A Survival Guide to Interacting with Pregnant Females

These pants are now solely being held up by a belly band. There is no zipping or buckling about it anymore. P.S. This is a pic from a few weeks ago (14 weeks). I'm much poofier now.

It's all been worth it to see this munchkin. (10 weeks)

I haven't been pregnant for very long. As my hubby so innocently reminded me the other day, I'm not even half-way there yet. (Nice one, hubs!;)) However, I do think I've picked up a little wisdom along the 4+ months of pregnancy I've experienced so far. Plus, I've been able to glean some little pearls of wisdom from the other, oh, bajillion friends who have had/are also having babies recently.

So, without further ado, I give you a guide to navigating the dangerous waters of Interaction with Preggos.(Just a quick note--these guidelines are meant to be humorous, not offensive. I mean, they could save your life, but just... you know... take them with a grain of salt.)

First, a few reminders of pre-pregnancy tactfulness:

(1) Avoid interrogation about unborn children.You never know what's going on with a couple. Some couples legitimately don't want to start a family until well into their 7th year of marriage. I mean, I can't really blame them. "Just the two of us" time is hard to let go of. Heck, some couples don't ever want to fill their household with tiny baby screams. And to each their own, because I know enough to know that life is hard and doesn't get any easier with kiddos. But some couples really do want to produce a human that looks a little like each of them, and they try really hard for a really long time. So, what I'm trying to say is, as well intentioned and non-chalant as the question, "So when are you gonna have kids of your own?" may be... It's sometimes a hard pill to swallow. Just to clear the air, I didn't have a problem with that question. I think that kind of question comes from a certain subculture of the US, and it's a subculture that I happen to have some roots in. So, I never really realized that it was a touchy area until I started making babies of my own. And despite not being the quickest baker of baby buns ever, that question never made me shed great tears of sadness. Mostly because (a) I knew that it was only fair that I do my fair share of waiting for a baby when I had friends who'd tried for much longer, and (b) the question usually came from very sweet individuals. However, for some people it probably would make them cry out in the night. And for any of you who have ever gone through the heartsickness of not knowing why your body isn't working properly and can't produce some offspring for any extended period of time, you can certainly understand why. So avoiding that question, as tempting as it is to ask it when there is a lapse in conversation, is probably the best way to handle the sticky-sitch.

(2) Do not point out early signs of pregnancy, especially before the big announcement. Birth control and the stopping thereof can do some crrrrazy things to a body. As a result, sometimes "signs of pregnancy" may just be signs of changing hormones. Or some of us just may have a great love of the sweeties. (Yeah, ME!!!) These roller-coastering hormones (or excessive intake of pasta and donuts) may produce some changes that make one look a little bit like she's on the verge of puberty again. My pre-pregnancy woe was pizza face (remember this post?). Luckily I didn't have to deal with gaining back my baby fat until after I got pregnant (more on that later). No, I kinda slid the other way after cutting off my supply of the pill. I lost a bunch of weight and had a 10-year-old boy bum for 7 months. Either way you slide, wacko hormones are fun stuff. So the trick is to never ask a lady if she is pregnant until it has either been announced from the source herself or a reliable third party. I mean, who doesn't remember that part from "Two Weeks Notice" where handsome Hugh sticks his foot in his mouth with the secretary applicant... twice-times? Yeah, not a fun situation to be in. Also, offering unsolicited weight-loss or skincare advice is a huge no-no. I mean we already know that you know we put on a couple of pounds or are breaking out like a 15-year-old, but the delusion of others' obliviousness is a beautiful (thin) layer of rose-colored glass which should not be broken. EVER.

Okay, now approaching fully pregnant women (and bear in mind that the examples given are a mixture of personal experience and observed experiences from others):

(3) Do not point out pregnancy symptoms. Period. For some of us, once the hormones, weight of a humongous uterus + growing baby, increased blood, and nightmares do fun things to our skin (i.e. acne, stretch marks, dark under-eye circles, and varicose veins), that then becomes the straw that can break the camel's back at any time. Not only are hormones making many of us a little touchier than usual (okay, maybe more than a little), but some of us have to deal with actually looking like we are carrying around another person + food supply for said other person, and that our hormones are bouncing around like pin-balls on steroids and wreaking havoc in very noticeable places. So saying things like, "Aw, I see that baby pudge! So cute!", "Are you breaking out?!", "What are those things you're wearing on your legs?", "You look like hell! Are you sleeping?"---these things are probably not your best options for convo-starters. They are, however, great conversation enders. Just hopefully for the unfortunate speaker of these words, the conversation doesn't end with a round-house kick to the trachea.

(4) No touchy. Belly bands, compression stockings, granny panties, baggy shirts, stretchy pants--lots of layers of fabric go into being pregnant on a daily basis. And there are two reasons for that. (1) Some of these layers are absolutely essential. Belly bands hold my pants up when I can't button them & compression stockings keep my legs from feeling like water tower holding tanks. And (2) when you just feel big all of the time, extra layers or baggier layers keep things hidden that you would rather not have seen. Therefore, it is important that those layers stay intact and are understood by others. No, I don't love wearing lots of clothes while feeling like a blimp in 95 degrees with 90% humidity. But ya do what ya gotta do. What makes it bearable is when I'm given a little breathing room. That means as much as one would like to touch a preggo belly, resist the urge! And make sure that every layer of clothing a pregnant woman has so painstakingly put together stays in its place at all times. No trying to sneak peaks of the belly either. It will probably produce the same unfortunate results as the worse-case scenario from guideline #3. Pain.

(5) Only happy thoughts. When talking to a fellow preggo, I like to ask myself WWMEPSD? What would my emotional pregnant self do? If I plan on saying something to a pregnant woman that is meant as a compliment, but it could possibly be construed in any other way, I don't say that thing. Maybe the pregnancy glow comes from an accumulation of wonderful things said and well wishes sent to the bearer of the baby. And that's as it should be. So if you see a pregnant lady who is not glowing, give that girl a compliment and some ice cream. But make sure the ice cream is nice and frozen and that compliment is not backhanded. Or you might get back-handed. (Goodness, so much violence!)

(6) Leave the naming to the parents. Everyone loves asking what you will name your baby. And then giving suggestions if you don't have a response. And that's understandable. Naming a human being has got to be the coolest thing in the world! But if you want to avoid any kind of awkwardness, just wait until the parents announce the baby's name. If a mother-to-be has picked out a name and is not keeping it a secret (there are a lot of potential name-stealers out there, ya know?), then she will make that name known to the WORLD! Seriously, it will be everywhere! On the wall in the nursery that you will find pictures of all over Facebook, zooming around as her computer desktop's screensaver, written on her hand, tattooed on her belly... you name it. But if you haven't heard what the baby's name will be, it's probably because (a) the parents don't have a name yet and feel like slackers when you ask, or (b) the parents are keeping the name hidden like a magical sparkly prince(ss) crown, only to be revealed at the birth of the child when it will then be placed upon the child's bald, red head. I made the mistake of asking this question at a baby shower a few weeks ago, and I felt awkward about it for about 5 hours afterwards. Seriously, I could hardly even concentrate through "The Dark Knight Rises" because I kept analyzing the future-mommy's response and kicking myself for asking that question.

(7) Just don't... when possible... Watch her when she weighs herself, ask her how much weight she's gained, tell her she's lucky that her pregnancy is "easy," drink her non-caffeinated, non-diet sodas from the fridge, tell her she's being irrational, put her in charge of awkward situations or any situations involving salespeople, ask her questions you know she doesn't know that answer to, make her wait for any meal, make her wait to use the restroom, ask her if she needs to pee (even if she probably does), let her drive during rush hour, try to read her mind, try to ask her questions so you don't have to read her mind, leave lots of cookies within her reach, hide the cookies from her... This could go on for a long time. And I am seeing a lot of similarities with this and a list of Don'ts for when women are PMSing as well. Just use the good sense that God gave you (or borrow some if you don't feel you were given sufficient for this particular circumstance), and you should be just fine!

I hope this list helps us all to avoid some close encounters with the pregnant kind! Pregnant women everywhere--may the force be with you! And husbands of said pregnant women--may the force, some sanity-inducing hobby, and a lot of luck be with you as well!
-------------

I just have to add, on a more serious note, how grateful I am for Clint and his support. He's had a crazy schedule lately-- on call at the hospital for surgeries, long days of studying, days of standing for hours and hours in freezing OR rooms... But this past weekend he took the whole weekend to spend time with me (and Christine, holla!). Then Sunday, after home teaching, he came home while I was taking a nap and very sneakily cleaned the whole house, started the laundry, and took Snooki for a walk. Then Monday before his night shift at the hospital he finished all of the laundry, unloaded the dishwasher, and made the bed to save me the work. I just adore that guy!

Summertime and the living's easy--and kind of hard

1- giant crape myrtle growing across the street.

2- the view on my way to the irs office.

3- puppy cuddles and neon things.

4- date night, law library. this was a theme night of clint's creation. 

he took me to places that represent reasons why he loves me.

he's such a stud, seriously.

5- one excited snooki enjoying a little freedom.

6- new work shoes from my mommy. they fit like a dream.

7- no shoes. pool side.

8- delicious summer snack. and there's a wee bit of salt on top. i'm turning into my grandpa, nobigdeal.

9- houston skyline. i drive on her streets 'cause she's my companion.

10- palm trees even in abandoned parking lots. i love this about my home.

11- cat eye and 80s brow. gotta love the styles of 2012.

12- street flower. hardcore.

13- these must be giant daisies, because they are the friendliest.

14- southern tree with little tufts of spanish moss.

Do you notice something missing in these pictures?

Yep. My husband's face.

That's because his face is in a book in a library. 14 hours, every day.

Except for Sunday. (Sunday in for lovers.)

This absence of his shining presence is a necessary evil. DEATH I (STEP 1) is in 2 weeks, and it is kind of a big deal. So no one has seen much of him of his pals for 3 weeks now. And we've planned for this. Every exam period, every missed sports event, every PB&J-- it's all been practice for these few weeks of funfunfun and anxiety. This is the time I was thinking of when I told Clint under the canyon stars that I would follow him anywhere, support him in anything, clean all the things-- I would marry a future medical student, and I would love it. 

And I do. I really do. But sometimes it's hard. 

It wasn't until this past Sunday that it really hit me how much I miss him. He's decided to take Sundays off from studying to save his sanity and hopefully reap some Sabbath day blessings. I don't know about him, but I've certainly felt blessed as a result. I cling to those precious hours, and this Sunday my clinging turned to begging just a little bit. Please, just a little more time.

But time marches on. And so does the dutiful med student.

I love my med student. I can't wait to have him back, but I am so proud of him. And I'm thankful for his example to me of hard work. Really, really hard work. Every day. 

And I'm proud of all of my girlfriends holding down the fort as their hubbies study. Congratulations to those who have finished (Hoyts! & Christensens, right?!). Good luck to those who are testing today (Williams fam! & Englishes!). Happy summer, champs!

Husband, you probably won't read this until after your test, but I love you.

Deuces

Yesterday I was having a fairly crappy day. The reasons aren't really important, except to say that they were not as much within my control as I would have liked them to be. I guess I could always react better. I mean, when life gives some people crap they make art out of it. Am I right?

Anyways, when I got home from work Husband was at the library studying for DEATH I, and my small dog wasn't showing me much love-- not that I can blame her since we just paid someone to remove her ovaries and then strapped a plastic cone around her face just to make her life really great.

Some days, usually on crappy ones like yesterday, these soft, sweet whispers tell me exactly what I need. Not in a crazy way. (Not like the whispers that told this individual what s/he did or did not need.) But the whisper was clear last night, so I decided to heed it and head out to pick up some of the kids for Youth Group a little early. I figured a nice drive, a pit-stop at MickeyD's for a very large Diet Coke, and not showing up late to Youth Group for once would all help to improve the general mood of the day.

 And it did. It really did.

Although throughout the course of my evening I did lose one pair of sunglasses and that very large Diet Coke to some of the most adorable children I know, I didn't get any dinner cooked for the starving student, came home with Modge Podge and glitter all over my hands, and am more baby hungry than ever (I mean seriously, those babies!!!)-- it was so incredible to know that someone was watching out for me yesterday and knew exactly what I needed.

Plus, there may have been a dance party involved. And I do so enjoy a good dance party.

Deuces.

Agua con Gas

Dinner at Tango & Malbec on Saturday night.

Late night. W Alabama, Galleria. Ritzy. Pearls and diamonds and curls. Argentine. Que chevre, amigos.

Milanesas. Agua con gas. Mucho dinero.  Groupons not accepted on Saturdays. Sin dulces.



Word to the wise: the water with bubbles is a rip off.

Bad Face Day

So lately I've had a few bad face days. Well, more than a few. Try every day for the past 6 months. 

It's not the first time I've struggled with a long stream of continual bad face days. This first started my junior year of high school. That was the worst. I come across pictures from that year from time to time and have to look away real quick-like, afraid that the acne-monster may sense me looking at those pictures and decide to come and hit me with his zit-stick again. 

Yeah, that was not a great time for me.

I've thought about this a lot. I've thought about how sad and unfair it is that even after I've been so very accepting and tolerant of being cursed with a hideously small hind-quarter, my face has become just as unmanageable. I mean, it's not like I haven't tried! Two whole rounds of Acutane! And you know they give you hell before you can get some of that stuff. Then the hellishness of getting the scrip is followed up by 3 months of even worse acne as your body rejects having it's pores choked and dried up like so many microscopic prunes. That's 6 months per round x 2 rounds = 1 year of dry, patchy skin, nose bleeds, achy bones, and 2 forms of birth control. 

It's not fun stuff. But it works. Until it doesn't.

So here I am again, feeling sorry for myself and angry at Life for dealing me this Joker-- the kind of Joker that you get dealt and the dealer then tells you that Jokers don't count so you now only have 4 playable cards in your deck. And it may not sound like such a big deal to you. (If it doesn't that's probably because you haven't dealt with it before.) But to me, it really is. Call it vanity, call it pathetic-- whatever. Maybe it is. But acne at 22 is tough. I can scrub my face with the best cleanser 3 times and top it off with expensive, light-weight-but-not-too-light-weight moisturizer and still feel dirty. I can spend a half-hour with my concealer, foundation and powder and still look blotchy all over. I can get my hair did and my nails did and put on my spiffiest outfit and still just see Pizza Face blinking back at me in frustration. And Pizza Face just keeps blinking and blinking at the mirror until hot tears streak down and melt all that moisturizer and makeup away. And Pizza Face wonders Why can't I just be given something more manageable? Isn't it enough that I have unruly hair and funny toes and skin that scars when you look at it wrong and chubby fingers and a half-sized torso and big cheeks and a tiny bum?!

It's about at this point in my mind-rantings where I start laughing at myself. And the laughing turns to crying. And the crying works it's way down to the floor. And there I am. Kneeling and crying in all my weepy, blotchy, snotty glory. And there is nothing left to say or do but offer up all of that heartache and insecurity in prayer. And then there comes the gratitude-- for all of my functioning body parts, for the fact that it is PMS and not chemo pills that makes my bones hurt, for a husband that tells me daily that I am the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, for a mother and sister who say they don't remember my acne ever being bad (and for knowing it's because love is blind), for all of the days that pass where I don't get a phone call saying a loved one has left this earth, for a job that puts food on the table, for friends that love me because they know there is something lovely and eternal underneath my skin. For all of these things I am grateful. 

Then comes the sorrow. For all of the selfish thoughts. 

Then comes the peace.

I don't know why I've been given so much. Sometimes I catch glimpses of what I'm supposed to be and what I can really do, but I'm going about it like a three-toed sloth conquers a giant tree-- very slowly. So why I am continually given things I know I don't deserve

is beyond me. 

But today maybe I can try and show a little gratitude. Maybe I can turn this Bad Face Day into a Good Person Day. And maybe tomorrow morning when I'm blinking at the mirror I can see a little bit deeper than my own face.

Super Tuesday

Houston Livestock Show & Rodeo 2012

Is anyone else's spouse glued to primary election stats these days?

No???

Oh. Okay.

Daydream Recap

This weekend was one wonderful, far-too-short daydream.

And you know, when it first started I was like, "Huh, this weekend might be kind of a bust." Because it began with me and Mister sitting on the bed trying to come up with something to do with our tired minds (particularly his which had been drained of all its brainy juices from a week of med school exams), getting really hungry and a little cranky, and resorting to leftovers.

But I should have known. I just should have known that weekends are for being wonderful. They are for putting fake bets on a dog because he poops the most at the greyhound race track. They are for waking up at noon, barefoot running in the "morning," and the development of lovely feety-callouses. They are for faux fur and stripes and orangey-red lipstick (just like Iris!) and finding a new obsession (um, Chick-Fil-A's fresh lemonade...holla!). They are for The Cheesecake Factory and lots of love and laughter around a tiny table with your Texas-family. They are for wearing stretchy pants all the time, and baby-watching on the train. They are sunshine naps and pleasure reading on a warm blanket in the park. They are for long distance calls to your Mom & Dad & sister (who has to stay up late to do homework again) and wishing so hard that you could hug them all very tight. They are for snuggling up in front of a movie with a cup full of frosty Blue Bell & milk. 

They are for falling in love over and over again.

They are for preparing yourself for another week in the real world.

Happy Monday!

Email to Husband

Here's a little glimpse into life right now.

Hello Dominator of Block 3 Exams,

Firstly, I hope you are able to take a huge nap when you get home from the exam. Your body is probably wicked tired right now. 3 hours of sleep x 6 nights = Well I'm not really great with mixed measurement equations, but that roughly equals Not Enough Sleep.

Secondly, this is our theme song for the weekend, so be excited:  

We Are Young

Thirdly, (and unfortunately) we have some grown-up people issues to deal with in the form of the Maxima (aren't they always in the form of the Maxima?!). I started on my way to work this morning and had to turn around before I got as far as the McDonald's on Holcombe due to some very disturbing sounds coming from one of the belts (I think) under the hood. So I am currently using your car (I haven't stalled even once!), and mine is hanging out in the G-briar parking lot being as helpful as the bird terd it is probably being covered with as we speak.

I thought we had a couple of options about where to take the car and when to do it. (You can see said options pictured in a flow chart on my Instagram.) But upon reflection, we really don't. I don't think it is wise or safe to drive the car to Cypress to get it to your parents' mechanic. Plus, even if all goes well, we wouldn't get it back until at least next weekend. And with how much I drive these days, I don't know if that's the best scenario. The Shell guys did a good job last time (as far as we know haha-- I mean I didn't find a dead body in the trunk, and they didn't tell me I needed to replace the non-existent "timing belt"), so I think it would be best if we meet up at the Shell after work and leave my car there. It should make it to Stella Link just fine, but if you have any issues, at least we know we can get it towed through Geico without incurring any expense. (Whereas, if we were to have it towed to Cypress they would charge us our first born child. And depending on how cute our first born is, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be okay with that.) Anyways, what do you think is best?

Fourthly, I love you. Be of good cheer, for I bring you good tidings of a great weekend. Even if it does begin with adult issues that clearly should not be our problem. Doesn't the universe know we just want to be party rockin'?

Love,

Beck

Thank the heavens above it is Friday once again.

The Magic

2010

See those people?

The one on left right is my grandpa-- Edson King Barton. Grandpa Ed. Strong Edson King with a heart the size of Texas and the best hugs in the world.

The one on the right is my grandma-- Ellen Ann Allen.Grandma Ann. Dreamy Ellen Ann with the loveliest silver hair I ever saw and the grace of a queen.

These are remarkable people. And they are full of magic and beautiful things.

When I was little, their backyard was the place I wanted to be most out of anywhere in the whole world. The white stone walls around it were my safe haven. The place where I existed as a princess. The giant cherry tree was my castle, and true love was forever waiting on the other side of the rose garden.

Their living room was like a dream. The afternoon sun would filter through the rosy pink glass and cast its spell on me. I would lie on the green velvet couch and bask in the lazy light and feel the warmth of contentment melt through my little dreamer heart.

There were paintings on the walls that I could stare at for hours (well, minutes, but to a kid...). There was one oil painting depicting a little girl with long, golden braids walking through a dark forest. Illumination came from above her where an angel watched every step she took. I knew at those moments staring up, almost smelling the pines, nearly hearing the crunch of the forest ground beneath me, that that little girl was me and that angel was my namesake, my Aunt Becky, making sure I didn't get lost in the dark.

That home was my little slice of heaven on earth. The place where happiness covered everything and made life sparkle and shine like the fresh dusting of snow that always topped the mountains just beyond the white walls. And I knew that there, in between those white walls, nothing could ever go wrong. And I knew it would be there forever.

I'm all grown up now. I lived in that house, out of the goodness of my grandparents' hearts, sporadically during my days at BYU. And although I can now see that things are not perfect, that tears are sometimes shed in that house, that sickness and sadness and all hard things can touch the lives of the people I love most even inside those walls, I have never been able to deny the magic that is there. It's the magic that Edson King and Ellen Ann have created. It still crackles in the fireplace, even though the logs fake now and the flames turn on with the flip of a switch. It still dances through the curtains with the afternoon sun. It still shines down from Aunt Becky's face where she watches over everyone from her place on the mantle.

And it's there in the way my grandpa looks at my grandma-- like he's never seen anything so beautiful in his life. It's there in the careful way my grandma toasts her husband's gluten free toast in the labeled side of the toaster. It's there hovering above them as they read together side by side before bedtime.

Beauty and magic are all around us. And I'm so glad. But I'm starting to see that nothing beautiful or magic is easy to come by. It's created only through love. Lots of love. I am so grateful for wonderful people like Edson King and Ellen Ann who love and create beauty and share it with the world.



Speaking of magic... it's Friday. (I truly thought it might never come.)

After the Fact

Hey. It's been a while. I would apologize, but the apology would be to me and not to you, really. Because honestly this blog is important to me. More important than I would like to pretend it is. It came into my life at a time I really needed it. And now that I am a little bit stronger and a lotta more busy and a little less needing of it, I am not going to pull a Nanny McPhee and abandon it. No, sir!

Well, I might. But not today.

I would tell you all about our holidays, but I pretty much said it all over here.

Really today I just wanted to say hello and give you a hug. And tell you, "You is kind. You is smart. You is important."

Yeah, I got The Help for Christmas.

And I wanted to tell you Thank You. Thank you for being you and being wonderful. Thank you for that little message to tell me to keep writing (you know who you are). You possibly saved my life. Well, this little blog's life, anyways.

Until tomorrow.

These Cookies?

These is Luhhhhve Cookies.

I made them because it's Christmas time, and I love you.

I love you because you are a part of me. We've known each other forever.

I might have honked at you and called you a poop-head if you were the one who cut me off on I-15.
I'm sorry about that. I'm a kid under construction. And my paint is still a little wet.

But I do love you. I promise.

My new church calling (volunteer job, to the layperson) is First Counselor in the Young Women's program (which is the organization for the 12-18 year old girls).

I can't even tell you how big my heart smiled when I was asked to volunteer for this job.

But I can show you why I love it.

I know I don't look much older than these girls.

To tell you the truth, I don't feel much older than them.

But even in the short time I've been working with them, I feel like they are helping me to grow up in ways I was afraid I never would. They help me get outside myself--
to pray for things bigger than my own fears and struggles,
to wiggle my toes a little outside of my comfort zone,
to want to be a better self.

Before we decorated our Christmas cookies last night at Young Women's night we talked a little bit about Repentance.

God gave His Son. His Son gave his life. Repentance is the gift that came from the Gift that we celebrate this time of year. That's what I was a-preachin'.

Alina (the other YW counselor) and I talked about how sincere repentance can lead to an increased love for the Savior, for one's self, and for others.
Then we waited for some kind of response.

It didn't look like we were going to get much.

Then one of the girls--just 12 years old--told us that during this past fast Sunday she prayed all day that she would be able to help someone have a wonderful Christmas this year.

I could have kissed her on the head right then and there.

I wanted to cry big fat tears of happiness as I watched the nods of approval from the other girls and the smile that spread across this 12-year-old's face as we told her what a wonderful thing that was to pray for.

Sometimes Goodness seems a little hard to find these days.

Some days I get really worried and overwhelmed and fearful about someday bringing children into a world where there is so much hate and so much violence and so much Wrong that claims to be Right.

But seriously--I look at these girls and think It's going to be alright.

It is, you know? It really is.

Because God gave His Son. 

Because His Son gave his life. 

Because They love us.

And because Shawn Mullins says so in that one song.

You know the one...

Oh my gosh, couldn't you just go to the zoo, look at all the twinkle lights in the penguin exhibit, and hum the chorus of that song over and over again?

Yeah... neither could I...

6/20---To a Degree and It's Fashion Friday

blazer--thrifted/ cardigan & silk tank--shade/ maxi skirt--urban outfitters/ wedge boots-- target/ pearls--assorted

...So I know that I said something in the last post that insinuated *clearly stated* that I would be posting an ornament DIY & Christmas tree tips. Well, here's the thing. I got almost done decking the tree out and decided I hated it. I think I may be over-thinking it, but ya know... when you pay half a benjamin for a live tree, you kind of want it to look good! For real.

In other news, it finally feels like winter here in Houston. Not that I could complain about 80* weather in December. I mean I guess I kind of could. I was sweating profusely on the night I picked up our Christmas tree (but mostly because I refused to leave the house without my purple Christmas-tree-picking beanie, flannel shirt, and boots). But I have to admit that the warmer weather sure saves a lot of time in the mornings when you don't have to dig your car out of the ice and snow (those were the days, huh!).
 But I really really really wanted an excuse to get cozy in my footy pajamas with a steaming mug of homemade hot cocoa.

45* F--- you are just the excuse I was looking for! 

BREAK OUT THE FOOTIES AND MINI MARSHMALLOWS, YO!

 

To Hell in a Hand Basket

Has anyone else noticed the increasing number of links to bullying stories online recently? Many of them featuring children who have committed suicide to escape bullying. Children. 

I want to tell a story right now. And it's not about my brother (that's coming later).


Fortunately I was never a recipient of bullying. I mean, every kid gets pushed or yelled at on the playground at least once, but it was never a recurring issue for me. I honestly don't know why. I went through my awkward stage just like any other person. We moved frequently, so I was often the new kid. I was most often the only Mormon in any school I was attending (with the exception of my little brother). And I cut my own hair. Twice.

But miraculously I managed to slip under the bully radar.

I think I knew I was blessed in this respect. I think maybe I was born knowing that. It may be for that reason that my heart has always ached for those who don't have that kind of luck. Like most of you, I have always been afraid of hurting someone's feelings. I have always wanted to right the wrongs when I saw them. And I have never felt the desire to bully someone.

Well, except this one time.

I remember being in the lunch line in fifth grade. The boy in front of me (we'll call him Adam) was the outsider of the class. Adam and I had a good relationship. He was a really sweet kid. Always smiling. Hair always a little unkempt. Clothes always a little too big. But we were kind of buddies. The kids behind me were not the outsiders of my class. And I was in the middle. Always in the middle. And on that day, I'd had enough of being in the middle.

The kids behind me started picking on Adam. I said nothing. He looked at me for a little help. I did nothing. The more he looked at me, the more unfair I felt it was that I was always in the middle. And the more I felt sorry for myself the further away I got from doing the right thing.

Then I opened my big fat mouth. And I did the wrong thing.

I don't remember what I said. It probably wasn't super harsh considering the worse thing I have ever called anyone is a poop head. But it was enough.

Adam looked at me again. He wasn't smiling anymore. "You too?" was all he said.

This is where I could give you a bunch of excuses. There are always excuses for bullies. Insecurity. Bad home life. Didn't eat their Wheaties. Etc. But there really aren't any good excuses. There weren't for me. There aren't for anyone. And at that moment I hated myself. I hated myself because I had no answer I could give him except: Yes, me too. Me too, because I care more about myself than about you.

Epic fail.

I don't know if I ever tried to make it up to Adam. I'm sure I did, because that is the kind of thing that would keep me up at night for a year had I not done anything about it. But even if he forgave me (which I'm sure he did, because he was just that kind of kid) no apology would ever have been quite adequate. I had contributed to the damaging of a precious self-esteem. I realized then and there in the cafeteria line that I never wanted to feel that way again. I never wanted to have that same self-loathing. I never again wanted to see that kind of hurt in someone's eyes. Hurt that I put there. Hurt that so easily could have been prevented.

Now I will say something about my brother, because he's the reason I know things. My little brother had one of the kindest hearts I have ever known. He was small for his age until his Sophomore year of high school. He had ADHD, wasn't the tidiest kid in the universe, and he read dragon books and liked them. But he was my brother, my little buddy, my friend since age 2. And every unkind word said to him was etched in his memory. And I assure you it was never erased. I'm sure those words were the loudest the hour that he left this earth.

Now, I know he is an extreme example, but essentially he is just like anyone else. We all have our weaknesses, and none of us like to be reminded of them, let alone have them rubbed in our faces. Let alone shoved down our throats. And when we are reminded, when we are poked and prodded, we don't easily forget. The bad builds on itself.

Luckily some of us are blessed with the ability to look beyond insults. But so very many of us are not. Some of us, when you peel away a few of our rough outer layers, just aren't that tough. And for some of us, when the bad outweighs the good for too long, there no longer seems to be a way out of it.

I know many of you are probably tired of me talking about stuff like this. But nothing is more important. Every soul is of infinite worth. And if enough of us care, we really can make this world a better place to live in. A better world for our children to go to school in and develop in. Who knows! Maybe they won't all develop complexes.

Maybe.

Listen, I am sure we have all had our moments we aren't proud of. That's what the Atonement is for. That's what forgiveness is all about. I'm not saying we should beat ourselves up forever. I'm just saying that the buck stops here. And after it stops here, we can do something about making improvements. That's all I'm saying, really. 

What do you think is the best way to prevent bullying?

P.S. Tree decorating tips & ornament DIY coming later tonight.

Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken

I have a lot of randomness rolling around in my head today.

I haven't been sleeping very well.

I have weird dreams. 

 Not nightmares, so much. I don't wake up screaming or crying or anything. I just feel extremely uncomfortable all the way through them.

Last night in my dream I was walking into a dark kitchen. I saw a small, dark figure dart across the room. And I knew. I knew I had to grab it and find out who or what it was or I would lose. But I didn't want to. I didn't want to so badly that I had to jump on it to keep from running away.

Then I yelled at it, "You're not a ghost!"

When I woke up I realized how very strange it is to see a dark figure in a dark kitchen and to accuse it of not being a ghost. Why would I assume it was trying to disguise itself as a ghost in the first place?

I don't know. I really just don't.

And another thing I don't know is why I woke up so grumpy this morning. No good reason, I'm sure. {I will blame it on the non-ghost, though.} But I was grumpy. So grumpy. And Husband was being the model of niceness, which made it even worse. He even gave me very helpful outfit feedback when putting a decent outfit together seemed to be the most illusive trial of my whole life.

And I just grunted and kicked at the bathroom rug pretty aggressively. Several times.

And while we are on the subject of things I don't know, let me just say that I don't know why they make gumballs that are yellow or green. It's so depressing to have my little sweety-lovin' heart set on a juicy red gumball, put a quarter into one of those big machines, crank it, and then watch a nasty yellow gumball go around and around forever. It taunts me. "I'm coming! I'm coming! I'm coming!" All the way down. I know I don't have to chew it, but it seems against principle, ya know? Plus, how much more depressing is throwing away a gumball after watching it spin around for ages.

And the whole time I'm thinking there goes 1/4 of a perfectly lovely, perfectly large McD's Diet Coke.

Plus, what was a 22-year-old doing at a gumball machine anyways?

Apparently the Kind of 22-Year-Old that would do this...

So depressing.

And now it's 3:00 pm, and I am watching the suite across the hall lock up and head out.

Good thing it's Friday or I might have to put myself in a dark hole with a bunch of dark figures who aren't ghosts and chew a thousand bajillion yellow gumballs. Or something.

5/20---prepster in my bathtub

  shirt & necklace--j.crew/ blazer--aeo/ belt--target/ black cords--blank nyc from piperlime/ tights--no clue/ shoes-- ross.       fun fact: the top 2 pics were taken one after the other, first without then with the flash. it looks like a totally different time of day. crazy, huh? also, i have no idea why i thought taking this picture in the bath tub would be a good idea. i put it up here to shame me into never doing it again.

I cannot keep this a secret any longer....................

I found the BEST recipe for turkey burgers EVER. Seriously. I know you're all like, "No, my grandma does!" Newsflash: Your grandma doesn't even know what a turkey burger is! And neither did I, really, until I tried out this incredible goodness.

Turkey Burgers with Zucchini (a.k.a. Best TurkBurgs in the Land!!!)
via Gina's Weight Watcher Recipes

Servings: 5, Calories: 156 (without bun)

• 1.25 lbs 93% lean ground turkey
• 1 small zucchini, grated 
• 1/4 cup seasoned whole wheat breadcrumbs
• 1 clove garlic, grated
• 1 tbsp red onion, grated (I used a yellow onion)
• salt and fresh pepper
• oil spray 

Directions:

In a large bowl,

combine

ground turkey, zucchini, breadcrumbs, garlic, onion, salt and pepper.

Make

5 equal patties.

Heat a large skillet on high heat. When hot, lightly spray oil. Add burgers to the pan and reduce the heat to low. Cook on one side until browned, then flip. Flip over a few times to prevent burning and to make sure the burgers are cooked all the way through.

If grilling, clean grill well before cooking and spray with oil spray to prevent sticking. 

We used King's Hawaiian buns, added a slice of muenster cheese, some sauteed mushrooms, and sliced tomatoes, and it was perfection.

4/20---typical tuesday night at the club

 Ya'll, I was up in da club last night! 
(I went to Book Club last night.)

It was off the chizzle, fo' rizzle! 

(There was a pretty good turnout, especially for the Tuesday after Thanksgiving.)

The drinks was dope! And the ladies...mmm. 

(We enjoyed ice water and chocolate truffles, and all of the ladies were very witty and cordial.)

I was in my zone fo' sho!, and the conversation was reeeeeal nice, if you know what I mean. 

(I got to pick the book this month, and the conversation was really nice. It really was.)
 

Some of da ladies wasn't feelin' what I was layin' down, so I had to smack a sistah and remind her what's up.
 (A few of the ladies weren't crazy about the book. But a few well-versed arguments helped them to see the greater good in the literature.)

The jams was bumpin', and I gotta say, this club is the shiz, yo! I will be back for some mo'! 

(Everyone was very chatty and generally liked the book, so I think it was a very successful Book Club. I will definitely be going next month!)

I jus' 'bout hit up home boy for some of da good stuff, ya know, but I was feelin' too fly to talk business. So I bounced back to my hood for a little 'freshment.

(I thought about stopping at Shipley's to pick up a dozen donuts, but it would just make running on the treadmill that much harder. So I opted to go home and get a good night's sleep instead.)

My main squeeze was all trippin' like "Shawty, where you been?" I didn't front. I was like, "Boo, I was up in da CLUB tonight!"

(Clint was still studying when I got home and couldn't be distracted, so I slipped out to exercise. Later on he asked me how Book Club was, and I regaled him with tales of its greatness.)

*****Some stories are just better told in a clubbin' voice, ya know?*****

I know I have been very awful about posting, and I most definitely have failed at the Blazer Days posts. But I intend to be better about it. At least until Christmas madness begins.

Earrings- gifted (originally from Charming Charlie's); White Blouse- NY&Company; Gray Throw-Over- Alternative from Piperlime; Blazer- thrifted; Jeans- Miss Me; Boots- Steve Madden from Nordstrom

P.S. That face in the first picture is an authentic makeup face. I do it every time. I have tried to quit it, but I just can't. Do you do a weirdo makeup face that your significant other chuckles at?

games with boys

 

 I play this game with Husband called Read My Mind or Else.

It goes something like this: I am feeling a certain emotion or thinking a particular thought. Man-spouse has to guess the thought and act accordingly. If he does not guess the thought, he loses. If he guesses the thought but doesn't act accordingly, he loses. If he guesses the thought and acts accordingly but it's not done in a timely manner, he loses. If he loses, I get to pout for anywhere from 10 minutes to 24 hours, depending on the importance of the emotion/thought he was unable to guess and act upon in a timely fashion. Simple enough, right!?

Needless to say, it's one of our favorite games*.

Unfortunately Clint is not the only boy I have played this game with. Poor fellas. But is it really so much to ask for someone to just read your mind a little bit? I mean, it's not like I was asking total randos to read my mind! It was always someone I was dating or especially great dating-kinda friends with. So, really, shouldn't the reading of the mind thing kind of come with the territory* (except they should never have expected me to read theirs because--come on-- who ever knows what the male half is thinking, really?).

For example, when I tell boy, "I am going on a very long far-away trip in 3 months and there's no way of stopping me," he should probably infer, "There are 3 months to stop me from going on a very long far-away trip. Bring it on!" Or if maybe I said, "Check, please. I'll pay for dinner with my gift card" that probably meant "If it weren't 20 degrees outside, I would walk home right now. And maybe I still will. Yes, I'm that ticked off right now." Or when I say "Yeah, actually I've always had a fear of commitment. Did I ever tell you that?" he should read as, "Oh wait, that was you. Now you can watch me be super-happy without you." Or if I say, "Well, I'm pretty sure I won't be the most beautiful woman ever in a wedding dress" what I really mean is "This is a very awkward subject for a first date. Please stop talking now." And if I'd hypothetically answered "Um. Okay" when boy hypothetically asked if he could put his arm around me, it hypothetically should have been read as, "This is only okay if you are not currently making plans to get engaged to another girl who will soon be graduating from high school." Hypothetically.

If you must know, Clint is not perfect at this game. And if he were, I would find other ways to get that pout-time in. Because that's my prerogative as Woman of the House. But he is pretty darn good at it these days. Clint has always been the best at it. That's how he won*, and now we're married (What a lucky guy!)

But seriously, I started thinking about this whole thing a couple of weeks ago. Our fishies had just died. Clint had to go to the study hole to get important things done, and I laid my little depressed self on our bed in our dark room in the fetal position and cried a little. Then I started playing the game. Except it was way less fair than usual, because Clint was in another room, and the only things I said were in my mind. Yep. In my mind I said, "If this is true love Clint will hear this. Clint come in here. I need you. ClintClintClintClintClintClintClint..."

And you know what? He came! TRUE LOVE!

For the record, I am so glad that little experiment worked, but I would not recommend it to other couples as a test of true love. Just in case you were thinking about it.

(*) These are remarks that should not be taken at face value. Kthanksbye.

because i'm an expert

...on all things sappy, I will be attending the Breaking Dawn movie (possibly and pathetically alone) tomorrow afternoon. But because I love America (Bachelor's in Am Studies, rightch'ere!) and because I feel like writing all the thoughts that no one wants to hear from me today (because it's not about fashion, duh!) I will now give you my opinion on the politics of Mitt Romney and the elephant in the room that every one is actually really okay talking about, particularly when they have an audience. (I'm referring to his "Mormon issues"--at least that's what the cool kids are calling it these days.) The reason why I am even discussing this is because this kind of defamation has occurred in the past (with John F. Kennedy, for example) and will doubtless occur again. I think it is very important to discern a valid defamation from an invalid one in order to pass judgment wisely.

I will present to you my thesis but only after this small disclaimer. (I wasn't allowed disclaimers in college English classes, but I am an expert at them since becoming a Relief Society teacher. And this is my blog. So I will do whatever I darn well want to (except I won't replace darn with the real word I want to say, because I am still a lady, after all.))

Disclaimer: I will be voting for Mitt Romney in the 2012 Presidential Elections (if he makes it past the primaries, that is. If he doesn't, then I will be voting for an Independent on whom I'm not yet decided at the moment, but that's beside the point.) My decision is not based on his religion (although, I do give him a few brownie points for that, too). You may roll your eyes at this exactly one time. Get it out of your system. (Now stop doing that. It freaks me out. And I'm trying to be serious right now, can't you tell??? (Three question marks equals Business Time.)) My decision is based on his family history of social and political activism, his demeanor and debate capabilities, and the large majority (but not all) of his political platforms. I also believe a president should look intelligent, sound intelligent, and act intelligently. Not all of those facets have been met for quite some time in our history, and I think he is closest of the current candidates to almost consistently doing just that. (In case you are wondering, I believe President Obama has the first two facets going for him.)

Okay, now you know where I stand, so we can begin.

Inspired by this article from the Washington Post, I argue that using the history of the Mormon church (particularly the issue of "racism" as it pertains to the church's history) as a platform to defame Mitt Romney is not only poor form, but it is irrelevant.

When Bill Clinton and George W. Bush ran for president, did we debate whether as Southern natives they had left behind the heart-wrenching history of Southern white Protestant racial prejudice? Did we delve into Episcopal and Baptist beliefs and history to root out any antiquated dogma? Did we ask them whether they agreed with the practice their ancestors had of owning slaves and then forcing their slaves to give up their own religion and become "Christians"?

No, we didn't. Because that's dumb. Any one man or woman cannot be held responsible for the history of an entire group, especially a man who has never once claimed to be a spokesperson for that group. If you want to interrogate someone about Mormonism, ask the prophet of the church. He is the spokesperson. Mitt Romney is not. Mitt Romney is a politician, and although his faith lies in the gospel preached in the LDS church, he does not claim to answer for the church nor is he a fan of all parts the church's history. On that note, neither am I. But neither are most members of most religions worldwide. Every religion grows and changes with the times.The real test of a man is if will he grow with it.

But I have digressed slightly, the point is that Mitt Romney should not have to answer for the tenants of his faith and the history thereof. Who he prays to at night and what church he attends on Sunday is not what will dictate what bills he will push to have enacted or what his foreign relations policy will look like. Democrats are widely known to be pro separation of Church and State. So learn to practice what you preach and separate them, folks. Republicans are the more conservative sector of the country. So take a conservative look at the facts, and then judge, why don't ya?

What I'm saying is that what we are seeing happen to Mitt Romney is called muck-raking. And muck-raking is unflattering. And when poorly executed, muck-raking becomes disgusting. I don't care if you like Mitt Romney or not. I don't care if you vote for him or not. What I do care about is on what the people of this country are basing their decisions. If we want to continue to live up to the view held by many individuals around the world that Americans are lazy and ignorant, then we will continue to rake that muck and love it.

I think that's enough politics for me for one morning. I hope admitting to loving the Twilight series didn't discredit my argument before it started. But if it did, then so be it. I am more than happy to hear your thoughts on this. I am admittedly not an expert on politics and love to learn new things if the new things are relevant to the argument.

I was not looking for a fight when I wrote this. So please do share, but please remember that you are talking with a friend and keep the language clean. Thank you.