I read this blog post today. I think you should read it too. I don't know what else to add.

Busy, busy

I haven't blogged much recently, or cleaned, or gone on my morning walks with Razor and some of our friends, or even pulled our Christmas decorations out of the closet. I've been too busy.

I'm hoping and crossing my fingers that, as of this morning, I have finished the thing that has been taking up all of my spare time and some of my not spare time as well. Because I've got a lot of stuff to get done this weekend--like get out the Christmas stuff, send Christmas cards, buy Christmas presents, oh, and maybe clean the bathrooms and do some laundry and catch up on lost sleep too.

(Strange. I just typed a paragraph, clicked save as draft, and that paragraph magically disappeared.) Gist of that paragraph is this: While I have a few minutes, I wanted to share this (2nd letter, "Message for Sisters") and see what ya'll think of it. (I get a kick out of reading the Daily Universe letters to the editor online when I get a chance.)

Counting the Days Until Christmas

On Sunday morning before I left Harvey and Pooka's house, there was a conversation about the date and how long before Christmas. Shortly after that conversation, Snoozer presented me with this countdown to Christmas. So, in case you were wondering, 27 days until Christmas.

Christmas Scheduling

OK, this post is primarily for my parents and siblings (and anyone else who plans on joining our Frogmorton Christmas at Mom and Dad's). To all of my other adoring fans, feel free to stop reading.

It seems like I've had a number of phone conversations lately that go like this:
"Hey, when are you going to be at Mom and Dad's for Christmas?"
"I don't know. When are you?"
"I don't know."

So, here's the place to see what others are doing and share your plans.
This is what I know so far (or at least what I think I know):
Hermana Daisy and Elder H. won't be in attendance.
Carolioness and Co. will be at Mom and Dad's from Dec. 20-evening of 25.
Marty and I are presently planning to be there Dec. 22-29.
Boss (and I assume Sam, Grace, and Malcom) will be there around the 18th. I don't know about Coach.

What about the rest of ya'll?

Appeasing the Irrational

I know it's irrational, but I'm paranoid about crockpots. I understand that they are made to be turned on and left on all day--even if you aren't home. But, Holy Cow, is that a mental hurdle for me. Turn on crockpot, and leave for the day?--Craziness!

This morning I put things together in the crockpot so it would be ready when I got home to take it straight to my Relief Society activity tonight. I turned it on the lowest setting, and then I went to work.

When I was about a mile away from work my panic attack began. What if something happened, and our house burned down?! Razor and Cher are in the house! They'd be stuck! What a horrible way to die! I'd be consumed with grief and guilt. Heart racing. Hyperventilating.

I nearly turned the car around to go home and check. But I reassured myself that everything was fine. It was simply irrational paranoia. After all, it really hasn't been that long since the last time I used the crock pot, and that went fine.

But the paranoia started working again.... "That was in the apartment. Not this place. What if there's a problem with the wiring in that outlet..."

I got to work, but at noon I decided that even though the rational part of me knew everything was fine, I'd compromise with the irrational part and drive home for lunch. I knew it was a good sign as I approached our street and I passed our next door neighbors. They smiled and waved. They wouldn't have done that if my house had burned down their house.

I drove down to our cul-de-sac, saw our completely fine and unburned house, decided that the irrational had been adequately appeased, turned around and went back to work.

At 6:00 pm when I got home after work, the soup was hot, and all was well. No fire, no smoke. Not at all. Just yummy smelling soup.

Upon hearing my story (and after having a hearty laugh over it), some of my friends have volunteered to babysit my crockpot in the future.

Accepted

Today I found out that the paper I've been working on for what feels like a very long time has been accepted for publication.

I'm happy about that.

I'll Wrestle You!

Have you seen this? It cracks me up!

The Lost Blanket: UPDATE

No, it hasn't been found. It is still lost.

I admit. I was pretty irritated at how many unanswered messages I left with the lost and found office of the hotel. So I sent a complaint email to Guest Relations. In my email I outlined my experience emphasizing my multiple attempts to reach someone about it and my multiple unreturned messages. And I even pointed out that while I'm upset at the loss of my "personal item," I'm more upset about their unresponsiveness.

Last week I got an email response. I'll paraphrase what it says: Sorry you left your stuff. Not our fault. Thanks and have a nice day.

No acknowledgement whatsoever of their shoddy customer service and my many, many attempts to find out if it had been found. I ruminated for awhile and debated with myself whether I should send another email saying "Hey, I left the blanket. My bad. But your service still wasn't good."

Yesterday my colleague told me a little story of hers that pushed me over the edge. About a month ago she took a trip and stayed in a hotel. Within the past week she realized she left a jacket hanging in the closet of her hotel room. She called and left a message. With in 24 hours she received a message from a hotel employee to try to match the description of what she was looking for with what they had found. A day later, because she hadn't returned the call yet, she received another call from the hotel. And she stayed there a month ago! I made my first call on the very day that I checked out. By the way, this colleague of mine told me her story because she was so pleased with the service--I didn't tell her my story until after I heard hers.

So I sent another email thanking Guest Relations for their condolences about my lost blanket, but pointing out that my complaint was about their customer service. I'm interested to see what response I get this time--if any.

I'm a nerd

Need proof? I know my library card number. By heart. 14 digits. 2204602187**** (For security purposes I'm not going to post my whole number here for the whole world to see...afterall, I don't want you running off with library books in my name!)

See. Told you I'm a nerd.

Who knew?

The other night I was doing laundry and I washed a pillowcase that once upon a time had been a victim of a bloody nose. Well, the other night I decided that it was time for the quarter-sized blood-stain to come out or for the pillowcase to go. I actually had very little hope for the pillowcase. It's been washed and dried. I've tried spray and wash-type products on it, and I've tried oxyclean on it. But that stain was set in and wasn't budging.

But the other night I decided to see what the internet could suggest for set in, old blood-stains. There were a number of sites that suggested ammonia and hydrogen peroxide methodologies. And I didn't really think it would work, but I figured it was worth a shot.

Now, I didn't have any ammonia around, but I remembered that After Bite's active ingredient is ammonia. So I dabbed on a little After Bite and then poured on the hydrogen peroxide (yes, I completely disregarded all of those warnings about dilutions and checking for color-fastness, etc that each site with similar techniques had). Lo and behold! The blood stain started bubbling. And that stain? Began fading. I rinsed and repeated. And now there is no stain. (and it turns out the material was color-fast too).

Like magic. Cool, huh?

Overachievers Anonymous

This morning I took the LSAT. So that I can see just how many different types of graduate degree programs I can get accepted into.

The instructions said "arrive no later than 8:30 am." At about 7:45 I was seated comfortably in a chair waiting for the excitement to begin. After a minute "Chris" sat in a chair nearby and we struck up a conversation. He recognized me as an LSAT taker by the tell-tale Zip-Lock bag with snack, pencils, erasers, etc.

At 7:57 a flood of other LSAT-takers entered the building. At which point Chris asked, "8:30 is check-in, right?"

I chuckled and said, "Yeah. But this is the LSAT, and with this group of overachievers, 8:30 apparently means 8:00 or earlier."

1:45 pm. The LSAT is done. Time to go home. I feel pretty good about it. I'll find out for sure in a few weeks. In the mean time, the magic 8 ball at the coffee shop yesterday told me that it was "Highly Likely" that I'd do well.

Advertisement

Just in case you haven't seen it, I'm going to advertise for Harvey and Pooka and their recent posts. Go on. Check it out.

Lost

For Labor Day weekend Marty and I took a quick trip to Washington, D.C. We had a great time seeing some of the sights and just getting away for a couple of days. On Monday as we were leaving Mount Vernon to head home I had a sudden realization—I’d left my blanket in the hotel room. My blanket that I made when I was 12 as a first year at girls camp. My blanket that Pogo liked to snuggle under. My blanket that while we lived apart Marty insisted must stay with him because it smelled like me. My blanket that’s needed to be completely recovered and is now the perfect heaviness and softness—Great for or sitting on at a campfire or riding in the car on roadtrips and yarning with (unless I’m driving, and then it must be in the backseat). My blanket that has been admired by many a niece and nephew because it has cars and trucks on it. And who doesn’t like cars and trucks—especially when they’re being driven by bears and dogs?

Although I considered asking to return to the hotel right then, I thought that was too extreme and the situation could be fixed with a phone call. So, I immediately called the hotel and left a long detailed message for the Lost-and-Found Dude. And in the next week or so I left more messages. No call back. Finally today Marty was able to get a response to his message (I think left with the General Manager). Lost-and-Found Dude said nothing matching its description has been turned in, but that the cleaning lady for the floor where we stayed was off today. Lost-and-Found Dude said he would talk to her tomorrow and call Marty back (but that it’s their policy to turn everything in).

I’m afraid that it’s gone for good. And that makes me sad.

Another day at church

I have a confession: lately I've been wanting to quit church. Just stop going for awhile. Not forever. Just awhile. It's not that I'm losing my faith. It's that I'm tired. Tired of not fitting in to the social system of the Church. Tired of going to church, week after week, by myself. Just tired.

I don't actually plan on dropping out of church, but I think about it a little bit. And truthfully, I'm glad that our church meetings have recently changed from starting at 9:30 am to starting at 1:00 pm. It makes it a little more difficult to justify not waking up in time for all of church because I didn't sleep well the night before.

Yesterday I thought I was doing pretty well. All I had left was Sacrament meeting. I entered the chapel and selected a spot to sit--not on a row by myself, but not with anyone either. My lone island. The previous meetings had been good, and I was looking forward to this worship service.

I was approached by an older gentleman in the ward. A man who loaned us a bed when Marty and I moved here with only what fit with us in the car.

Him: I hear you're moving soon. Can I get that bed back?

Ugh. This is a conversation that I never wanted to have. And I thought I'd taken care of it a year ago--I'd mentioned the situation to my bishop who assured me he'd talk to this gentleman and I didn't have to worry about it. But here I was--forced into the conversation that I'd hoped never to have, just moments before the start of Sacrament meeting.

Me: Well, last year my husband...
Him: Yeah. I knew about that.
Me: Well, the bed's gone. I'll have to get you a new one.
Him: Nah, that's ok. But the box spring--Can I get that back?
Me: No. I'll have to replace it all for you.
Him: Oh. No, you don't have to do that.

He walked away to his own pew.

And I sat. Stunned. Frustrated. Surprised at the sudden rush and intensity of emotions that the conversation had stirred up. Pushing back memories. Images. Uncomfortable at the needing to have the conversation in the first place but also at the time and place of it. No longer focused for worship. Absolutely no longer ready for an hour of sacrament meeting. I gathered my stuff and went to the foyer. I tried to make it out before the tears came, but I didn't quite make it.

I was joined in the foyer by a couple of very nice and lovely women who wanted to help. And eventually I was coaxed into trying to explain what was wrong to one of them. But she didn't really understand how the sketch of events I'd told her had reduced me to a ball of tears. And the words that she was trying to comfort me with were only aggravating me more. I finally got up and left. Out of the building, to my car, home.


Maybe I shouldn't have worked so hard to stay in the same ward when we move. It'd make it easier to drop out of church for awhile.

Cher and her crumbles

I haven't written much about my kids lately. So this one's about Cher.

Cher has always seemed to think that getting pet is an important part of her being able to eat. So when we'd walk in the general direction of where we keep her food she'd get excited, walk under our feet, and meow as she led the way to her food bowl. Letting us know just how hungry she was because how could she possibly eat if one of us wasn't there to pet her? We've tried to break her of this habit, and she no longer expects morning and evening petting sessions while eating. But she does still like it, so every once in awhile we'll give her that special treatment.

Cher's food is dry cat food, and all of the kibbles are the same shape and size. She doesn't seem to mind that, but she's not 100% efficient at eating those kibbles. Sometimes as she bites them a crumble or two will fall back into the bowl. And eventually there are only crumbles left--no full sized kibbles.

Cher does not like the crumbles. Cher HATES the crumbles.

One night a couple weeks ago Marty declared, "Cher doesn't get any more food until she finishes her crumbles!" Yep, it was sort of like saying to a child, "You will eat your vegetables, and if you don't eat them now, you'll have them for breakfast."

Now, I'm not certain if Cher understood the meaning of Marty's decree, but shortly after that she began really letting me know how hungry she was. Meowing away, "I'm so hungry and Dad won't feed me." Marty is generally the one who takes care of feeding Cher. And in coming to me with her hunger complaints, she was coming to the softer, more sympathetic parent.

I went with her to her food bowl and I began petting her to encourage her to try the crumbles. And she did. Every few bites she's look up at me like, "Can I be done now? That's three big bites. Isn't that enough?" We checked with Marty and he held firm on his declaration--she needed to eat all of those crumbles. I kept petting her while she choked down more crumbles. Then she stopped eating, looked at me, and puked.

She looked at me and began purring--apparently quite satisfied with herself for proving her point about her crumble dislike. Razor got to finish of the rest of the crumbles and Cher got a new bowl of full-sized kibbles.

Come On--It's not that hard!

OK, I know I have an unusual name. I like my unusual name. And given the chance, I wouldn't change it. In fact, I (and my sister/cousin roommates) got quite offended when we had a home teacher who told me repeatedly that I could change my name and get a "real" one. We fired him. Anyway. Like I said, I know it's unusual, so I try to help people out a little.

For example, a month ago I was on the phone with a business. The woman I was speaking to asked for my name.
"My first name is Peanut. P-E-A-N-U-T." Pretty clear and straight forward, no?
"Christina?"
"No, not Christina. Peanut, P-E-A-N-U-T."
And then because she couldn't answer my question she put me on hold to talk to someone else.
"OK, Christina, what can we do for you?"
"My name's not Christina."
"Oh. I'm sorry, that's what it says here."
"No. It's Peanut, P-E-A-N-U-T."
"We have that after Christina."

Unfortunately, that kind of conversation isn't that surprising to me. That's part of why I've made it a habit to say, "My first name is..." following it up with a spelling. And then "My last name is..." I really do try to help people out.

People also have trouble with my name when they try to get it from my drivers license. The problem? They look at the name: Peanut Jean Frogmorton Zoolander, and they can't figure out which is my first name and which is my last name.

Just yesterday I was at the library checking out a book that I'd reserved (Twilight, incidentally). I had forgotten my library card and instead used my drivers license.
"It's under 'Peanut'?"
"Yes." (At this point I got a little worried and wondered if she was looking at all the other Zoolanders in the system and didn't see a Peanut or if she was looking for someone with the last name Peanut.)
"Have you not used your card in awhile?"
I clarified, "Peanut is my first name."
"Oh!"

I don't see how it can possibly be that hard. Four names. In a row. The first one is my first name. The last one is my last name. I thought that was standard.

In Touch with Family, Friends, and Reality

Last night I dreamed that I was on vacation. I traveled the country and saw many of my cousins, siblings, and their kids. Plus I did lots of cool stuff.

When I arrived back home there was a friend of mine waiting for me. I told her about my travels.

She asked, "How long did it take you to do all that traveling?"

"Oh, about three days."

"How on earth did you visit all those places and do all that in just three days?" And she began calculating driving times and miles.

I tried to brush her off by explaining that we drove fast. But when that didn't work I had to confess, "Well, it may not have actually happened. I suspect it's a dream."

Shopping

The day before my birthday, Marty announced, "I'm going to Target."

"Oh?! What are you getting?"

"It's a secret!"

Over 2 hours later he finally came home with a single bag. Not from Target.

He got me a back massaging pillow. It was nice, and I liked it pretty well, but the problem was that I saw the receipt first. And for that much money, a back massaging pillow wasn't what I wanted. So I asked Marty if it'd be OK if I took it back.

A couple days later I tried to take it back, but because I didn't have the instruction manual, the sales clerk wouldn't even consider taking it back.

"It came with instructions?" I asked. I certainly hadn't seen them. And considering that it had a single button to push and a power cord that plugs into the wall, I didn't find it too complex to figure out even without instructions. But she insisted, "We can't accept it without instructions because we can't sell them without them."

And then she threw in, "Plus, if you don't have the exact card it was purchased with we can't do the return."

OK. I'd have to come back another time--with the instruction manual and Marty.

That night I looked all over for the mysterious instruction manual. Nowhere to be found. I concluded that somehow they'd manage to sell one without instructions.

The next day, I went to their online store and found a PDF of the instruction manual. With a printer that will print in booklet format, some creative stapling, and a paper cutter, I created a beautiful replica of that oh-so-important instruction manual. In fact, when I showed Marty he said, "Great, you found it!"

"Nope. I made it."

Marty and I went back to the mall. This time the sales-person deemed the item returnable and asked for Marty's card it was purchased on and ID. After a minute or so she also asked for a phone number. "You need my phone number for me to return something?"

"Yes, I can't process the return without one."

"What about people who don't have a phone?"

"A work number? Everyone has a phone number they can give."

Marty gave his phone number but took that last statement as a challenge...who did he know who didn't have a phone--personal or work? And so for the rest of the time that it took to process the return he told me (of course, loudly enough to be heard at the register) people that he knows without phones. It was kind of funny.

And then we were off to find me a birthday present. We looked at watches, but there wasn't one that I loved. So we looked at the jewelry in the neighboring displays.

Marty asked, "Do you like silver?"

"Yes."

He took my hand and we went to a store on the other end of the mall. He pointed to a necklace and said, "Do you like that?"Apparently he'd spent 30 minutes in this store the other night when he first when out to get my gift--and he'd almost gotten the necklace in question but didn't becuase he wasn't sure if I'd like it. Turns out I do. So that's what he got me.

On our way back to the car we stopped at one of those little photo booths.

In all, that night shopping at the mall was a great birthday present in itself. Plus, I have souvenirs--a picture and a necklace.

Criminal Acts

After a couple of weeks of changing our minds about everyday, we decided to move out of our current apartment.

Last week I submitted a rental application for a townhome not too far away.

Today I passed their criminal and credit checks and was approved to lease the townhome.

In honor of not being a felon and being rejected, here's something funny from a site that's a guilty pleasure of mine.

Is that a black widow?

Last week I went to Girls Camp with the young women in the stake. It was pretty fun, and I plan on posting more about it and even some pictures soon.

I was staying with the first year girls--24 twelve-year-olds, me, and one other adult leader. The second night of camp there had been a group that had lit a fire in the firepit next to my cabin. And like good campers, that group put out the fire before they left the area.

The fire came back. It was put out again.

A few minutes later, the fire sprang back to life again.

So I went to put it out again and in the process dumped all the water I had on it (probably close to 2 liters). I thought for sure it was out for good.

It took a little longer this time, but again, that fire popped up.

Out of water, I started scooping up fistfulls of sand from the surrounding ground. At this point I was really frustrated that I'd forgotten my headlamp--it's hard to scoop sand effectively and hold a flashlight at the same time. I put the flashlight off to the side while I dug through the dirt and sand.

It was about that time as I was trying to put out what I then considered "The Fire from Hell" that my cabin-mate asked, "Is that a black widow?"

Yes. Yes it was.

No more crawling around in the dirt and sand for me. And I'd just discovered another hidden bed of live coals too. I trekked to the bathroom to get some more water and finally got the fire put out.

Once I felt certain that the fire was out for the night, I thought it was my turn to be out for the night as well. I was exausted from the day, but happy that it was earlier than I got to bed the night before. (12:30 am as opposed to 2:00 am). I went to my cabin, turned out the lights, and not 5 seconds later there were 6 twelve-year-olds screaming...

Not done for the night afterall.

Moving?

In light of the recent posts by Ree and Boss, I decided to solicit some advice.

Marty and I rent. For the most part this is a good situation for us, but recently we've had some issues. We've talked about buying, but have decided to wait a while longer.

Last week we got a letter from our apartment complex letting us know that our lease ends in mid-September. It's time to decide now, though, whether we want to stay or move because if we decide not to renew our lease, we need to give them 60 days advance notice in writing. That means we've got about 2 weeks or else one decision is made for us.

I guess the main reason we would want to move and not renew our lease is that the rent is jumping up $60/month (last year the rent went up only $15/month). That's $720 more per year. That's almost one month's rent.

So we're debating, is it worth it?

I'm quite sure that we can find a place that rents for less than the new lease rate. But there's more than just that to consider.

When we moved in our security deposit was "waived". This means that none of the move-in fees we paid are refundable--$300 pet deposit, $100 administrative fee--completely gone if we move. We'd likely have to pay similar non-refundable amounts if we move somewhere else. And also perhaps a standard security deposit.

And finally, there's the hassle of moving. I don't like moving. I don't like the idea of boxing up all of our stuff just to move to another rental property across town. But, I admit, as I look at potential places online, I like some of the things I see--more personal yard space for Razor to run around, no upstairs or downstairs neighbors, etc.

So, I'm conflicted. What do ya'll think?

"Are you planning on going to the bank any time in the near future? I've had this in the bottom of my purse for weeks now, and still haven't deposited it."

"How much is it for?"

"Five dollars."

"Yeah, I can spend that."

Apartment Living

I've lived in various apartments in various states. One of the things that I've learned about apartment living is that sometimes you are going to hear your neighbors. Particularly when you live in a downstairs apartment, which is one of the reasons I'm glad we live on the second floor.

In the time that we've lived here in this apartment we've had 4 different families/individuals live in the apartment beneath us.

The first and longest was Mr. A. He was generally a nice man, and worked on the maintenance staff. He had a dog that liked to bark--at anything. And sometimes we could hear his music--loud and late at night. But I always shrugged that off as a fact of life of apartment living. The only issue that we ever had was when Michael was overseeing new carpet being installed throughout our place. It was noon-ish on a Saturday, and apparently the carpet being installed didn't agree with the hangover Mr. A had. Michael and Mr. A had a few words when Mr. A tried to assert his authority as maintenance man as reason to get the noise of the carpet installation to stop. But even after that Mr. A was as sweet as can be when it came to me and Marty. A few months later Mr. A was fired from the maintenance staff and had to leave the apartment.

The next tenants who lived below us, Family B, seemed nice enough. I said hi to them when I saw them, but I didn't really know them beyond that. They were most memorable because of the intricate chalk work outside their door and the distinctive smells when they cooked. One day after a couple months, they moved.

Then Family C moved in. They were there on a short term basis until they could close on and move into their house. Then they moved out.

A few weeks ago Family D moved in. Since they arrived, much to the disappointment of Cher and Razor, I no longer leave the door out to our balcony open because our new neighbors smoke right below it and the smoke comes right in. Again, not that big a deal. Part of living in an apartment.

Last Saturday Marty and I were watching a movie. I admit, it wasn't quiet, and at a particularly loud point in the movie we got a banging on our floor. We quickly turned down the total volume and turned off the bass completely. The next night Marty was listening to music and I was working out. I got a bang on the floor under me. Now, let me clarify "working out"--it wasn't high impact anything, it wasn't step aerobics, and it sure wasn't kick boxing. It was yoga-esque with some squats, lunges, and crunches added in. After the banging I asked Marty to turn down his music, and I was particularly aware of any movements I made during the last 10 minutes of my workout (since the pounding originated from immediately below me). But still a few minutes later we got a knock on the door--the neighbor. About the noise.

This morning I got a call from our apartment complex office. They've had complaints from our neighbors of too much noise. She mentioned loud music late at night every night.

In trying to feel out the issue I asked, "Is it just our downstairs neighbors?" But I realized that I didn't adequately express what I meant when she replied that complaints are confidential. So I tried again. "Have we had complaints from multiple neighbors?"

She said yes and then said something about a former maintenance employee. Ah. Mr. A. (when Marty called later he got a little more information on this complaint--completely second hand--one maintenance man said something to another maintenance man...)

And then she mentioned "They also complained of a loud alarm clock early in the morning."

We ended the call and we hung up.

I've never thought before that I'm a particularly bad neighbor. We don't throw parties (except for the occasional book club!). We aren't drug dealers. We don't play the drums (someone on the other side of the building does).

And I don't really want to be a bad neighbor now. I'll work to make sure our music and movies aren't too loud. But the alarm clock? Yes, sometimes I wake up early. And I wake up to a cell phone alarm. But I intentionally use what I consider the least loud and obnoxious ring, and it lasts about 5 seconds or less before I get it turned off. As for working out? I don't know. I'll try to be quieter about my crunches and stretching, I guess.

Here are some of the things that I just deal with because that's part of living in an apartment...
I hear my teenage next-door-neighbor's music through the wall or other music through the floor. I hear neighbors' dogs. I've had dog poop outside my door. I've had a puddle of dog pee outside my door. I've been smoked off of my balcony. I hear people running up and down the stairs. I smell their food efforts--good and bad. I wouldn't even think of complaining to either the neighbors themselves or to management. (OK, after the second issue of dog poop we mentioned to the kid who just got a puppy that he needs to clean up after it).

Like I said, I don't want to be a bad neighbor, but I kinda think these neighbors and their complaints are a little ridiculous.

A Trend Among Scientists...

Hypothesis-based research.

Who knew?

I can't wait to see what will be hip among scientists next season.

Local News

I don't watch the local news that often. Instead I tend to use the internet and radio as my news sources. But the other day I caught some of a local news broadcast.

The footage: Live feed of two burning houses with collapsed roofs, etc., surrounded by firetrucks.
The voice over: Fire crews are working on extinguishing the flames in two houses in Such-and-Such neighborhood that caught fire tonight. It's not clear at this time in which home the blaze started it, but it is clear that both houses are on fire.

Scientificity

Recently I've been trying to figure out what direction I want to take my career. I've realized that although I generally like research, it's not what I want to do forever. Late last summer I began thinking about careers in intellectual property. So starting with connections I already had I began conducting information interviews. The more I learned the more it seemed like a good fit for me.
One of the directions I could go is to become a Patent Agent. To do that I'd have to take and pass the Patent Bar. So I began looking into the details of that. Now, in order to take the Patent Bar you do not need to go to law school, but you do need to have a scientific background. You can demonstrate your scientific background in a couple of ways. The least complicated is to have a "Bachelor's Degree in a Recognized Technical Subject"
Greater than 50% of the list of recognized technical subjects include the word "Engineering". Not me. The closest fits are biology, biochemistry, microbiology, molecular biology, and pharmacology. But my BS is in animal science. Unfortunately, I don't think that's close enough to any in the list--especially since later in the paperwork it specifically says that a degree in "Biological Sciences" (which sounds a whole lot like "Biology" to me) falls in the category of "Bachelor's Degrees in Other Subjects." And even those who have graduate degrees in one of their listed subjects must demonstrate that they are sufficiently science-y by meeting the same criteria as those with degrees in "Other Subjects".
So the option that looks best to me is to provide documentation to show that I've had 8 semester hours of chemistry or 8 semester hours of physics and 24 semester hours in biology, botany, microbiology, or molecular biology. Easy enough.
Kind of.
You see, they want more documentation than just transcripts. They want course descriptions of all of the classes I'll be using to show my scientific-ness--course descriptions from the course catalogs of the year I took the class. Now I don't know about you, but I didn't happen to save all of the course catalogs from my years at BYU. Luckily BYU has many of the past course catalogs online (and I'm hoping that'll be good enough for the USPTO). But the online course catalogs only go back to 1997. Problem. I started in 1996.
I called BYU. The records office has one copy of older course catalogs, but no extras. They transfered me to Mail Services--because sometimes they have that sort of thing... Nope. They transfered me to Publications and Graphics. The woman I spoke to said she'd see what she could come up with. This afternoon I got a call back--turns out they keep 2 archived copies, but again, no spares.
I guess I'll be making a request for some photocopies.

Squares

I've thought for awhile that the wall behind our couch was too bare, so I worked on coming up with something that would better fill the space. Originally I'd thought I might try my hand at painting something--something geometric. Squares.

And then my inexperience with paint and the cost of a canvas as big as I wanted scared me off of that idea for awhile. Instead I decided that I could use the same basic geometric pattern and quilt something using $1 a yard fabrics and what I already had in my stash.

And while I'm on the topic of quilts...

I'd like to make a quilt of reunion shirts. But I'm missing some years of shirts, and would like some help rounding them up. I've got 1994-2006, and Mom was able to find 1988-1992 pretty quickly. But its 1980-1986 that I'm still lacking (the colors that Daddy-A's family had these years --green, red, royal blue, and navy blue). So, if you can help me out, that'd be fabulous!

Issues of the day

This morning as I was getting ready I noticed that one of the buttons on the shirt I'd chosen was broken. An important button. Time for a new shirt.

A few minutes later.... (I got a hair cut a couple days ago. It's shorter than I wanted, and I'm having trouble doing it.)

Peanut: How does my hair look?

Marty: Good.

Peanut: Does it look like old lady hair?

Marty: Um, yeah. It's kind of poofy.


A few minutes later....

Peanut: Probably not these socks with these shoes, huh.

Marty: No. Definitely not. You're having fashion issues this morning, aren't you?

throw up and poop

WARNING: The following post is going to be about throw up and poop. I know. It's gross. If this topic offends your sensibilities or if you have a weak stomach, don't read this post.



*****
This story begins a week ago. I got home from church and noticed the bottle of pet odor and stain remover out on the counter. Odd. I asked Marty about it.

Someone (but not either of us) wasn't feeling so well. Marty said he'd already cleaned about 5 throw up messes. But he didn't know who was doing it.

Foolishly I thought the issue was taken care of.

It wasn't.

Later when Razor and I were taking our Sunday afternoon nap on the couch, I woke up to Razor vomiting on the blanket we were sharing. Cute. I guess that answered the question of which one was sick.

Until an hour or so later when I caught Cher vomiting on the living room carpet.

Ugh. I figured they'd gotten into something together and were now forcing Marty and I to suffer the consequences. I still don't know what they got into. We took a watch and wait approach rather than taking them to the vet immediately.

Other than the throwing up thing, Razor seemed fine. She was eating fine. Pooping fine. Drinking. And after Sunday she really wasn't throwing up. At least for a couple days. But I'll get to that in a minute.

Cher on the other hand clearly wasn't feeling well. She stopped eating. She'd find a hiding place and stay put, and she'd complain when I picked her up rather than purring like she normally does. She did this for a couple of days. Days. Not eating. In fact, there were a few times that I offered her food, she took a sniff then immediately threw up. The fact that she was still drinking is the only thing that kept her from going to the vet early in the week.

On Wednesday I was ready to take Cher in. But Wednesday was not a day that I could rearrange to make it work into my schedule. By Wednesday evening Cher's attitude was up. She was acting like she was feeling better. I offered her food. She didn't throw up in response. Improvement! Marty offered her tuna. She didn't eat it. I took a medicine syringe and force-fed her the tuna water. Aside from the sticking a syringe in her mouth part, she actually seemed to like it.

I watched her. No throw up. I gave her more tuna water. Still no throw up.

But she still wasn't eating--either her food or the tuna. So on Thursday I got her some Nutri-Cal, which is sort of like Pedia-lyte but for cats--a nice mix of electrolytes, vitamins, and sugar all in a nice gooey paste. I force-fed her a bit of that in the medicine syringe. Again, she seemed to kind of like it except that it involved me restraining her and sticking a syringe in her mouth. But at least Cher was feeling better.

While this was all going on, we were continuing to find throw up spots. Not necessarily new ones, just in places we hadn't looked. It was like a really messed up Easter egg hunt. The first ones we found were in places we'd notice quickly--door ways, the kitchen floor, our bed. But the others were less obvious--Cher's favorite chair to sleep on, the quilt on the couch (different quilt than the one Razor had thrown up on right in front of me), off to the side in the second bedroom.

Back to Razor. Saturday morning 3:41 am. Razor woke me up just in time to get me to sit up so she could puke where I had been lying. Thanks, Dog.

And then there was this morning. This morning was the worst.

A smell was permeating my dreams. I rolled over, but it remained. At first I thought it was a Razor fart. A really, really potent Razor fart. And suddenly I knew. It was poop. Cher poop. At 5:51 am.

I hopped out of bed to survey the scene. First stop, Marty's bathroom where the litter box is. The good news is that there was poop in the litter box. But there was also poop smeared on the bathroom floor. And on the walls, and the kitchen floor, and the living room carpet, and more walls, and doors, and I really, really wish I were exaggerating.

Cher had had a slight problem and had some poop stuck to her tail. Try as she might, she couldn't get it off. And from the looks of the apartment, it looked like she really was trying with all her might. I helped her out, and then began on the apartment clean up. Oh, and just in case the poop wasn't enough, Razor puked in the dining room while I was cleaning up in the kitchen.

I guess this is Cher and Razor's way of saying "Thanks, Mom. We love you. Happy Mother's Day."

One Year Later

A year ago I nearly lost Marty.
Miraculously I didn't.
To all of you who gave so much love and support and helped us make it through a very difficult time--Thank you.
And Marty, thanks for sticking around. I love you.

38 years in the making

When I was at Mom and Dad's house in February, Mom worked on getting rid of some of her stash by giving it to me. Among the things in her stash were 9 blocks that she'd embroidered. She asked me if I'd be interested making them part of a finished product.

I didn't realize until I was at Mom's house last week that she first started the embroidery before Michael was born. So it's taken awhile, but the project is finally done.

I'm pretty happy with the final product.

The Magic of My Purse

I have a couple of friends who have teased me about the things I keep in my purse, or that I might happen to have in it at any particular moment. For example, if someone needed a loaf of bread, a blanket, a house plant, and a GI Joe figurine, the first place to look would be my purse.

Once, while in graduate school, a number of my graduate student colleagues decided to be spontaneous and catch a matinee movie. A few minutes into the movie I was asked what treats I had--I had enough fruit snack packs to pass down the row to everyone.

Another time I was out with friends and someone said, "I don't suppose you have a sharpie in there." Sure enough, I had a couple.

In fact, one of the first impressions I made on one of my grad school friends was when someone asked to borrow a pen for class and I responded, "Do you want green, or black, or purple, or pink, or red...?"

This past week, Sam also figured out that my purse can be a valuable commodity. For those who don't know, Sam likes candy. After a couple times of me reaching into my purse and producing treats for him, he knew the source of my power. But eventually I ran out of candy to give him. We were out shopping and Sam asked me for a treat. I told him I didn't have any more. But Sam didn't quite believe that was possible. So he asked to see my purse and while I checked out he sorted through my purse hoping to prove me wrong.

I wasn't. (OK, I did still have 2 starlight mints and a whole roll of breathsavers, but I thought he'd think they were "too spicy".)

Evidence I haven't been cooking much lately...

Scene: Kitchen table at my friend B's house. There are about 8 of us women sitting around and chatting.
L [examining table cloth]: B, do you always use a table cloth? I like it.
B: Yes, I always use a table cloth, but this one is one of my nicer ones.
L [thinking of her 3 kids 4 and under]: It would never stay nice at my house.
B: This one might. It's all polyester, and totally easy to clean--everything comes out.
M: Yeah, these polyester ones are great. An oil stain might take some work to get out, but everything else is a breeze!

Sonnet [with images of refineries and motor oil dancing through her head]: Like petroleum?

Science Experiments

When I was younger, maybe 4 or 5, I remember riding in the car and wondering about the how the lock and the door handle worked. Specifically, I wondered if I could open the door from the inside even if it were locked. I understood that the door needed to be unlocked in order to open the door from the outside of the car, but what about from inside the car?

So I designed an experiment--complete with hypothesis. And then I tested it.

Turns out my hypothesis was wrong. In that particular car, the car door would, and did, open from the inside, even when locked.

Did you remember that I said I was *riding* in the car as all that went on? Fortunately there was someone sitting not too far away (and not driving) who could help get the door closed tightly and safely. It was about then that it occurred to me that it might have been better for me to perform this experiment when the car was parked.

Self Worth?

After graduating from BYU I worked in a research lab at BYU for the summer before I started graduate school. Because I hadn't specifically done hard wage negotiations before some of the paperwork was filled out, a secretary determined that I would be paid $6.50/hour*. This really bothered me. I was a college graduate. I was the pride of the department and they could brag about the quality of their education based on the graduate schools and programs I was accepted to. And yet I was still only worth $6.50 an hour. After a number of pep-talks, I went back to defend myself and my value. They gave in and upped my wage.

When I started graduate school I was in awe--I was making more money than I ever had--a whopping $17,500 per year. To go to school! At some point in the course of my five years of graduate school, things changed. As I became more independent and needed less hand holding, I also realized that my stipend didn't feel as generous as it once had.

So I graduated, and moved up to the postdoc payscale--a considerable jump over the graduate student stipend. But now as I'm looking into "real jobs" I realize that I'm still undervaluing myself. Yesterday I was talking to a recruiter, and she asked about my salary requirements. Fortunately I knew enough to answer that question by turning it back on her and asking what they considered competitive for that type of position. She hemmed and hawed a little about experience and education and the role they play in determining salary. She then acknowledged that I met all of their experience and educational expectations and she gave a salary range. A range that puts my current salary to shame.

Since then I've been thinking about how effectively I've been "trained" into underestimating my worth. And it sort of scares me how much I might have undersold myself. Taking it beyond the job and the salary situation, I wonder--how often do I sell my birthright for a mess of pottage and imagine that I'm getting the better end of the deal?

* I think it was $6.50, but my memory may be off a quarter or two.

Not in the Club

The other night I went to a baby shower for a friend of mine from church who is expecting her first child. One of the things that we did while at the shower is make an advice book. So we each were given little cards with instructions. On the first card we were to write advice for a new mom. The second was for our favorite baby products (or least favorite). And the third we were to write our favorite things about being a mom.

Everything changed for me when I finished reading the instructions. All of a sudden I felt out of place. It was like that Sesame Street song was playing "One of these things is not like the others...." and I'd just figured out which it was--me. My first reaction was to re-bundle my set of cards and offer them to the next person who arrived.

After a few minutes I decided to adapt the cards for me. And I told myself not to be so sensitive.

Later in the night a little quip someone had written about changes after becoming a mother was being passed around for everyone to enjoy. As it approached me someone said, "Oh, better not let Peanut read it, or she'll never want to have kids."

And there I was, again. Odd woman out.

Here it is, days later, and it still bothers me to think about it. Part of what bothers me is that I feel more connected to this Relief Society and these women than I have with any other ward I've been in--even my single student wards. Now there's this part in the back of my mind that wonders if I've just been fooling myself, and I'm not as connected to these women as I thought I was. How could I be? I don't have kids.

sick

I'm sick. Wednesday morning I felt good. By Wednesday afternoon I was developing a cough. Thursday morning, though I felt like crap, I felt optimistic and thought I'd go ahead and go to work. I got a couple miles down the road before I realized what a dumb idea that was and turned around. I went to the doctor on Friday. He agreed--I'm sick. Fever. Congestion. Irritated throat.

So here it is, Sunday morning, I'm still sick. But it's Sunday morning, and I have stuff to do. So I got up with my alarm at 7:30, and called my RS president, Ruth, just in case she could take care of some of the stuff. No answer. Oh yeah, she had a 8am meeting this morning. OK, proceed with doing what I need to do. I shower, find appropriate church clothes, get my things together and leave. I pick up the woman and her baby who need a ride to church. We get to church. I make the photocopies I need. I see Ruth--she tells me to go home and be sick. I tell her that I'm planning to, but I still have things to do. Fortunately, I can transfer most of my things to do onto her, but not everything.

I sit in the foyer to put the copies I've made into the binders before I hand them off to someone else. Oh! There's Megan. I give her a copy of our latest book for book club. I was supposed to give it to her on Thursday morning when we walk in the morning, but I was sick, so I didn't walk.

Eventually, I have redistributed all of the things I needed to take care of. And I head back out to my car to go home, get in bed, and work on getting better. It's an hour since I left home, two hours since I got up. Sometimes I wish I weren't so responsible and on top of things. But I also know that's why I get asked to take care of some of the things I do--because they know I won't drop the ball. Even if I'm sick.

Pay no attention to the cat behind the curtain

This is one of Cher's new fun games. It combines her fascination with the bathroom, in general, and the fun of surprise attacks. She will "hide" behind the curtain and attack passers-by. Or if there's no one to jump out on, she also enjoys toilet-gazing through the curtain. Crazy cat.

Requirements: 3-7 years proven Superhero experience

The other day I found a job listing that seemed pretty good. I showed it to Marty and he agreed that I should apply. I noticed that on the company website there was a "Tips for your application" link. I checked it out, and it went on and on about the cover letter. So I put extra care into my cover letter, and as recommended, I scanned my transcripts into a pdf to send as well.

Last night I was ready to apply. I was a little surprised after all that about cover letters, that a cover letter wasn't part of the online system. So I looked back at the application tips, and it looked like those directions were specific to UK and European postings.

Oh well, on with the application. I submitted my resume, I answered the questions they asked, but there was one required field that stumped me. "Descriptive phrase" with this note "This will be prominently displayed before everything else when recruiters searching for candidates find your resume." In 35 characters or less.

I asked Marty. He thought about it a minute then said, "Hmm. I don't know. Can't help you with that one." And then he fell asleep. It was too late to start calling people for opinions, so I just went with the first thing that came to mind that was less than 35 characters--a nickname my friend Crazy Horse Lady gave me.

Descriptive phrase: aka "Tiny Dynamo Super Chick"

And I clicked submit. A few seconds later I got confirmation that my application was successfully sent.

Sweet Like Maraschino Cherries

Tonight when I got home I smelled something. At first I thought Marty was baking something for me. But when I asked what he'd made, his only answer was "lasagna" (don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about the lasagna, but that was not what I was smelling).

I left home and came back, still the same smell. Like maraschino cherries or almond extract. Kind of yummy, but also strong and pungent.

I called a bunch of people, and no one seemed to have any idea about this odor that was strongest around my furnace and hot water heater closet. A few minutes ago I spoke with the on call maintenance man, and once I described what it smelled like he said, "Oh. Today we fumigated the apartment beneath you and it had a really strong cherry scented deodorizer. That's probaby what you're smelling."

So that's it. They bombed the place downstairs. In case you were wondering.

Why I *NEEDED* that big, heavy desk...

A number of weeks ago, as I was working on reclaiming our second bedroom, I found a crochet hook at the bottom of a box. Now, until that day the extent of my crocheting experiences was limited to finger-crocheting a belt or something in girl scouts. But there it was, in my apartment, a perfectly good crochet hook. Thank you, internet, for the pattern and instructions, including diagrams. Here's what I made:
I suppose my cell phone didn't really need a cute little cozy, but it seemed like an easy enough thing to start with. And actually, even though I had picture instructions, I still needed to call Mom and say, "OK, I'm trying to crochet, and I don't understand the instructions. They say 'Blah, blah, blah' but how does that work?"

And Mom said, "Well, you 'blah, blah, blah'." Somehow all it took was Mom quoting the instructions back to me for me to get it. She's just that good.

Shortly after my cell phone was snug as a bug, I moved on to another activity. I used leftover fabric from my shower curtain to make a little something to hang on the opposite wall of my bathroom.

Once I was finished with that, I decided to actually read the quilting book I found in Mom's library and she said I could have. And after reading it I decided to do more than just one block. Marty picked out the pattern from the book, and when I asked him how big I should make it, he suggested I make it as big as the book suggested ("crib size") and kindly reminded me that it was my first real pieced quilt. So now the quilt top is done, and I'm ready to put the layers together. Of course this quilt will have yarns, but I'm also considering doing some quilt stitching around the boats. We'll see. (As you can see, this is a project that Razor and Cher have really wanted to help out with too.)

Close to Home

A few weeks ago I was jostled to attention as I thought I heard the name of our apartment complex on the news. Too bad I'd missed the actual story.

The internet came to the rescue to help me verify that yes, indeed, our complex was in the news. And not exactly for a good thing.

Turns out someone was murdered in our complex back in 2002. The current buzz is because the woman's family is suing the complex with accusations of an unsafe environment in the complex making the murder possible.

Now, I admit, I don't know any more about the murder or the case than is in the news. But I read about some of the claims, and I know exactly what they're talking about--the poorly lit parking lots and courtyards; the dense shrubbery that obscures views and acts as a potential predator hiding place; the less than fabulous window locks. Yep, that's our complex.

I'm more glad than ever that we live on the second floor. I'm glad I've got Marty. And Razor (OK, I know she's not big, but she is a good alarm). I lock the door more regularly. I guess seeing our complex in the news is just a little close to home.

My Multi-purpose Room

One of my projects for about the past six months has been to reclaim our second bedroom. Especially after we brought our stuff home from storage in Arizona that bedroom became our generic place to put stuff. And more stuff. And anything else we didn't want to deal with right away. It didn't help that I came home from Mom and Dad's at Christmas with 2 boxes of memorabilia from high school.

As I worked on going through things I assured Marty that it would get better some day. I don't think he believed me. Slow and steady I threw things away, put things in notebooks or totes, and found homes for all (or at least most) of the stuff. One Saturday a couple weeks ago I called Marty in to see. The floor was cleared enough to vaccuum. That was a huge step, but I still wasn't done.

Early last week I decided that I wanted a craft table in this room--for the crafty things I've been doing (I'll talk about them in a later post). Craigslist helped me out there. I found a free office desk. The guy I talked to warned me that it was heavy. He told me 250 pounds. I passed that information on to my work crew--Marty and our home teacher. No problem! Can't be worse than the sleeper-sofa that they moved up here back in September. If the guy had estimated the weight correctly. But the time they got to the apartment, they had already recruited more help to get it up the stairs and into our apartment. And then I was told not to call them when we move. Or that the desk would just stay put when we move. The final estimate was that the desk weighed more like 350 pounds. Amazingly, I actually had cleared up the space in this room to fit the 3 ft. by 6 ft. desk.

I really, really, really appreciate the hard labor that Marty and associates put into getting the desk in here, becuase I love it. All my sewing stuff and yarn and fabrics fit nicely in the drawers. It's big enough to have the sewing machine, an ironing station, a cd player, a lamp, and a tv on it all at once without feeling overly crowded.

Our second beroom with all the stuff in it is now our multi-purpose room. It still has our camping stuff (with sleeping bags hanging on the wall), our bicycles, a couch, our bookshelf with books, and extra bedding. It's functional now--multi-functional even. So much better than just overflow storage.

Thrift Store musings

I'm not sure what it is about thrift stores, but I have a strange atrraction to them. There's just something about the unique, and cheap things they have--especially the clothes--that makes thrift store shopping so satisfying.

Some favorite shops:
The City Rescue Mission in New Castle. I don't think I ever went there and left empty handed. That was where I got leather pants, tons of sweaters, and my cute. sparkly, light blue dress and jacket. Great stuff! And the prices were great--especially since we always seemed to go on 1/2 off days. Plus, there was that time when we were there at closing time, but didn't realize they were closing, and we had so much stuff, and the employees really just wanted to go and not debate what was 1/2 off and what wasn't, so after ringing up a bunch of stuff, they finally looked at the rest of the stack and gave it all to us for free.

DI in Provo/Orem. Green turtle sandbox. 'Nuf said.

Salvation Army in Rochester. Who would have thought I'd find a leather coat that matched those leather pants perfectly? And yet I did--for only $7. Score! Also, a great place to find Wranglers, cowboy boots, and Western top for a night out at the cowboy tavern.

Wise Owl thrift shop in Rochester. I didn't frequent this store too often, but when I walked to and from the lab, it was on my way. When I saw the lime green suit in the window, I knew I needed it. But that first day it was still too expensive for what I'd decided was an acceptable price. I waited it out and got it a few weeks later 1/2 off. I still have that suit, and I still love it.

The various thrift stores in Iowa City, and that one in Waterloo (pronounced with emphasis on the "loo"). I like these stores mostly for the fun memories of making them part of our excursions when I was visited Boss, and co.

What I don't like about thrift stores is when they try to come off as "upscale", but really all that seems to mean is that they have the same quality stuff with better organization so they charge more money. I laughed when I saw a pair of jeans at one such thrift store on sale for $5. Now, maybe that doesn't sound like all that much, but what was so funny is that I had purchased an identical (same brand, color, size, style) pair at Wal-Mart months earlier for $1. Yep, four quarters, new.

I ike the Goodwill stores around here generally because the prices are quite reasonable. $3.39 per pair of adult jeans. $4.59 for jackets. $2.59 for shirts. $3.39 for shoes. And then there's the bags and coats. I admit, I have absolutely no need for more tote bags or coats, but I can't resist. I love them. Must look. Just. in. case. Unlike other items, totes and coats are "individually priced." On my way home one night this week I stopped at a Goodwill. I found a great suede coat. It fit perfectly. I wanted it. But I couldn't see a price tag on it. I took a moment and decided it was worth $10 to me. Maybe, maybe $15. I asked one lady, she classified it as a jacket and told me $4.59. But the lady at checkout found a price--$30. ! I bid goodbye to that coat. I've had the same thing happen with tote bags at that store. Everything else is so cheap, why do they do that to me when it comes to coats and tote bags? Oh well, I didn't really need that coat.

Acrobatics