From the mouths of babes. (Other than me, I mean.)

On the dangers of mid-earth travel

Sam: Mom, I know why it is so dangerous to travel to the center of the earth.
Me: Why?
Sam: Because if you go down there you can break the heart of the earth.

On scamming the Easter Bunny

Ross at Layton egg hunt: Hey Grandma. I didn't get any candy at all. Just money. So I bought a whole bag of candy from that other kid for only a dollar! (What he isn't saying: he went around shaking eggs, only picking up ones that sounded like cash). In the end, he gets the cash and the candy. Grandpa Ross was very proud of this scheme.

On 'Who's your puppy?'

Tom: Daddy! (he's pointing to our wedding portrait in the hall.)
Me: Yes, Tommy. That's Daddy.Who's this? (Pointing to myself in picture.)
Tom: Daddy!
me: Here. In the big white dress. MMMM....
Tommy: Puppy?
Me: No, Tommy. Right here. You know, the lady who feeds you and loves you and keeps your backside feces-free? Who's this?
Tom: Puppy. Puppy! Woof.

On how all great kid parties include pedicures for Mom:

Jane chose a day out with Mom for her 7th birthday, instead of a party this year. Itinerary:
Mall for new Webkinz
Lunch at Flancers
Enchanted at Dollar movies
Pedicures

It was a tough job, but somebody had to take her. Grandma and Grandpa Layton and Ryan met us for lunch, then Grandma came with us to the movies. I think I liked Enchanted better than Jane did. This was my kind of party. Jane loved it and blogged about it thoroughly. She's over yonder under "Janie."

Are we going to do it again next year, babe? I'll save the date.

Sweaty pits and hairy eyeballs; stickin it to the MAN

UMMMM, I told you so. At least, I think I told you. I told some of you, at least.

But then, you likely already knew...because your underarms are suspiciously damp...

Summer begins today. Unofficially, of course. But still. The weather lady said it will be 90 degrees, which in my opinion is HOT.

Wait, you say. Spring just sprung! The vernal equinox was just last Thursday!

Well, people, this desert doesn't obey calendars. There is no law in the Old West. We've been springing since January, and now begins the long, hot summer.

I think we should have a moment of silence for the 80 degree days, which are gone forever. Or, maybe not forever, but until the end of October, if we are very lucky.

I think the government should fix our weather. It seems to be required to tend to all our other complaints and ailments. Why not this? Maybe Washington should pay for our air con bills, if it can't figure a way to shade the whole state. If I get skin cancer, I'll know it is George Bush's fault, and I'm totally suing.

As a symbol of my discontent, I might be joining the other hot and grumpy aging bourgeois revolutionaries, who wear dolphin shorts and tank tops with horrifyingly large arm holes to Costco. In this way, we can gross you and THE MAN (Feds) out with all kinds white and pasty, flabby and veiny thighs, and sometimes worse, in protest, until somebody fixes this weather. It is a diabolical plan, and we all know that diabolical plans almost always work.

In other news, big landslides closed the Beeline Highway in both directions, so we had to come home from the cabin in Payson via Globe and the many, many Renaissance Fair-goers. This took lots of time. Kids were very whiny and so I became very whiny. I got home and ran to Wal-Mart to buy food for Easter dinner (Beesons came here; thanks for doing all the dishes, ladies!) but the shelves were nearly bare. I grabbed the last bag of frozen hash browns and turned around to see a pinched-faced lady giving me and my frozen potatoes the hairy eyeball. I felt rather smug and happy that I'd gotten my hash browns, until I realized it was Easter and Jesus would totally have given the hairy eyeball lady his hash browns and gone without funeral potatoes (which is easily my favorite part of the meal), even on his big day. I guess I have a long way to go. I'm not so much like Jesus yet.

So now that I have gorged myself on potatoes and kept the party going with carrot cake for breakfast, I would like to make an announcement:

My rear end and I are going back to the gym! (No, I'm serious. April fool's is next week, and I was going to pretend to be pregnant, not pretend to exercise.) Do you wanna go with me? Ross is selling 3 month passes (little league fundraiser) to Fitnessworks (Baseline and Higley) for 20 bucks. Like, you slip Ross a Jackson, you go to the gym for three months. If you don't know Fitnessworks, they have the best classes in town. Seriously, they all are so entertaining I occasionally forget that I am exercising and that I actually hate it. Except for the spinning class, which was taught by my friend Marci. Even though she did an admirable job, I was wholly miserable and thought I might die a little bit.

If you are interested, leave me a comment or call me if you've got my #. The last day is Thursday.

Embarrassing teenage journal entry #1, and why I've still never been to the Prom

"March 21, 1992
Boys to hang out with this semester:
1. Rob,
2. Jean-Marc,
3. Lee,
4. Bruce (home teacher),
5. Klaus,
6. Adam

New ones I met washing my car last Saturday, at the beginning of Spring Break:
Kevin and his friend Jake and also this guy from across the street named Bill.

I have to go pick up Stacey from the airport. I'll finish later."

(This is my first mention of Jake in my journal. I was a freshman at the University of Arizona. Liz and Stacey were my roommates. Liz and I treated boy-meeting as a team sport. Apparently, this was quite a good list. Liz and #2 are now married and have four children.)

Obviously, it was love at first sight in that soapy driveway on that warm March Saturday.

You can tell by the way I wrote "and his friend Jake," that I could see eternity in his eyes. Maybe.

This is how it went:
Mi hermanita Jen and I were washing my car in the driveway of 1946 E. Lockwood the first morning I was home for Spring Break. I loved my car, a white 91 Acura Integra. When I drove around in it with my big 90s hot-rollered hair, the boys would turn and stare. Anyway, just as we finished drying, two 18 year old boys, Jake and Kevin, pulled in to the driveway, and asked if we would put a scrubbin on Kevin's Civic, tambien. I had already started to re-fill the bucket when I heard Jen telling them :

"we don't know you and we won't wash your car."

"Oh, yeah", I thought, "maybe I shouldn't seem so eager. Play it cool. Play it cool." Jen was only 15, but she seemed to know instinctively that teenage boys only want one thing from pretty girls:

free car washes and movie treats.

Wait, that's two. Anyway, once you do chores for boys, they don't respect you any more. I learned that in Mia Maids, I think.

So I turned off the hose and we chatted a bit, and I tried to resist, but then I gave in and washed the car anyway. (I can't believe I was so easy, washing cars even before the first date). I think Jake helped, while Kevin and Jen stood by supervising. It seemed the boys had driven all the way from Glendale to visit Sarah, the girl across the street, who had promised to wash the car. Since she wasn't available, they went to the next nearest bikini car wash (only with no bikinis, just shorts that would surely violate the BYU honor code. At the UofA they were very nearly prudy, however.) After the cars were shiny, we all went to the movies to see Fried Green Tomatoes. I sat by Kevin, who tried to get me to buy him popcorn by telling me he lived in his car and didn't have any money. I think Jake was chatting up Jen while mentally calculating how long it would be until she turned 16, so he could put some moves on her, officially. (He denies it now, but I was there. I got eyeballs.)

It occurred to me perhaps one month later that Jake was smart and cute and funny. It also occurred to me that since he was technically still in high school, he or Kevin could invite me to the prom (I had never been to a prom, and it was my secret dream). So I tried to flirt with them. Too bad I'm a horrible flirter, because no Prom materialized. By the fall, though, Jake and I were fast friends, and I might have let him kiss me if he'd tried. Alas, he did not. But that's a story for another day.

Here we are at Disneyland, January 1, 1993. You'll notice Jake is wearing his Mickey ears.

What does all this mean? It means Happy Belated Anniversary, Jake! You pulled into my driveway 16 years ago last Friday. March 14, 1992. I'm so glad you did.

I'll wash your car anytime.
I'm just a girl who can't say no.

Are you a Kristen or a Lobster?

"Is he a Kristen or a Lobster?" Jane asked this morning as we headed west on Guadalupe, while zipping her Sun Chips into her backpack and giving them a loving pat through the pink satin.

I had been trying to drown out the distasteful conversation (which included, but was not limited to, the hilarious possibilities of getting run over by a cow, and poop and farts) with The Eagles Greatest Hits, Volume 1.

I turned down the music. Tommy's head stopped bouncing, but he didn't complain. I glanced at him in the rear view mirror, where he gave me the sign for 'more' and said what only his Mother can understand is 'blueberries'. Blueberries account for about 50% of his total food comsumption this week. I got him some raspberries and blackberries, but he won't touch 'em. You should see the black poop. (More potty talk. Sorry.)

Back to Jane's question. The one I didn't understand. "What, Jane? Who?"

"Josh in my class. Is he a Kristen or a Lobster?"

I am lost, but I am starting to think that this'll be fun. I'd rub together my palms in anticipation, but I might wreck my awesome blue van.

"Like, you know, what Church does he go to?" Jane elucidates. (Jane talks like a Valley girl. I wonder where she got that?)

"You mean a Christian? Well, yes, he is. His family were our neighbors in Gilbert, so they went to Church with us. They are Mormons. What is a Lobster?"

"I dunno. Another kid in my class told me he is a Lobster."

"Lutheran?"
"Protestant?"
I start throwing out religions that start with L or have a short O vowel sound.

"Dunno."

Jane has her answer and is losing interest in being grilled about Lobsters. Ross chimes in:

"What are Lutherans and Protestants?"

So I start with the Catholics, and mention Martin Luther and the 95 Theses. (I am feeling good because I can finally use a little of what I learned in the "History of Christianity" class I took at the U of A, which was really only about Catholics because the Prof was a friend of the Pope or something. I'm not sure I'll ever have use for all the First Council of Nicea info I've got stored somewhere up in my bean.)

I pause for a moment while Ross snickers because he thinks I said 95 feces.

Then I quickly explain (this is taking longer than it did in real life) that all of them (including the rest of the Protestants and their ilk, Lutherans and progeny-sects like Presbyterians, Methodists, Baptists, Unitarians, etc...) are Christians with different ideas on the way Christ's Church on earth should be run and who has authority to do it.

"Are Vegetarians a kind of Protestant?" Jane queries.
Ross snorts.
Jane grimaces and grunts. She is like an expert grunter. Extra deep, throaty, and menacing for an almost-seven-year-old.

"Many are, but not eating meat it isn't a religion, exactly." (Except maybe for the Lobsters.)

"Did that guy get in trouble for nailing stuff on the Church? Were any of his complaints real?" Ross says quickly.

"Um, yes. And yes." I replied. "He made some good points and a lot of people listened." Not the Pope, though, not at first.

There is sort of a long pause. I figured they were all back there pondering Martin Luther. I have a warm, good-mother feeling in my heart.

Ross finally pipes up: "How do you spell feces? What if you got run over by a cow and landed in feces?"

Hardy har har.

I lost their attention before I got to tell them that we aren't Protestants (nor will most Protestants claim us even as fellow Kristens), but it was due to men like Martin Luther, that Joseph Smith had a bible in English to read. It was due to itinerant Protestant preachers with wildly differing doctrines, that the confused 14-year-old Joseph went into the woods to pray, and saw God and his son Jesus.

I never found out what a Lobster is.
Probably not a Kosher-keeping Jew.

Googling me, googling you

Whilst googling this fine Monday morn, I noticed the drop down box is full of all kinds of fun goodies. It is like a trip down short-term memory lane.

Webkinz.com
hotwheels
trumpette baby socks
Arizona Statehood Day
Arizona school cut off date
bounce u
BYU Women's Conference
David Gray
Josh Radin tabs
mysimon
Peninsula hotel New York Reviews
Rick Steves Italy
New office episodes
Kelly Beeswax (insert actual name.)
Pikachu Pokechow (wasn't me)
Far Side Cartoons
Strep throat symptoms (Went to Urgent care, where they swabbed and jabbed me, then told me I was clear for strep and mono.)
John boy mormon?
Purposegames.com
Chicago fire cow

Do you know who's googling Jean Claude Van Damme? Lots of people.
Do you know who they are getting? Me.

That's right. Every day I get visitors from all over the world coming to see this early blog entry. (If you haven't seen Jake with Hugh Grant's hair lately, it is worth a second look.) Occasionally, people are looking for Hugh, but mostly just Jean Claude. I found this when checking out my visitor map. If I click on the location, it tells me they came from Google image search. Where have my Jean Claude googlers come from JUST THIS MONTH? I'm glad you asked...

Stockholm, Sweden
Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada
Liberecky Kraj, Czech Republic
Slovakia
Delhi, India
Helsinki, Finland
Iran
Italy
Paris, France
Honolulu, Hawaii
Ontario, Canada
Bucharest, Romania
Warsaw, Poland
Auckland, New Zealand
Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada
Tokyo, Japan
Costa Rica

Now that I think about it, I shouldn't have told you all about Jean Claude. I should have just posted the visitor map on my blog so you could all be shocked and amazed at my cosmopolitan readership.

What have you been googling? Who is googling you? Take a peek and leave me a comment with your findings!

The end begins

The other night Ross and I were googling Far Side cartoons (Ross is really into comics lately, mostly Calvin and Hobbes). We were having some good times until this one popped up:

Foreground: "It seems that agent 6373 has accomplished her mission" says one cow to another.
Background: "Chicago" in flames.

"I don't get it," I say to Ross. "Apparently some cow is causing trouble in the city," then I move to click to the next cartoon.

"Wait!" says Ross. "I know what it is about. You know the great Chicago fire of 1871? It was started by Mrs. O'Leary's cow who kicked over a lantern in the barn. Whoo hoo. That's funny. Like the cow was a secret agent..."

I scratched my head.
I paused for a moment, for dramatic effect.
I felt something shift.
I felt the tide change.
This was a pivotal moment in our lives.

You might be thinking, it is just a cartoon.

It isn't. You see, I'd never heard of Mrs. O'Leary's cow. Yet, I know something about American History. I like to think I do, at least. I have a degree in it.

Of course, I began to rationalize, the whole cow story was made up by a newspaper reporter, who knew an Irish Catholic immigrant scape-cow would sell newspapers. He later admitted the lie. I just learned that on Wikipedia.

But, you see, Ross knew it, and I didn't. We weren't talking about Pokemon or sports, subjects in which no one expects me to know anything. Including me.

He's only just nine. I think this Far Side cartoon begins the end. Obviously, I still have a few things to teach him, but how much, and for how long? This whole cow incident isn't just a one-off, and I know it.

I suppose I should have been expecting this. I've had years to get used to the idea, ever since he was 18 months old and I would ask, "Ross, show me the letter B, " and he would respond:

"upper case or little case?"

It is different now, don't you see?

I knew the letter B.
Both of them.

Tuesday Night in Suburbia

There are days to cook. That was yesterday. 6 hours making chicken pot pies. Not including clean-up.

There are days to lie about in bed and read novels you are mildly embarrassed to name on your blog. I'm still waiting for an entire day of that, but I carve out time for the embarrassing novel or two. They aren't collecting dust.

There are days to go out for ice cream with your OBGYN. (Well, not mine exactly, just the one who delivered Tommy on May 19, 2006 because the real one was at Les Miserables. That was the night I decided that epidurals were maybe overrated. Which they are not. It was far too late, though, when I decided I had been so totally, terribly wrong. In between these momentous decisions, I screamed a great deal, not thinking I would ever see any of these people again...socially.) That day was Saturday.

There are days to clean. That was today.

I am sleepy.
My throat hurts.
I need a bath in my clean tub.
Maybe some Paula Deen brownies from the freezer.
Then bed.
Maybe about 500 mg of Tylenol and a little Anita Shreve "A Wedding in December" to wash it down.

NONONO.I need to stop dreaming so big. Ross has a non-fiction book report on ice hockey due tomorrow.
I think I'd rather take a puck to the head.

Last night was much the same. I shut it down about 7:30, all tucked into my bed, teeth brushed, jammies donned, then realized I didn't have the remote control and Baywatch was starting. I secretly pride myself on having NEVER watched even a single episode of Baywatch. Not even 2 minutes in row. I was so sleepy, though. I was feverish. Almost paralyzed, really. I could easily have let myself be lulled to sleep by the soothing voice of David Hasselhoff. But I didn't. I was able rouse myself enough to roll out of bed and flip it to PBS. I was rewarded with Rick Steves travels in Bath and York. I fell asleep somewhere in his descriptions of the amazing Georgian architecture. Which goes to show how tired and sick I really was. I have a not-so-secret crush on Rick Steves. Ask anybody. (But don't ask Jen. She thinks my RickWatch has a dark side,and that I read Rick's blog so I can evilly stalk him in distant and exotic locales, with plans to do him bodily harm. FYI, Rick was all the way over in Italy this summer while we were in London and Paris. Which I thinks proves my lack of evil intent.

Jake had a computer guy with an orange tie come over this morning and configure things so all our 5 computers (even the geezerly, won't-run-the-webkinz one, plus one not plugged in) will play nice and print wirelessly. He also did something to make the network stronger so we can watch netflix movies on the laptop in the bedroom without the troublesome pauses. Important stuff. Thanks, Jake. You are right. There aren't words or room enough on this blog to thanks you properly. Maybe I'll have to share the brownies with you later.

There are also days for washing stinky clothes. That's tomorrow.

But in a hot way

I've decided that what's good for John Boy is good for me. I've taken up smoking (my pen) while I surf the internet. I like to hold pens (in case I need to take notes?) while I work on the computer, which of course makes about as much sense as smoking said pen. But maybe this black sharpie isn't the wisest choice. It is hard to explain marker mouth.

Fire Station field trip this morning. Fireman Brad(name changed to protect his identity), the "Mr. Rogers of the station" sat all the kids down and told them a story about his diminutive, mealy-mouthed 3rd grade teacher named Mrs. Black who grew tired of talkative boys and finally flew off the handle. He scared the crud out the kids at the conclusion of the story by quoting her screams of "SHUT UP!"

From this the children were supposed to understand that they should be quiet during the fire safety discussion to follow. Unfortunately, the fire safety discussion that followed, even with the inventive hand motions, was like many fire safety discussions, and did not titillate the children like the mild cursing that had preceded it. "SHHH," he warned. "Do you need to hear the Mrs. Black story again?" "YES!" they all screamed eagerly in unison.

I don't remember Mr. Rogers ever telling children to shut up and not play with matches. It seems more tough-love Dr. Phil, than be-my-neighbor Mr. Rogers.

I need to give Fireman Brad some credit, though. He didn't just show us the kitchen and the big screen TV, then leave us to ogle the ladder truck. He got down on the floor and tried. I think the kids learned something.

Maybe I am harboring bad feelings. When Sam went up to demonstrate the STOP, DROP, and ROLL, the fireman asked "What is your name?" Sam told him. Brad continues: "Okay, he... is it he...? She...? HMMM... Is going to show us how to roll." Poor Sam, saddled by his Mother with androgynous hair and name. Too bad. I'm not cutting the curls over just one comment by Brad-the-scare-tactic-fireman.

Yesterday I went to the cannery. I go every month to fill orders for food storage for my ward. I like it there. Everybody is working hard. Filling orders, filling cans, canning cans. Rice to...here, weigh it...here, labels...here. It feels like a hive of sweaty worker bees. The poster bees for the hive on the seal of the great state of Deseret. I can imagine Brigham Young smiling down on our industry, even if he is a little sad that chunks of modern day Nevada, Arizona, Oregon, Myoming, Colorado and New Mexico got cut from the proposed state. I hope he feels some vindication. Utah kept his bees.

There are all kinds of safety and health rules to follow at the cannery: wear closed-toed shoes, take off your pretty jewels, don't put your hand under there or you will lose two fingers like that other poor guy. Everybody is all dressed up: gloves (blue surgical style) and hats (hairnets) for all the ladies and gentleman. Yesterday I got to wear the fluorescent vest for the last hour. The vest is normally worn only by the Stake leader, and I will admit that the power went to my head a little. I felt a little royal, almost like the queen bee. Until I glanced in a mirror, and noticed I looked like a school crossing guard/cafeteria worker.
But in a hot way.

I Apologize for Propagating Mormon Urban Myths but I Was Nearly Attacked by a Cat

So, in case you were wondering, John-Boy ain't a Mormon. You might have heard that he was, because that's what I've been telling people.

Saturday night 4 hungry women (Mom, Jen, Melanie and I) went to see Twelve Angry Men at Gammage. It is about 90 minutes of jury deliberation on a (fictitious) 1954 trial. I liked it quite a lot. It was short and interesting. I didn't have to pee, which always makes for a better theater experience. The acting was mighty fine, but as usual, hard to hear. Frank Lloyd Wright's theater design is beautiful, but his acoustics aren't great. I did have trouble with the climactic moment, where the final juror changes his vote. He needed a pause or some additional dialogue or something. I didn't believe him at all. It looked and felt like acting. Jen disagreed. She thought the quick change was the point.

During the play, star Richard Thomas (of Waltons and Democracy fame) lit up and smoked a cig. After the play, I asked "I thought he was a nice Mormon boy? Maybe he didn't inhale." Melanie told us there was no question he was guilty of inhalation. He was expertly blowing those fancy smoke rings. I wonder how Melanie knows so much about tobacky?

So I googled him. He's no Mormon. At least the internet doesn't think so, and we all know the internet is always right. I'm not really sure where I got the idea. Maybe because he was in Go Toward the Light, that made-for-TV movie from the 80's about the little LDS boy who died of AIDS, and in The Christmas Box. It doesn't really follow, though, because I also saw the 1977 Brigham: A Savage Journey, in which Bull from Night Court plays Joseph Smith, and didn't make the same assumption that Bull was a believer. In fact, his poor acting makes his Joseph Smith look like a Saturday Night Live parody. He is entirely un-believer-able. But funny, even though he wasn't trying to be. I think.

P.S. I got into my van on Saturday, and I heard a ruckus in the trunk. I leaped out of my seat, just in time to see Stripy-the-feral-and-more-than-likely-pregnant-cat fly at me over the back seat, teeth bared, hissing and screeching and trying to find her way out. I started screaming like a girl, which only made her crazier. She threw herself around like a pinball in a machine until I used my button in the front to open all the doors (I'll bet Honda didn't know this would come in so handy), and she tore out of the garage and back around to the side of the house, where she thinks she lives. I'm not sure who was more terrified, me or Stripy. I do know this: only one of us was so scared she peed on the van's carpet.

Big Cat Love.

Someone once told me that when she began to hear phantom baby cries at night, she knew it was time to have another child. I always found this amazing, and wonderful. I've often thought that I would welcome this sort of family planning guidance. So the other night, when I awoke and clearly heard an infant cry, I froze. I thought, so this is it, and I lay there, perfectly still, listening intently. After a moment, the wailing baby outside my window started to sound angry and much louder. Then she started hissing and rustling around in the oleander. So I soon determined that instead of having a spiritual experience, I was just hearing that homeless cat outside my window again, only now she's in heat.

I figured it out fairly quickly. Tommy doesn't have a little sister on the way. Even so, the cats gotta go.

It all started with the little Stripy cat. She may not be much more than a kitten. Now she has 2 suitors: Big Black with the Big White Belly (who sorta scares me), and Brown & Angry. Sometimes one or two others. Juliet and all her Romeos have taken up residence in our side yard, which isn't the most picturesque or romantic spot. Does anyone have any ideas for getting rid of the cats that does not involve putting them in a bag and drowning them in the canal, or leaving poison hot dogs out there in her love nest (my recycling bin)? Tommy would certainly find some way to find and eat the deadly dogs, plus I really don't want blood on my hands, literally or figuratively.

I have about 30 pictures of frosting-smeared kids (maybe even yours) from Sam's party to post, but Jake took the camera to work again. Pues, no tengo los fotos. He takes it around and takes pictures of all the houses he has for rent, and the results are yuckier than you might think. He has close-ups of cracks in the walls, mold in the shower, and in one especially unsavory shot, a dead rat. (I'll be fair: I think he has good reasons for the photos, like sending them to the owners to show them what needs fixing.) So, those, coupled (hehe) with the pictures he took of the copulating cats (see above paragraph) in our front yard (unfortunately, he decided to go for the tight shot, and didn't get the two feline benchwarmers in the photo with the two main players, which honestly, was the best, and most disturbing, part), make it sort of scary to flip through the digital pictures, even if I could. But I can't, because he took the camera with him again.

You are dying to see the cat pictures, aren't you?

Jake Beeson. Givin' the lady what she wants since 1992.

Okay, well not exactly. We didn't meet until March of 1992, so any cards he sent me in February for Valentine's Day, I might have attributed to yet another stalker (I had a few at the time). In early February 1993 he left for the Philippines for two years, and extended a month, so he was actually gone for three Valentine's Days. My heart wasn't broken, though, because we were really more buddies than anything else (though I had some designs on him), and anyway, I generally boycotted the holiday and instead celebrated Arizona Statehood Day (February 14, 1912), which is altogether more inclusive of the single folk. I'm not saying I was some kind of Statehood fanatic. I wasn't going to turn down any symbols of my suitors' affections. I just never seemed to have any especially ardent suitors around February 14.

Just a minute, let me go climb up into the attic and find our correspondence...

Okay, I'm back. I have risked life and limb (for I am very klutzy, and it seemed likely I would fall to my death) climbing up a rickety ladder and perching myself over the hole in the garage ceiling. All in the name of LOVE, and making my readers happy.

I couldn't find my box of letters from Jake. Here are those I sent to him. I have not included any from his other pen-pal girls.

What's that Latin Proverb? History is written by the victor...

To Jake, From Kelly:

1993:

1994:
I seem to have dropped the ball a little in 1994. Maybe I was entangled elsewhere?

Whatever it was, didn't last, because I came back strong in '95...

1995:

So, I guess I forgot that I was making crafty cards before it was cool to make crafty cards. All I had was construction paper and a big crush on a cute boy. Soon, though, I stopped as everybody else started making fancier, professional-looking cards. I can't compete.

Beginning in 1996, (by then he had been home almost a year, and I had hooked him with my wiles, and we would be wed in July) I have always received a little something from my Valentine. (Below is our engagement photo).

One year Jake got me a pink ipod mini with "Happy Statehood Day" engraved on the back. That was very techno-romantic. Last year I received a Greg Olsen picture of a little boy who looks like Sam. Sam took one look at it and asked: "Hey, why am I sitting there looking at a picture of Jesus? Why am I not wearing any pants?" The boy's shorts are indeed short, almost non-existent, really. Sam seemed disoriented for a moment, like he was having an out of body/out of pants experience.

Do you know why ladies get lots of flowers and candy for Valentine's Day? Because they totally dig them. I do, anyway. Thank you, Jake! (That's 1.5 pounds of See's you see below. It is down to about 1 pound now. I actually don't feel so good.)

This morning I gave Jake his chocolate bass that says "you're a keeper!" on it, and has romantic fishing trivia on the back.

The kids got heart shaped strawberry min-muffins, served on my fan-shaped 1950s snack trays, with the ruby cups.

Happy Valentine's Day, Jake. Here's to many more!

I Want You (She's so Heavy)

My Dear Sir Paul McCartney,

Tommy just climbed down from his high chair via the computer desk in the kitchen. On the way down he stopped to open my blog and turn on some itunes and grease up the keyboard a little with his hot-cereal-encrusted hands. He chose I Want You (She's so Heavy) from your Beatles Abbey Road album.

Here's what Wikipedia has to say about this tune:

"I Want You (She's So Heavy)", is a combination of two somewhat different recording attempts. The first attempt occurred almost immediately after the "Get Back/Let It Be" sessions in February 1969 and featuring Billy Preston on keyboards. This was subsequently combined with a second version made during the "Abbey Road" sessions proper, and when edited together ran nearly 8 minutes long, making it The Beatles's second-longest released song ("Revolution 9" being the longest). Perhaps more than any other Beatles song, "I Want You (She's So Heavy)" reveals a pronounced progressive rock influence, with its unusual length and structure, repeating guitar riff, and "white noise" effects; the "I Want You" section has a straightforward blues structure. It also features one of the earliest uses of a Moog synthesizer to create the white-noise or "wind" effect heard near the end of the track. During the final edit, as the guitar riff continues on and on, Lennon told engineer Geoff Emerick to "cut it right there" at the 7:44 mark, creating a sudden, jarring silence which concluded side one of "Abbey Road". The final overdub session for "I Want You (She's So Heavy)" would be the last time all four Beatles worked in the studio together.

Like Tommy, I think Abbey Road is one of the best rock albums of all time. I'll have to say I Want You isn't my favorite song (I'd have to give it to the medley on side two, a collection of short, unfinished songs written during The White Album recording sessions. My favorite is Golden Slumbers.) Apparently, John liked the more polished singles on Side 1, while you preferred the medley on side 2. So I guess Tommy is John to my Paul. So, then, who is Yoko? Jane?

Love, Kelly

P.S. I'll bet I know Heather Mills' favorite song on Abbey Road: You Never Give Me Your Money. Paul, don't let that soon-to-be-ex-wife of yours take the bucks I paid you for Abbey Road. That's all for you. If you want, you can share it with Ringo. (Or maybe Michael Jackson, if he still owns the rights).

You can listen to our (Tommy's, Heather's and mine) favorite Abbey Road songs in the player at top right.

What is your favorite Beatles album and song?

Social History, Arm Whiskers and Weird Al

This whole church at noon thing is wreaking havoc with our nap schedules. Tommy absolutely must go to sleep immediately upon our return home at three o'clock. He is a zombie baby. Jake and Sam sleep too. I read. Jane and Ross may do whatever is silent. We are strict on that. They aren't allowed to play twister or make frosting like their cousins at Jen's house. Anyway, the sleepers have just awakened at 6:30 pm. This could be a long evening.

During Sacrament meeting today Sam leaned over and whispered in my ear: "Mom, your whiskers are getting long."

"My what?" I replied, suddenly self-conscious.

"Your whiskers. You know, here, on your arm." he explained.

Apparently he thinks I'm sasquatch, but I swear my arm hair is well within the normal range. I'm glad he wasn't referring to my face. A 5 o'clock shadow at noon is so embarrassing.

In other news, I have been neglecting my blog for three reasons:

1. Consuelo and Alva Vanderbilt by Amanda Mackenzie Stuart. I am loving every minute of this delicious turn-of-the-century tabloid thinly veneered as social history. (Which is perfect: too thick a veneer and it might become tedious.) Alva, the domineering mother, effectively forces her 18-year-old daughter Consuelo, America's richest heiress, into marrying the 9th Duke of Marlborough, who needs the Vanderbilt railroad cash to fund some home improvement projects (to Blenheim Palace, his home.) Things go awry between the two early in their European honeymoon. But Consuelo and Alva eventually become suffregettes on both sides of the Atlantic, sans husbands. (That's a real tune change, Alva. From selling your daughter into extremely well dressed white slavery to militant feminism in fewer than 15 years. Not that I'm complaining about the enfranchisement, ladies. Thanks.). That's as far as I've gotten. It's a real nail-biter. This will probably put me back into another biography phase. Does anyone have any reccommendations? I find, in the case of life stories, I am partial to the ladies.

Above: Jen and I at Blenheim in 1994.

Above: Winston Churchill's grave in the churchyard next to Blenheim. Winston was Consuelo's cousin-in-law and close friend. He was second in line for the dukedom before Consuelo's sons were born. She is buried right next to Winston.
Above: Blenheim Palace. Nice digs, Consuelo. Love what you've done with the place.

2. I've continued FamilySearch Indexing. My last assignment featured some middle and upper-middle-class families in what I think is the Greenwich area of Manhatten. I was feeling bad for one mother who had eight children, each two years apart (afraid she might possibly suffocate under all that laundry), until I noticed they had FOUR nannies. Or maybe a cook, a maid and two nannies. Or maybe a manicurist, a masseuse, a spiritual advisor (in-house guru), and a dog-walker. Who knows, but there were two Janes, two Elizabeths. I noticed her husband was worth 40K, which in mid-nineteenth century dollars isn't quite a bazillion, and she probably wasn't hanging out with Alva Vanderbilt, but nobody was going hungry, certainly.

In another superior bit of sleuthing (I'm practically Nancy Drew now), I found a silversmith with an almost indecipherable last name. I could tell it started with DU. So I googled him and found a silversmith mark by "Dunn" who was active in NYC in 1850. I also found where a semi-famous jeweler was buried with his extended family. When I can find them somewhere else, I can check the spellings and I know I've got it right.

3. I spent one whole evening watching Weird Al videos on YouTube. I had about 20 years worth to catch up on, so it took some time. I enjoyed White and Nerdy (featuring Donny Osmond), The Saga Begins, and Ebay. Am I the only one who thought Weird Al retired after Eat it?

Dinner in your pants, and The Complete Jane Austen

O happy, rainy day.
O blessed day of no fevers, and healthy children.
O pleasant offspring who go to school so that Mother can go to Costco!

Is it weird that I cry with joy a little when it rains? I guess it is odd, but unsurprising because I cry at everything. I am misting up a bit just thinking about how rain makes me cry. Today, Tommy, Sam and I got decked out in our winter coats (Old Navy-or as Sam calls it, Old Lady-sweatshirts) and we piled into the van and headed to Costco, listening to my Joshua Radin CD. I even went to the Williamsfield Costco so I could enjoy the rain and the music a little longer, and avoid mean, crotchety Superstition Springs Costco patrons. Was phenomenal, exhilerating experience. The sights and smells (from the tasty samples) were almost overwhelming. Costco is great, because you can see, say, a travelling pool table show on display, and think, wouldn't one of those be fun? But, no, I don't see that on my list, and I hadn't planned on spending an extra 1700 dollars this morning. Instead, I'll just get myself a new novel and a Sonicare toothbrush. I'm totally saving 1573 dollars. I am such a prudent and thrifty shopper. (Costco just got me to buy $124 toothbrush and more barbecue sauce than we can drink in a year, and I am thrilled about it. They are friggin geniuses.)

It is exciting to get out of the house. But this isn't my first field trip. Friday night I decided to go see 27 Dresses, so I called my regular movie date, my sister Jen, who's almost always up for a good time, and chatted her up a bit, before I asked her out. Turns out, she's lying out on her private, beach view veranda, in Cabo. Again. She has the audacity to be ticked off because I told her to read The Road, but didn't warn her that it is so depressing it might ruin her vacation. (What, no stomach for a little cannibalism?) I really didn't need to hear about her vacation woes. I was quite down myself, and self-sorry. So I called around some more, but then I stopped because I can't take very much rejection. So I headed out on my own. First I stopped at Steve's Krazy Sub and ordered an 8 inch turkey sub, light mayo, which I estimated would fit nicely into my coach purse. Except they accidently make me a 12 inch, and they can't understand why I seem perturbed. So I mutter that I should have brought the fake Chinatown Dolce and Gabana bag, which could easily accomodate an entire Thanksgiving turkey, probably with some of the trimmings and a pie.

So what could I do? Some of you who know me well have already guessed.

Dinner in your pants.

In college, my roommate Kari and I went to the Provo Movies 8 to see something that sounded like High in a Tree. This was when you had to call and listen to movie listings. (Turns out, it was Highlander 3. So when we got home we had to go rent the first two, just to figure out what had happened.) Anyway, we were hungry and only had a few dollars between us, so we decided to stop at the Albertsons across the street and get food before the show started. The fresh french bread was just out of the oven and the scent was intoxicating. This was also in the days when it was okay to eat anything that was low in fat, and we actually considered entire loaves of white bread diet food. It took daily step aerobics to undo the damage we were doing with pots of rice and gallons of frozen yogurt. Don't even get me started on all the disgusting fat free cookies we made with "fat free butter," a substance which looked and tasted remarkably like vaseline. The memory is making me cry a little, too, but not with joy.

Sorry, I can't seem to stay on task. The french bread went in the waistband of my pants. Please try to imagine the very high-waisted pants I had that began just under my still high and perky breasts. They were very, very tall pants. Z Cavaricci's, maybe. With today's low-rise style, I was barely able to accomodate the foot long sandwich. The french bread would not have worked at all.

Now, this dinner in my pants seemed more dangerous and sneaky than it did back in 1995. I mean, what if the theater employee asked me to open my coat, and confiscated my sandwich? I can imagine a patron behind me yelling, "Ah, come on! Give the poor, approaching-middle-age lady back her sandwich and leave her be. She's all alone and obviously hungry." Many things seem less spontaneous and quirky and more pathetic as I grow less young and less hot. (Just barely, but still...)

Is anyone else watching the Complete Jane Austen on Masterpiece (please don't try to tell your Tivo that it is Masterpiece Theater. It ain't, sister)? I am loving every moment of it. Last night was Jane Austen Regrets, which was good, but might have been better if Jake hadn't been parroting Jane in a mocking, pseudo-British falcetto. Fictionalized portrayals of Jane's barely-existant love life are serious business, husbands. Do not mock it, but allow your wife to revel in it. She might want to kiss you, later, if she has been allowed to watch, swoon, and pine, unmolested. Which I was not. I recognized some bits of Jane's letters from the Letters from Pemberley and More Letters from Pemberley that I read last week. Next week is the Pride and Prejudice with Collin Firth as Mr. Darcy. He is not so serious, dark, and handsomely brooding as most Mr. Darcys, but who doesn't love Mr. Firth? I totally heart Collin.

From last night's program:
"There are such beings in the World, perhaps, one in a Thousand, as the Creature You & I should think perfection, where Grace & Spirit are united to Worth, where the Manners are equal to the Heart & Understanding, but such a person may not come in your way, or if he does, he may not be the eldest son of a Man of Fortune, the Brother of your particular friend, & belonging to your own County."

letter to Fanny Knight. November 18, 1814 [109]

I am afraid that the best part of my week could already be past! Jane Austen, rain, Costco, and In-n-Out. All before 12 o'clock Monday. Sigh.

Some New Books, Roasted Tomato Soup, and The Stopper Family

So I've been sitting at home for nigh on two weeks due to illness (mine, then everybody else's). It is mentally unhealthy to go straight from the excitement and pleasures of New York City to sitting at home all day, with only grumpy, ailing children for conversation. (To be fair: last week I was the grumpy ailer.) One minute Tommy is his usual pleasant self, bringing me his high top Converse shoes as a goodwill, olive branch-y sort of guesture. The next, while I'm trying to wedge one on his fat foot, he grabs the shoes and chucks them at me, then throws a complete tantrum with arched back and all the trimmings, because he thinks I'm dressing him against his will. Schizophenia is rather tiring. Is like living with Sybil.

The best news is that Ross actually appears to have brought home an entirely new bug (we've grown immune to and tired of the old one), because yesterday morning he 'played well' (opposite of 'playing sick') so he could go to school, but threw up on the playground before he even made it to the classroom. This is the first day of school Ross has missed in three years. In addition to a strong constitution, he really, REALLY wanted the medals they give out at year's end for perfect attendance. He has two already. I guess he can give it another go in fourth grade.

So I tried reading to fill my time: started Love in the Time of Cholera. I starts out pretty boring, but I can handle all kinds of boring. I have a special talent for sticking with stuff that's boring. (Enjoying it, even. I like to luxuriate in pridefulness, telling myself that very few readers could force themselves as far into this snoozer as I did. I feel like member of a very elite, tenacious clique.) Soon enough, though, it also got creepy and nasty. So I put it down, regretfully. There were some nice images of intense romantic pining that would have been very tintillating back in my single days, when I was was like a professional piner. Also read The Deception of the Emerald Ring. I had high hopes for this one because a reviewer called it "History textbook meets Bridget Jones." But I think the reviewer should amend it to say: "History textbook meets Bridget Jones and Danielle Steele." You get the picture. I also read Letters from Pemberley, which was better than watching reruns on Tivo or a poke in the eye. Last night Jake and I resorted to watching two episodes of the British Office on the internet on a laptop computer.

Tuesday I cleaned my house. That's what I do on Tuesdays. If you want a real eyeful, you should stop by unannounced on Monday afternoon. Actually, you shouldn't.

Wednesday I started FamilySearch Indexing, which is sort of addictive and I did 84 names from the 1850 U.S. Census from Royalton, Niagara County, New York. It took me a really long time because I kept stopping to look people up on the already searchable 1880 census to see what became of them. One German family named Stopper had recently arrived from Bavaria in August 1850, and their last child had been born only 5 months before, here in America. The father was a shoemaker, and didn't yet own any property. In 1880 they had all moved to Wisconsin where apparently there were fortunes to be made in shoes. There they welcomed many American grandchildren, one of whom was named after son Peter, who doesn't show up on the 1880 census. I daydreamed that Peter the Elder met his untimely end trying to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel, and so his brother named his first born after his brave but stupid brother. It seems more likely that Peter thought the American dream included more than shoes and living under the same roof with four generations (grandma came, too) in the cold, and tried his luck elsewhere.

Thursday, I thought: If I'm going to be home all day, again, I should cook up something really tasty. So I spent the whole day making roasted tomato soup and making 8 loaves of bread. Then I presented the feast to my sickly crew, who didn't eat any of it. They were too sick.

Today all the kids are home. Today is blogging day.
I thought I'd write this recipe down this morning so I won't forget it again next time.

4 14 oz. cans of tomatoes (mine were tomato halves from Costco). I use the ones already canned with basil, onions, garlic, etc.
salt and pepper
1.5 -2 sweet onions, diced
4 carrots, diced
3-4 stalks celery, diced
6-7 cloves roasted garlic
olive oil
2 14 oz cans chicken broth
bay leaf
3 tablespoons butter
1/2 cup fresh chopped basil
heavy cream (add about 1 cup or more if adding before. I like to leave it out and let people add it themselves.)
Grated parmesan cheese

Drain tomatoes and reserve liquid. Spread tomatoes evenly onto jelly roll pan coated in olive oil. Drizzle with more olive oil, then add pepper and a little salt. Roast in 200 degree oven for 5.5 hours (or longer, just don't let em turn black) turning mixture once during cooking. Put a whole head of garlic with some olive oil in a little aluminum foil and let it roast, too. At the end, you can turn up the heat to 350 degrees or so and roast the garlic longer if it isn't soft enough.

Sometime during the 6 hours you've got to kill before dinner is ready, chop onions, carrots, celery. Cook them on low in butter until they are just soft.

You will also have plenty of time to make bread and read a book. Nurse (care for, not suckle at your breast, though I guess that's okay too) any small, sick children you might have lying about.

Place tomatoes and veggie mixture into large stockpot. Add reserved tomato juice (I cooked out some of the water just for something to do), chicken broth, roasted garlic (squeeze out some softened cloves), bay leaf, butter. Simmer on low about 20 minutes. Let cool a few minutes. Remove bay leaf.

Using a blender or handheld immersion blender, blend to your desired consistancy, from very chunky to super smooth. I like it well blended but with a few chunks. I add more pepper to taste and salt if needed (probably doesn't if you used canned chicken broth instead of homemade). Stir in lots of finely chopped fresh basil or serve it on the side with parmesan cheese and heavy cream.

Seriously, don't forget the heavy cream or the basil. You will regret it.

My soup is creamy, licorice-y. It tastes like it is full of sin, but really it is full of healthy veggies. And cream, and cream = sin.

I'm getting hungry. I am going to go have some leftovers.

This Primary isn't so political, and way more honest

They totally don't have to to give me chocolate bars or hard candy or other little thank you gifts for subbing in Primary. I have been paid handsomely in 6-year-old wit.

Here are few little gems from yesterday:

"My brother calls me unibrow, or sometimes unicorn for short". (Child has no sign of excess  or unruly facial hair).

"I have an uncommonly good memory, and can remember things from when I was 3 months old, and possibly from before birth."

"I know quite a lot because I'm the (Priesthood leadership calling removed to preserve anonymity)'s son. Did you know that? You know I'll probably be a (same Priesthood leadership calling his Father now holds) someday because that's how it works." (I didn't set him straight. Thought his Father might want to do it).

"Once I got lost while my brother was at karate. He doesn't go anymore, though, because (here he lowers his voice to almost a whisper and smiles while nodding, giving me the distinct impression he is parroting his parent), it was just too much for him. You know, all the kicking and jabbing and stuff."

Yet another class member kept stealing my visual aids off the table behind me, and then holding them aloft while talking over me so she could hijack the lesson. (This same child, who is my own, also got spotlighted yesterday. She put 'rock star' under future plans. Not exactly a Sunday School answer, but her admission that her favorite thing to do is watch Rachael Ray with her Mom got a few giggles from the other teachers.)

These bring to mind my very favorite Primary moments from the past.

A closing prayer by an articulate Sunbeam who prayed that "Rebecca would be able to get out from under the table and be reverent," that "Ross would stop bugging everyone during sharing time", and that her "Mom's secret baby that no one knows about yet will be safe and happy in her tummy."

While I was teaching the 4-year-olds, I found that if I gave them a couple of minutes to share events from the week, before we started our lesson, things would go more smoothly. They especially liked to share whatever was under their band-aids, which was mostly nothing. (In a similar moment last year, Jane told her teacher she had been attacked by a shark). So when one little boy came in with a cast on his arm, I thought I'd better give him a chance to tell us his story and invited him up front. I said, " wow, that sure is a big owie! What happened there?" He looked at the floor, then at me, before blurting: 

"My Mom ran me over with a truck!" 

(She actually had. The Mom was still very shaken up, and began to cry when I asked about it.)

Okay, now it is Sharing Time. What are your favorite Primary moments? (I'm not talking about when Hillary cried or when all the Republicans played nice in the Florida debate.)

On Gordon B. Hinckley's Passing

He was a wonderful man and Prophet. I feel like I lost my Grandpa. He loved us, and worked tirelessly for us. I hope he gets a little vacation with his wife before he goes back to work on the other side.

Thank you, President Hinckley!

Sick-bed travel diary

I have not been able to summon up necessary will to blog since returning home. Have taken to my bed since having been struck down with terrible influenza-like disease. I have named it West End Virus (even though we stayed in midtown). If you have fever, body aches, and a deep, soul-racking cough, you've got it. Either that or pleurisy. Neither one is nearly as romantic as it sounds.

(I had to go take a break. That one poor West Nile pun zapped my energy, and I needed to rest. Must be more careful.)

I am so happy I didn't fall ill while trying to eat my way through NYC. We stuck to the three page itinerary almost to the letter until the very end. I'll be honest, though. That last dish of creme brulee at Cafe Mozart on Monday night was more business than pleasure. We spent Monday down near Heath Ledger's SoHo flat on his last happy day on earth.

We brunched at Max Brenner's Chocolate by the Bald Man (thick Italian hot chocolate in hug mug is best I've ever had. One member of our party, who will remain nameless, is rumored to have had two. We also had chocolate fondue with freshly fried churros. The 2-mug lady missed the churros, mostly, because she was in the potty. All the hot chocolate had a not-wholly-unwelcome, er, cathartic effect.)

Went on to Nanette Lepore on Broome Street where I got some great shoes and earrings and a very flapper-y sort of dress with sequins that I can already picture Tommy trying to pick off during Sacrament meeting. Had it all shipped to us like all the fancy shoppers do. Nobody who is anybody carries her own purchases around anymore. Is totally declasse. (I'm making things up now.)

Then we went downtown to Chinatown. Now in Chinatown, if they offer to ship your purchases, do not believe them. Is likely big lie because you look like easy mark that just came out of Nanette Lepore. Mom bought some ancient perfume that had gone bad and went right in the trash in the hotel. Found Jen's favorite jeans connection. I was concerned that many were pegged at the bottom (I am too old to be fooled by terms like 'skinny leg.' I am still haunted by the photos of my 7th grade self, back when the pegged legs didn't contribute to the optical illusion that my arse should be moored down in the harbor instead of waddling about in $45 made in China True Religions on Canal Street. The most interesting part was the salesman, a large but agile man, who would tirelessly crawl under his table to some secret jeans underworld over and over to retrieve sizes and styles at our whim. We knew he was coming back because jeans would start flying at our feet from under the green vinyl partition, and he would soon follow them out, on his belly. This isn't how they do it over on 5th Avenue. Jen made an attempt at the 'dressing room' (small hole in wall), but came out pale and said she was 100% surprised she hadn't been bitten by a rat.

We soon realized our hands and feet were entirely frozen, and that we no longer cared about cheap thrills, so then I tried to talk Mom and Jen onto the subway, but they wouldn't go, not even in single digit temperatures and in absence of a cab.

I'm almost out of time. Jake said babysitter is coming and dishes are overflowing in sink. Long story short, we had some Mexican food (Maya) that was a little bland with a side of habanero salsa that caused a tiny little blister on my bottom lip, then we went to see a show that I found a little too sacrilegious (apparently I'm a Catholic at heart?), but that Jen (apparently more liberal-minded sort) dug a lot. The best part of Alter Boyz was song "I want you so much it makes me wanna wait". Howz all that for some run-on sentences?

Now, back to my sick bed...

Hiking around this big, frozen apple in tall shoes

Some pics from yesterday:
Me at the Met (Temple of Dendur)

Tea at the Peninsula (American Express card: your gateway to free tea! Chamomile and scones and clotted cream and tarts and sandwiches!)

Jen trying to make some new best friends in the diamond district. She couldn't decide what to try on first.

Oh. And did not get picture of Paula Deen from cooking network in One if by land, Two if by Sea at dinner last night. Had Beef Wellington. (Me, not Paula). Jen said was possibly not Paula, but I think it was. Like 80% sure was Ms. Deen. Lady had southern accent. Was not with her two sons, as far as I could see.

Today!

11:00 Brunch: Eggs Benedict

12:30 Church Manhatten 8th Ward (Singles)

2pm Speech and Debate: Like 40 people fit into this tiny theater. The girl who played Diwata was SOO great and funny.

4:15 Little Pie Co.: Mississippi mud pie and key lime were very memorable. Rachel Ray told us to go to this little midtown gem.

6:30 Mary Poppins: was VERY impressive. Wished the kids were here to see it (first time I have wished that this trip). The New Amsterdam Theater is so beautiful. I think we saw 42nd Street there 3 years ago?

10:00 Tao 2 story buddha, Japanese pinball above toilets, and best egg roll I have ever eaten in all my years (all 23 of 'em).

Too tired to blog effectively. Today was COLD. Temp felt like teens, and I spent whole day in church clothes with 3 inch stiletto boots (looking like hot and sassy urbanite). Buns still numb from all the sitting and also possibly still frozen in manner of bunsicles.

Friday

Today was day we set aside for ogling things in 5th Avenue windows. Our hotel is right in the thick of it. Spent some time in Saks, Gap, and 2 hours in the Nike Store.

I'm totally lying about the Nike store. We practically jogged past it on our way to the diamond district. Which is awesome. I might have little bruises on my forehead from bonking my head on the windows while trying to get a better look at the enormous pretty jewels.

Dinner was 5:45 Asia de Cuba. We had dumplings 2 ways, coconut shrimp with black bean dip, jalepeno mayo, and something else (was mildly life changing), and some chicken with Thai sticky rice and guacamole stuff, and string beans, and mashed potatoes with lobster and other stuff mashed in there. All delicious. Then came the sustainable Chilean sea bass that was practically raw and one bite made me gag a little bit. Still, the other stuff made up for it.

Cab to Times Square to look for Duane Reade drug store (it used to be there). Very cold, and hair super static-y crazy.

8:00 Legally Blonde. Favorite part: song called Is He Gay or European? (SPOILER ALERT: Turns out he's both) and also when entire cast begins to Riverdance.

Dessert: Serendipity Frozen peanut butter hot chocolate. Why didn't somebody tell me about the peanut butter sooner!

Hope my pants will go up past my knees tomorrow!