I FEEL SO LOVED

Yesterday, after my part time job, I went to the Personal History luncheon, which we hold once a month. I took the ugly salad on my cookbook site and Sarah had made candied yams and everyone else brought desserts, which is just about right.

After taking my 96 year old friend, Mona, home, I hightailed it to Smith's because it was the last day of their case lot sale. (See yesterday's post.) After I was finished shopping I started the car...almost. It was doing it's Clown Car antics. Tried again, nothing. So I did what I always do in any bad situation. I call Phil. He is my "voice of reason." I knew he couldn't help but I called him anyway. He told me it was probably flooded and to just let it sit for a while and then try again.

So, I went to Sally's Beauty Supply and looked at all the fingernail stuff for 20 minutes and then I went to Tuesday Morning and looked at all the stuff that is supposed to be terrific bargains but just seems like a bunch of junk, with some good stuff mixed in. All of it was higher priced than I think it should be, but I spent a good half hour or so and then I left and thought I'd try to start the Clown Car again.

Just outside of Tuesday Morning I met Taylor, my son. "Oh, Mom," he said, "you're all right." And then he gave me the biggest hug. It was worth an hour of inconvenience to get a hug like that.

"We've called and called you."

"You have?"

And so I looked at my phone and there were 17 missed phone calls, from him and Phil. (I had the phone on vibrate at work and hadn't changed it.) I also had a bunch of texts that said things like, "Are you okay?" "Where are you?" "WHERE ARE YOU?!?"

Both Phil and Taylor had come to my rescue.

The car started right up.

Taylor rode home with me to make sure I was all right.

Phil followed us to make sure the car wouldn't quit on me.

I must be loved.

I'M GOING TO RECREATE THE SUNDAY DINNERS I ENJOYED AS A CHILD

I have decided that, after a half a zillion years of marriage, I am going have some of the comforts of my youth--namely Sunday dinner, although not necessarily on Sunday.

Mom fried the chicken, chicken we raised from chicks. (I'll spare you the somewhat fun-and-fuzzy-baby-chicks details, and also the gory-get-the-now-grown-chickens-dead-and-in-the-freezer details.)

We had mashed potatoes, made in the pressure cooker, whipped to creamy goodness. (No potatoes for me--they are a nightshade vegetable, and seem to make my newly diagnosed arthritic joints practically scream with pain.)

Mom made chicken gravy, using the drippings, milk and thickening (a slurry of water and flour. Mom didn't know the word slurry so it was "thickening"). There will be no chicken gravy as none of us drink milk. I will probably broil the chicken, much easier and it is everyone's favorite.

Fresh tomatoes and crookneck squash from the garden. No tomatoes for me (nightshades) and our squash plants refuse to produce more than one squash a week--even the zucchini. I think they need more fertilizer but we have had the ongoing argument about fertilizer, plus, "the back lawn needs more water" discussion so often that it's just best to ignore the only-one-squash-a-week subject and to secretly put the water on the back lawn every time Phil leaves the house.

The last item on our Sunday dinner was fruit salad made with whipped cream. My sister, Pat, who was the light of everyone's life, and the fun and laughter, too, was always supposed to whip the cream. Which she did, protesting. And the reason she protested was because she always whipped it too long, and it almost turned into butter. Pat was a dreamer and the sound of the beaters took her to fantasies no one else could imagine. The cream could have cried out loud to her, "I'm turning to butter," she wouldn't have heard it. When mother realilzed the sound of the beaters had gone on a long time she would take the portable mixer out of Pat's hands, hang her head, and mutter, "Not again," in a tiny voice. And then she would do some kind of magic with a splash of milk and some vanilla and sugar and she would say, "See, as good as new." Then it would get poured over a drained can of fruit cocktail with whatever fresh fruit was available. Peaches in the fall, bananas and apples in the dead-of-winter and in even the deader-of-winter it was wrinkly apples, brought in from the fruit-room, peeled and chopped fine so no one could really identify them. Mom was a master of making something delicious out of practically nothing.

This afternoon I went to Smith's grocery store because it was the last day of the case lot sale. Since I am intending to re-create Mom's Sunday dinner I bought a case of fruit cocktail. I'm intending to re-create it 24 times.

Tonight was the night. Broiled chicken, truly the backbone of this memorable meal. Phil made his own potatoes in self defense and warmed up the pork gravy from two days ago, also in self defense--or maybe it was not "self defense," maybe it's "self preservation of all things delicious that he loves, that I was not making."

No one sliced a tomato, even though there was a ripe one on the breadboard and more in the garden. No one cooked the lone, shriveling crookneck squash or the one four pound zucchini that the zucchini plant spits out once a week. And, even though the fruit cocktail is still in a box on the living room floor, no one made fruit salad because in order to make fruit salad with whipped cream you need to actually buy some cream. And some peaches and maybe a banana or two.

Phil opened a can of green beans and heated it while his gravy was simmering and his potatoes (potato pearls from Costco, in a box that looks like a milk carton) were waiting for the water to boil. Bless Phil's heart, he may not use enough fertilizer or water the back lawn often enough, but he's a clever man in the kitchen with a can opener and a box of fake food. Without him dinner would have been a one item meal.

So, here's to the Sunday dinners, of our youth. I hope you too, can recreate delicious memories, just like your mom made.

JUKI--THE WORD OF THE DAY

Tonight I was sending a text message to someone when this lovely piece of string was ever so gently lowered right in front of my phone screen. Yes, I screamed. And I threw my phone against the wall. (Luckily the phone still works.) This is what I typed as the screaming and throwing of the phone commenced: juki

This is the meaning of juki: What goes around, comes around and you will get yours later.

And this is what happened later:

The maker of the awesome string spider, Elizabeth, was standing in the hall when she noticed a real spider coming directly at her.

"Get it! Get it!" she said, "A spider, Dad, get it!"

"You get it," Phil said.

"No you get it," she said. She was getting a little hysterical by now.

Phil smacked the spider with a book. When he removed the book the dazed spider put on a burst of speed, closing the distance to Elizabeth.

"GET IT! GET IT!" She screamed. She has a fine pair of lungs. I was in the bedroom and my ears are still ringing.

Phil smacked the spider again. Now the spider had a drunken gait but his legs worked remarkably well.

"Getitgetitgetit. DAD, GET IT!"

He smacked it with the book again and this time it's wounds were critical. It either died or was in a leg-sticking-out-at-odd-angles coma.

Phil took the book and gently edged it under the oddly-leg-sticking-out maybe dead spider and tried to flick it at Elizabeth.

She went ballistic. Not that she wasn't before, but this time it was a real agitated, wildly, arm flinging fit.

He tried to flick it at her again and her eyes crossed, she called for me, just like when she was four and her siblings were teasing, "MO-O-O-O-O-O-O-M!

And then she ran in the bathroom and slammed the door, and that is why "juki" is my new favorite word.

PHIL'S (TIRED) FAMILY PRAYER

"Dear Heavenly Father,

"We're thankful for this day and for all the stuff I said in the dinner prayer."

I snorted.

Maybe Heavenly Father did too.

OUR NEWEST GRANDDAUGHTER--DAISY

This is baby Daisy having her first bath. She had been all stretched out, so content, when the nurse swabbed her down and then put her head under the faucet and scrubbed it. Daisy was not happy. Her lungs are functional, that's for sure.Daisy's Daddy comforted her.I accidentally erased the photo that Max sent me of Daisy and her Momma, taken just a minute after her birth. I'll have to have him send it again. Here's a photo from Hillary's Blog. Max is already giving Daisy a helping hand. He loves all his girls. He has three, now. Four, counting Hillary, Daisy's momma. This is two days old. Being born is so tiring.Her big sister, Ruby.

Ruby, Phil--Daisy's grandpa--and Maddy.
Daisy had to come by C-section because her sisters were so big at birth and the doctor says he lost two weeks of his life trying to get them here safely. But Daisy is the smallest one of all. Nine pounds nine ounces doesn't seem small but she is. I think she will loose that baby fat quickly and think she may take after her great-grandma Snyder, who was just five feet tall. I guess time will tell.

Phil, had to have throat surgery the same day as Hillary had her surgery. Almost at exactly the same time! I abandoned Phil, pre-surgery, to go see if the baby had come. Indeed she had. I made it on time to get her first bath photos.

Phil is recovering nicely--he had an esophageal pouch that had to be--not removed--but incorporated into the esophagus. He said he had "popped a gizzard." You can see where my children get their odd sense of humor.

He is supposed to eat soft food for several days and tonight he blended spare ribs (boneless), corn, noodles and sauce with some water and poured his dinner into a bowl. I couldn't watch. It looked like what gruel must look like.

So, all in all, last week was a good one for us. The birth of our newest little one. Phil's throat fixed--it had been bothering him for close to ten years.

Baby Daisy has some jaundice and is spending time under the "lights." Both her sisters also had jaundice and it was harder on Hillary than anyone. They let Daisy go home with portable lights but she will have to be checked at the hospital tomorrow. We're keeping our fingers crossed that the jaundice will be under control.

Congratulations to Max and Hillary and thank you for giving us another granddaughter to love.

GRAPE-FLAVORED WATER

About ten years ago we had to go to California to clean out Phil's mom's house, as it was being sold. That very week I stepped on a downed tree branch in the garden--it rolled just as I stepped on it and I fell. I cracked the bone in my calf. I was on crutches so couldn't go. Taylor and Bentley volunteered to go and help their dad.

They had adventures--oh the adventures those three had--and both boys played pranks on their dad...many pranks. One of those many things they did was to fiddle with Phil's water bottle--he kept finding grapes in it. When Phil got home he said it was like living with two monkeys.

Last week Taylor borrowed the Yukon to move some things. When the car came back this is what Phil found.

WEASEL FIGHTS AND CREAKING DOORS, OH MY!

Last night I fixed Elizabeth a sandwich--late--probably ten o'clock. (That's because I'm such a nice Mom.) Phil was sitting at the table eating graham crackers and rice milk. I stuffed a piece of salami in my mouth, I figured it was worth whatever points it had. (Obviously I still haven't figured points out yet.)

"What are you eating?" Phil asked.

"Pepperoni."

"Did you eat it all?"

You should know something about skinny Phil. He eats whatever he wants, whenever he wants. He eats with everybody. If someone is eating he will find out what they are eating, and sit down to have some, too. So, naturally he ate the rest of the salami. Graham crackers and rice milk and salami. A great combination.

He went to bed.

I went to bed a couple of hours later. In the middle of the night I woke up because there was a weasel fight outside our bedroom window. We sleep with the window open and so we hear lots of things in the middle of the night, but I've never heard a weasel fight before. In fact I've never even seen a weasel. But I knew, for sure, that I was hearing a knock-down, winner-take-all, weasel fight.

Then I listened closer and the weasel fight had a rhythm. Squeal, wheeze, pause, pause. Squeal, wheeze, pause, pause. It was Phil. I jumped gently on the bed, he turned over and silence reigned.

Elizabeth always goes to bed several hours after I do--she has insomnia. I heard her open the bathroom door. Screech. And then she closed the bathroom door. Screech. And then she opened the bathroom door. Screech. And closed it. And then I remembered that the bathroom door doesn't screech. It was Phil. I jumped, gently, on the bed twice, he turned over and there was silence.

Twice more I was awakened to bizarre noises but because I'm somewhat of quick learner I realized it was just Phil. I jumped on the bed a few times. Silence.

So, if you too want to be awakened to interesting nighttime activities just let your husband eat a bunch of odd food before bed. You will be amused and even get some jumping-on-the-bed exercise. It's a twofer.

THE LAST DAY OF THE THANKFUL MONTH

First of all, I know this is too long to read. I hope my kids will read it and if they do that will make me happy.

This is the day my very first baby was born--seven days late, I might add. I was so happy, so content, so new-motherish. Phil couldn't stop beaming. Trent was a wonderful baby, but not a cuddler--I think that's changed--he has seven kids, after all. He was always leaning back, looking at everything. He has never gotten over this habit. Everything fascinates him. When he was a teenager I had to tell him, "Go to bed and stop being interesting!" I blame him for my night owlish habits that got etched deep when he was a teen--but, don't tell--it sure was fun to be up late with him. He has the best heart--would do anything for anyone, and does volunteer work for the Sheriff's Department. When he leaves here, with a car full of kids, he always makes two circles in the cul-de-sac and the kids--and me too--love it. He is quirky as well as hard working. Everyone should be a little quirky and he does it well. He would go anywhere to help and has, even in the middle of the night. There seems to be a middle-of-the-night theme to his life.

Next--four years later--came Taylor, the cuddler. A fast delivery--forty-five minutes (Phil reminded me it was 20 minutes--it seemed like forty-five, times five) once we came through the hospital door, but seven days late. A chubby, happy baby. Then, at about year one he got sick, lost the chub and never put it back on. Well, until he worked in the bakery at a restaurant, when he was a teenager, and ate half a dozen rolls, hot out of the oven, slathered in butter, every morning. When he realized what was happening to his fit form he gave up the rolls for slimness. He is now a great cook and the things that boy cooks/bakes are divine. He asks us to Sunday dinner often, and we can hardly get there fast enough. Whenever his department (at BYU) has a cooking contest he takes first prize--every time. The last one was called, "I don't know what's in it but it sure tastes good." He reassures me when I am doubting and when I am worried. And the things that boy says! Totally off the wall. We're always laughing. His sister-in-law says he has "an excess of personality," and he does. He is quirky but tender too. Reads to his girls every night and then says and does things that keep his wife laughing--and shaking her head in disbelief.

Hillary, my first girl came 2 1/2 years later, two bloomin' weeks late. Her name means "happy" and it fits. Everyone loves her. She woke up happy, was happy all day and went to bed happy. I often tell her I think she is really Aunt Pat's child that got misdirected. (Aunt Pat was a total joy and I have moments of stoic grumpiness.) She has more friends than you could count and they all think they are her favorite--and they probably are. When she calls she often says, "It's me!" in the kind of a voice you would use to say, "You won the lottery!" And with her as a daughter we think we did. She is easy going 99% of the time but when she says she doesn't get mad, she gets even, she means it. She is the bestest friend a mother could have and we "play" often but not often enough. It was the saddest day of my life the day she left home. She is funny, compassionate, strict with the kiddies but says such off the wall things to them that they now say off the wall stuff too and we hoot with laughter.

A full five years later came our last boy, Bentley. He was three days early. Way to go, Bentley. Blond and blue eyed. A self assured little boy. "Counting" never worked for him. He just looked at you as if to say, "What kind of silly manipulation is this?" He was slow to read--wanted to be outside, in any kind of weather. When he was ten months old we couldn't keep him from crawling into Bear Lake--c-o-l-d Bear Lake. The first book he read was "Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nim," in second grade, and from then on he was an excellent student. Nothing stopped him from good grades. We never had to say a word. He's put himself through college with scholarships and hard work. He makes me laugh and his laugh makes me laugh more. Then he laughs more and on it goes. I'm almost laughing just thinking about it. My favorite time is having him in the kitchen when I'm cooking, him hovering over me, holding a spoon or a fork, saying, "Maybe I should just taste that." He does love good food. He calls me for cooking advice, which I love.

Our last baby, Elizabeth, was a surprise. Nine years after Bentley was born--our oldest was 21 and on a mission. She was five days late and the doctor hurried her delivery--she's been mad about it ever since. When I wrote an April Fool letter to Trent with a bunch of silly stuff and wrote "The Rabbit died," (we had a powder blue VW Rabbit) he knew I was pregnant. Mom had died the year before and I have always been sad she didn't get to hold this beautiful baby. But, I'll tell you a secret. I think Mom is with her a lot. She looks a lot like Mom too. She is sassy, funny, and smart. I love staying up late with her--there's a staying-up-late pattern here--and I love when she leans over the back of Phil's recliner and talk to me as I'm on the computer. She is independent and determined. She should go into counseling as she can "read" people and sees things no one else does. She doesn't take any guff, well, at least not from her parents and I wonder where that strong will will take her. Good places, I think. Her grandma Snyder was hard headed and we think she watched from Heaven and took note. She is just two inches taller than her tiny grandma and sometimes, when I catch site of her, she takes my breath away as she is so pretty.

These are the things I am most thankful for.

Except for my main thankful, the man I fell in love with so hard so many years ago. He is my strength, my lifeline, brings sanity to my insane moments. He is positive when I doubt. He is steady when I waver. He holds me up when I fall down in a quivering mass of of self doubt. He is the Priesthood holder that I look up to. He goes forward in faith when I whine and look over my shoulder. (I'd probably be the pillar of salt. Well, not really, but I might be a pillar of tears.) He likes facts and numbers while I like Science Fiction. Numbers are Greek to me--I don't even know my own cell phone number. He has every church book ever printed. (Well, he wishes he did.) If you ask him what he wants for a birthday or Christmas he will whip out a 3x5 card that has a list of ten books on it. (He always has 3x5 cards in his pocket.) He is faithful in his church duties and goes the extra mile. He loves his children. He would walk through fire for them but can't express it. I'm the expressive one but he is the one who never steps off the mark. I'm all over the place, dancing along through life, laughing over my shoulder, until I bump up against an obstacle and then Phil rescues me and makes the bump on the head all better. He is a no nonsense kind of guy, so when he says things that are odd, I take him seriously instead of seeing the "funny" in it. Once I learned how funny he really is and quit taking him so literally, life has been a lot more fun. I hope to live through eternity with him by my side.

These are my biggest thankfuls. And my parents and siblings--there is no way to adequately give them the honor they deserve.

Also I adore the people my kids married, and are dating. How did my kids pick so well? I love their partners as if they were my own children. They each have wonderful qualities that complete my children and I honor the parents that helped make them who they are. I am lucky. And blessed.

And up too late, as usual.

KRAMER GETS A BATH

This is how it all began. Kramer loving the back yard. Phil and Elizabeth cleaning up. It was too tempting.

Get me outta here!

Right after that he tumbled head over paws; Elizabeth caught him before he hit the halfway mark.

But, all that outdoor fun meant Kramer eventually needed a bath.

What's that water on for? Is it just for entertainment? Huh, huh? Just for show? That's it isn't it? Just for fun. I'm not goin' under that waterfall, am I?

This is not entertaining.

Every part is attended to. It's a bum deal for sure.

Feel better now? I don't know if he does or not, but he smells better.

LYNNE'S EULOGY ADD ONS

I hope whoever reads my eulogy will say this:

Phil: I can still see him, with a grin on his face, looking up at me from the window of his white Thunderbird. Who wouldn't fall in love with that face? We have gone through some tough times, he has given me more fun times, is the father of the children that I love, is patient, kind and hardly ever says, "I told you so." He worries about his kids, prays about them and loves them as only a father can. He is my rock and I lean on him for all things in my life. He loves the Gospel and wants to serve the very best that he can. I believe he does. I love him with all my heart.

Trent: "Mom, don't take that milk away. It's not even solid yet." Age four. And this one: "I still remember when I figured out math. I was sitting in the hall by my bedroom, looking at the white wall." He was four or five years old. And the day his barefooted friend ran all the way to my house to tell me Trent was stuck on the sidewalk, afraid to move because it was hot and burned his feet. His friend ran on the grass. My Trent. So brilliant and so spacey. He asks me, occasionally, "Does your dog bite?" (From one of the Pink Panther Movies) He has lots of quotes memorized and yes, he really should vacuum the other half of the piano. He drove the Subaru off the road and it rolled a couple of times and only got his pride hurt. Thank goodness. He would do anything for his parents and his siblings. He loves us all, in our undoing and unwinding, it doesn't matter. He loves us.

Taylor: I have a mental picture of him running across the lawn with his hair bouncing every which way--he was about four or five. That kid loved to run. And I will never forget the look on his face when I squirted him with the hose through the screen door. It was worth the mess. And on the way home from Thanksgiving with Cole's borrowed guitar--he fiddled with it the entire time and within a month he could play the guitar. He cleaned my kitchen every day for car privileges and at the time I was fixing four dozen gourmet meals which I sold to businesses. The kitchen was a mess. He walked home from Orem (at 2:00 and 3:00 a.m.) where he worked as a janitor because I slept through the phone when he called for a ride. He was never mad. He always forgives. Always.

Hillary: "I a big goil and can do it myself." And she pulled away from my hand and marched across the street all by herself. She watched as I tried to teach Taylor to tie his shoe. I tried and tried and he just didn't get it. "It's like this," she said and showed him how. She was 2 1/2 years younger. We always ended up in her bedroom, the kids and I. She said because it was the only clean room in the house but that wasn't why and she knows it. She doesn't get mad, she gets even. She fits her name which means happy. She is my get-out-of-the-dumps girl. Just call Hillary and I'll be all right. She cuts our hair and stays and visits instead of going to Target. She lallygags on the lawn swings with me and the girls. She won't speak at my funeral which is okay because I'm not going to die. She loves me. I can't go.

Bentley: The doorknob was broken on his and Hillary's bedroom door. Trent and Taylor and I were playing board games in the kitchen. Bentley couldn't get out of his room. He knocked and knocked. No one came. He went to Hillary for help. She was asleep. By the time we finally went to rescue him he was sound asleep, standing up, with his head on her bed. He jelled his own hair and stuck it straight up in the air at age four. You've never seen a more proud kid. He put himself through college with scholarships. We never once said to him, "Do your homework." He just did it. He drove the Suburban into the creek at Sundance and only got his pride hurt. Thank goodness. He makes me laugh and laugh. His first batch of chocolate chip cookies took 2 1/2 hours but he is quick to tell you they were the perfect cookies. He saves all his receipts and could start the Chicago fire with them, which he wouldn't do because he is in love with Chicago. That's how he lives his life, doing things to perfection. And if anything, that kid has the perfect laugh.

Elizabeth: She made herself a bed in Hillary's room on a shelve in the closet. She wanted to sleep in her big sister's room. She was all bedded down when Hillary came in to get dressed from a shower. The scream can still be heard. She told Hillary's friend, "Your mother doesn't love you," for no reason at all. She told me a string of insults when I made her eat her soup including, "This is swamp soup." And the ultimate insult, "Jesus doesn't love you." She wants to be named for Mom, who died a year before she was born. One day I may legally change her name. She sometimes looks just like Mom and I think there is a special bond between the two of them. I have asked Heavenly Father to "send Mom." to watch over Elizabeth and I think she does. She now says, "I love you too," when we hang up the phone. It makes me happy. She is tender and strong, all at the same time. She always forgives. Always.

When all is said and done...and is it ever EVER all said and done...I've had a great life because of the great people in it.

SHOULDN'T THERE BE RETRIBUTION?

This afternoon I was home alone. I was making some Asian salad dressing and had the blender running. All of a sudden I heard a horribly loud noise and the floor shook. I screamed and turned around to flee when I see Phil standing there, stomping and grinning.

"I didn't want to scare you," he said, "by saying 'hi.' You know how you are, you get scared when I talk to you."

Yes, I do, when I think I'm home alone and all of a sudden someone is talking to me. But a loud-noise-floor-shaking experience? That's not scary?

There should be retribution.

I'M HOKEY--and then if that's not bad enough--I'M ALSO POKEY.

I got a forwarded email a few days ago. You were supposed to number a paper to eleven and then put some numbers down, names of people, and songs. Then you scrolled down to read what your answers meant.

This person in space number three is the one you love: I had written Phil.

The song you put in number eight matches the person in number three: Come Share My Life

Number eleven tells you how you feel about life: I couldn't think of any more songs, my mind went totally blank--you can see I'm defending myself before telling you what I put--The Hokey Pokey.

So, there you have it. My personal creed. Charming.

A REAL BUMMER.

Today it rained. Again. It's rained almost every day for weeks. But today, because Her Excellency of Mousehole planted acorns out front one year and they sprouted and grew into oak trees and because every tree offers gifts, and our oak trees offer gifts of all kinds, IN ALL SEASONS, along with the maples out back, that also offer gifts, IN ALL SEASONS, our rain gutters were plugged. When they are plugged we are in serious trouble. The water drains onto sidewalk and onto and the water soaked flower gardens and then drains into the basement.

Phil got on the roof with the garden hose to unclog the drains. I stood on the front lawn to take his photo. I had a new photo card in my camera, one with more memory. When I loaded it into the old camera, the one I download to the computer with, the old camera wouldn't read it. So, I will have to quit cheating and learn how to use my new camera to download photos.

Bummer.

I hate bummers.

One of my sons hates bummers too. We now have something in common.

So, there is no photos of Phil--brave man that he is--on the roof in the rain.

This will have to do.

This is a photo of Phil, training the dogs that they belong on the floor. He is very stern, as you can see. The dogs are shaking in their boots. They will never be on a lap again.
Gordon,in all his lap sitting glory, while listening attentively to the lecture, has his eye on something.It's Minkey, who is doing his best to ignore those disobedient, lap sitting dogs.And those dogs? They are really listening well, they'll be off Phil and on the floor, where they belong, any minute now. Yup, any minute. Um hum, really, they will.
Just as soon as they finish their naps.

IT'S NOT FAIR

I worked for an hour this morning, digging up the Naked Ladies. I got less than half of them done. I also sweat like a sprinkler system in "spurt" mode. This afternoon Phil dug the rest up. In five minutes. He was dry as the Mojave.

He is more efficient at everything. Except one thing: my body is more efficient with food. It runs on roughly 285 calories and stores the rest. His body runs on every stinkin' calorie he eats (4,500) and then threatens to digest his stomach if he doesn't put huge quantities of food in it, immediately. So he does. Another 1,500 calories.

All the while, I look on, sucking on a rock. Sweaty. With bulges.

THE SAFE PLACE

Tonight I was having feelings of impending doom, hovering just out of sight. Phil and I went for a walk--that is often just enough exercise to snap me out of it.

Some of our neighbors saw us and came out of their house to talk. After we left another neighbor drove into the cul-de-sac and stopped to talk.

We had a magazine article to give to another neighbor but when we got there they had just received a long distance phone call from their son. "We'll let you go," we said but the husband stayed to talk to us for a few minutes. He was so gracious, even though we knew he wanted to get back to the phone.

We came home and I got online and checked blogs. Some are funny and some tell of suffering. Some bloggers are suffering and still they write funny. Then I remembered a quote I put on this post. I decided not to surf the feelings I was having.

I decided to remember my neighbors. I decided to remember my friends, to think of you, out there, connected to me via the Internet. I thought of your goodness, the goodness of my neighbors and friends.

I decided to think of my family--which I consider my greatest blessing--I decided to think of Phil, who is my rock and gave me the chance to have a family. I remembered my original family, the one I came from, the one that goes back and back through the generations. I decided that you--neighbors, bloggers, family, Phil, especially Phil--are my safe place. I know many of you love me. I know you want my happiness. And so I got some. Sounds simple doesn't it, but it's true. I thought of all of you and I got happy.

Thanks for being there, for hanging on through tough times, for helping others by sharing your stories, your photos, quotes you find, and the wisdom you have. Thanks for making me laugh. Thanks for sharing your love.

You are my safe place.

THE GARAGE SALE PURCHASE

Please don't tell Phil as he is still not over the Chair Fairy incident. I know he will love it--once he calms down.

He will calm down. Won't he?

FAMILY PRAYER

Last night it was Phil's turn to say Family Prayer but I could tell he was tired. I asked him if he wanted me to say it. He merely nodded.

While praying I must have been extra grateful for all our blessing, and I must have asked for quite a few blessings for people in my ward who are sick, and for family members, and a friend who is in California and will be driving back to Utah alone, and other friends who I have been thinking of and loving. I must have prayed for a while. When I said "Amen." I looked up to see Phil crumpled against the wall.

"Are you all right?"

"I should have prayed," he said. "I could have been in bed and asleep by now."

BACK TO NORMAL--WHATEVER "NORMAL" IS

The stomach flu is conquered!

I went to a dinner party tonight and took this dessert. Recipe here.

Blogging will resume, probably tomorrow.

And here is a picture of Phil, just because he is so cute.

JOE COOL RECEIVES THE AARONIC PRIESTHOOD

This is Guitar Hero, the Bishop and Joe Cool.
The home teacher, Jo Cool's Dad--my son--who insists on being called The Brown Dot, Joe Cool, the Bishop, the Young Men president, Phil and the 2nd counselor.

The Brown Dot, Joe Cool and Phil who is Joe Cool's Grandpa.

Phil--who has the disease called "I'm-getting-my-picture-taken-so-I-will-all-of-a-sudden-look-goofy." (I have the same disease. And I also have the I-look-fat-disease for some unknown reason. Cough, cough.) Joe Cool, who does not have the disease, is smiling into the camera.

Joe Cool is the newest member of the Aaronic Priesthood, which he received today. He can now pass the sacrament to the congregation in Sacrament Meeting--a service that I think is so important and what the gospel is all about. The Savior atoned for everyone's sins and we have the opportunity to repent and be forgiven and the sacrament is a part of that process.

It was a great day for us. And look at this young man. I am so proud of him. He is a good boy and a nice one too.

Congratulations to a fine young man.

THE RED BUTTON

Once upon a time, about ten thousand years ago--or so it seems, Phil and I were in a meeting with a head hunter in San Francisco. He was trying to convince us that Phil needed his service and he used the analogy of selling me a new clothes dryer.


"No thanks, I love my dryer," I said.


He extolled the new dryer's wonderful features. I was unconvinced. And then he said, "It has a red button."

"A red button?"

"Yes, a red button."

"What does it do?" I asked.

"Well, when the clothes are dry," he paused. I leaned forward in my chair. "You hit the red button and it folds the clothes for you."

"I'll buy it!" I said.



So, since I am still languishing in a pale and coughing sort of way, and have nothing of any interest at all to write about I am going to give you a red button.

What will your red button do?