ALERT: I feel conflicted about that.

This is What I’m Doing Instead of Blogging: Reading Your Blog

Probably the most boring thing I could write about is how the sale of my condo and purchase of my house is going. The shortest thing I can say is that we’re currently engaged in NASA-level nail biting and professional finger crossing at the same time (which is killing my manicure, believe me.) We closed on the house today, but it’s not over yet, and we aren’t going to have news until Friday.

We had an hour this morning between 11am and 12pm that was one of the most stressful periods of my life, and that includes the time that we fought over whether or not our month-old family would be one of “those” families that had Christmas trees (His argument: Couldn’t we just drive around and look at lights? My argument: I WANT A DIVORCE.)

The next most boring thing I could write is how cute and awesome my kids are. But they just are, and you need to deal with that or stop reading this blog. Like how E.G. asked me tonight as we were walking up the stairs, “Do you hear the wind, mom?”
“Yes.”
“Those are just the words coming in from another state.”

DID YOU DIE? BECAUSE I TOTALLY DIED. And then I decided that he can also be a poet-philosopher along with an architect, physicist, engineer, neurosurgeon, and, if he has time, an ambassador.

I could also tell your bored self about how I made a fool of myself at Book Club 2 last night, including inappropriate references to an email forward I once received that had a picture of a fairy and a certain religious figure. Not Mohammad. And then how I tried to tell a story of something that happened at church the other week and instead of it coming out respectful, yet conscious of the inherent humor, it came out mean and nasty (which of course I am, but who wants to show that side to people?)

The last most boring thing I could write is how Other Half is watching Point Break, again.

It turns out that I’m flat-out boring.

You should probably just go find a chore chart instead of reading this.

Catch Me Over at Segullah

pic source

It's where we'll discuss how raw pieces of meat can drive good women to tears--and why you might be the culprit.

Nov 9 Gear

I managed the monsters by myself in church today. The baby sat on my lap for most of the meeting. Much like someone else I could name, the cleavage has been appropriated as a resting spot for whatever the baby needs. Today, the overflow room housed goldfish and dried cranberries. Plink, plink, plink, he’d drop them in one by one. A couple minutes later, he’d fish them out for consumption. He got mad at me because one cranberry became irretrievable. Don’t worry, little one, it will all shake out at the end!

I’ve never considered that my body could be used as a food storage device. I think it’s just one more indication of my baby’s superior organization and design genius. Maybe we should send his headshots to the Clean House crew. It’s never too early to start exploiting your child’s Hollywood potential!





Gear: Dark gray palazzo pants (a wider than wide leg cut) from Target, on sale for 3.98. These are some of my lounge pants, aka I-wouldn't-step-foot-out-of-the-house-in-these-unless-I-was-dead-or-on-the-way-to-a-hospital-to-have-a-baby-pants. However, I would slide them on to watch Lipstick Jungle, or do the dishes. Shirt? Tennis whites.

The Missing Ten Minutes

I got the kids all decked out in their Sunday best a good half hour before church services. I'm trying to get there a little early to assure a pew seat and this Sunday I was going to accomplish that everlasting goal. I went to throw on my dress and find my shoes. Only ten minutes later and properly attired, I walked into the boy's room to find

Lotion
Every
Stinking
Where.

The screw cap was off and large globs of pink, Parent's Choice lotion (that may or may not be four or five years old,) was all over the carpet, the area rug, the fire engines, and Proximo. His corduroy jacket, drenched. His thin hair, smeared.

And I lost it.

What is it about Sunday mornings that makes you want to kill your children? The one morning when you should be feeling the most love and patience is the morning to test us all. At least this week, when we got to church during the opening hymn, nobody told us that our child had walked to Tulsa and been returned by the National Guard.

Tender mercies.

When Cameron was in Egypt's Land...

Let my Cameron go...

Check me out today over at Segullah.

When is a Gallon of Milk Not a Gallon of Milk?

If you were part of a certain generation, your parents were concerned with squeezing the most out of a dollar and the pantry. They read pamphlets, they exchanged bargain ideas, and they rinsed out zip loc bags. You’re saying to yourself, what could possibly be so different now? Sure these days we budget, save, and prepare, but trust me, we are not going to the same lengths.

Are you a part of that certain generation?

* Your mom would buy a gallon of milk from the store and that gallon never ran dry.
At first, your heart leapt to see the gallon come out of the paper bag from the store. Then, under the cover of nightfall, mom would gradually mix in reconstituted powdered milk into the store-bought gallon. YOU AREN’T FOOLING US, mom!
Never-ending gallons do not exist, not even in Zion.
Eventually, mom would break down and buy another gallon of milk (to start it all over again.)
I mean, I guess it was better than the way they usually tried to get you to drink powdered milk: slightly warm, because the powder dissolves easier in warm water. The sickeningly sweet smell with just a hint of sour wafted out of the beige pitcher as the milk sloshed against the sides. Know what’s better than powdered milk?
A glass of water and eating your cereal dry.

* Peanut butter that you had to stir.
The great grease slick at the top of the jar that would make a thunk sound as you plunged in the spoon. The jars of Skippy at your friends' houses seemed so...glamorous.

* Your dad would give you a couple of tablespoons of wheat to chew.
Not wheat flour, actual wheat grains poured into your hand. You were supposed to chew these because they made gum. And the wheat did make gum, but guess what? WRIGLEY’S IS ONLY A DIME. Why did we have 50 pound bags of wheat hanging out in our basement? So you could grind wheat and make your own bread, of course. All four of us used to beg and plead for ‘store-bought’ bread. Oh, store-bought bread! It was so soft! The thick, crusty loaves my dad pulled out of the oven? NO, THANKS! Why couldn’t we just have Wonder Bread like everyone else?

My parents went the extra mile: making their own yogurt in a bowl they’d set above the hot water heater, toasting their own granola, and the time dad tried to make his own malt. There even were homemade Tootsie Rolls (because why buy Tootsie Rolls? Do you know how much money you can save by making your own Tootsie Rolls?) Believe me, that recipe was a hot ticket around Edgemont.

So tell me, were your parents reading the same pamphlets as mine? Did you can peaches and put up tomatoes? Spend an afternoon at the Welfare (charity) farm picking cherries? Or were you one of the lucky ones: Wonder Bread for your sandwich and pudding cups in your lunch—oh, and real gum?

-I was reminded about all of this in an IM convo that I had with Sue. You need to read her take on this subject. Warning, you'll learn about something called 'chocolate treat', are you prepared?

Sundays and Annie

I decided to introduce El Guille to one of the classics of modern cinema: Annie! We had a brief conversation about what orphans are and got down to watching the movie. In the opening scene Annie was singing about what she hoped her parents were like "Bet they collect things/Like ashtrays, and art!" when all of a sudden something happened...

Did you know that the children in that movie were all ORPHANS?

That none of them had PARENTS? And they're all at this orphanage with no one to clean their clothes, comb their hair, put them to bed at a reasonable hour and to LOVE them? That my children have a MOM and aren't they LUCKY? I started sobbing for the poor orphan children who had no one to love them. I think I covered it up pretty well by wiping my eyes on a t-shirt I'd just folded. El Guille was too engrossed in Hard Knock Life to notice my tears for the grubby girls of Hudson Street Home (which is an ORPHANAGE.) Nice one. Realizing that the girls were all orphans (with no MOMS) almost took the spark out of Miss Hannigan's brilliance. Almost.

My one request for Mother's Day is that I get breakfast in bed. Other Half's request is to buy all the ingredients and leave the recipe on the counter. I almost reconsidered my request when the smoke filled the hallway. I guess french toast isn't foolproof.

My breakfast was delivered by Other Half, one child who kept hitting the siren button on his new fire engine, and one that cried the whole time because I CAN'T BE PUT DOWN IT'S A HUMAN RIGHTS VIOLATION--I NEED TO BE NEXT TO YOU ALWAYS, EVEN WHEN YOU ARE EATING, COOKING, SLEEPING, NEED TO USE THE FACILITIES, OR BREATHING.
"I found out that french toast is better when you use more butter," Other Half says in wonder.
"More butter is always better," I say under my breath.

The rest of the day passed like any other Sunday: wrestling with the children in church to pretend we have some semblance of control. My church uses the little paper cups for the sacrament. I have fond memories of undoing the pleating on the paper cups as a child and using the expanded 3" circle to make some sort of paper craft. I undid the pleating for El Guille, to see how his imagination would take flight. He immediately put the flat paper on his head like a hat, turned around in the pew, and showed off for the little red-headed girl two rows back. He put the paper at a rakish angle, he crumpled it up, he undid the paper, put it back on his head like a yarmulke, all for the benefit of the giggling girl behind him. I didn't know whether to laugh at his attempts to impress her, roll my eyes because he's 4.5 and already a ham for girls, or become more flustered because my children are practically bouncing through the air during the service. I settled for a combination of all three.

When it was time for the children to go up front to sing for the mothers, El Guille was at the very front. He lazily leaned on the stand, making no attempt to sing the songs (which he had been singing to himself in the car all week.) Pretty soon he leaned to far and fell down with a THWACK. He recovered before the verse was over, back to dangling his arms over the side. Other Half leaned over to me and said, "You realize we have the worst behaved child up there, right?"

I just smiled.

Today's Segullah post is all about fur coats!

Just kidding, fur coats are only mentioned casually as objects of envy and despair.

However, if you ever wanted to experience a Viennese winter, click here for The Trek.

Leap-Frog

I'm playing leap-frog today over at Segullah.

How Long is Too Long?

Boy do I have a juicy secret for you today! Come read what it's all about at Segullah.