Fireworks

Last night we took the kids to see fireworks for the first time in about ten years. My older children have seen big fireworks displays--a long time ago, but the younger ones never have. We didn't take our camera because I think photos of fireworks are kind of dumb--they just don't convey what you're seeing (case in point: see above). And we figured wouldn't be able take good pictures of the family because it would be too dark. But I wish we could have gotten pictures of the kids--especially the little ones. Ryan's wide-eyed, jaw-dropped delight; Rachel calmly lying on her back and sucking her thumb while she enjoyed the show; Jessica huddled in my lap with her hands over her ears, even trembling a little sometimes, but watching the display nevertheless. It was a lot of fun--my kids are so darn cute!

Waterlogue

This week we've been having some fun with the kitchen pipes. The fittings do not fit, and occasionally they come apart and whatever is in the sink ends up on the floor. The upside to this is that the kitchen cabinet and the floor in front of the sink is really clean. I did a fabulous fix-up job by putting an upside-down bucket under the elbow to hold the pipe in place. I even told all the kids to be careful not to knock that bucket out of place. That's good, isn't it?

I used to tell people that the Norths (meaning Bruce, me and our family) shouldn't be allowed to have running water in our home. Really, I don't believe that (or want it!)--I actually like having water piped into my house and being able to use it with a twist of the wrist. I like it a lot! But we have had our share of water problems.

When we bought our house in 2000 the grass was dead. OK, it was only mostly dead. Bruce's mom kindly came out and put fertilizer and weed killer over our yard; she said this would revive the lawn if we just watered it--Hooray! So we did. We hooked up a hose and ran the water on our "lawn" for about an hour while we worked on other moving-in stuff. And then I went downstairs to discover that the floor was an inch deep in water! Aaaaaah!! We learned that we had a burst pipe on that side of the house.

Fast-forward to summer 2001: This summer my kids had a penchant for taking their cups of water into any and every room in the house, and they invariably spilled water all over the world. So when I went into Lindsey's bedroom and found the floor in the doorway was drenched I was really not surprised, but I was really irritable. I soaked up the water with a towel, chewed the kids out and went on my way. They did it again! And not just a little water, but a LOT of water. I soaked it up again and went about my business. When this had happened about four times in a day I was very angry with my children. Even so, that very evening they'd done it again! I know, you're thinking I just hadn't gotten it all dried up from earlier in the day; but no, it was a LOT of water. Well after I put yet another towel on Lindsey's floor I went into my room and, glancing up, I noticed that my ceiling was sagging and there was a little BB hole in the corner of it. I ran and got a pan to put under it just as it burst and water began to pour out. Yes, it was the swamp cooler leaking. (Now you're thinking that I'm kind of dense. Well, it was a stressful day--give me a break!) We ended up having to replace a 4 x 8-foot piece of our ceiling.

Summer 2002: The neighbors left their hose on over night, and since we live downhill it leaked into our basement. The window well looked like a fish tank. (Maybe we should have run with that and put fish in it.)

Summer 2003: We decided to have our livingroom carpet cleaned. The man hooked his hose to the faucet with the burst pipe. (Yeah, we should have fixed it, but if you could have seen what an awkward place it was in, you'd excuse us for not having done it.) At least the carpet guy was there, and he very kindly took the blame for it and cleaned the basement carpet too.

Summer 2004: Hey! I think we were dry this year!

Summer 2005: My dryer broke, so I went to Melanie's house to do a lot of laundry. As we got ready to go spend the day with Melanie I reminded myself about five times to turn off the water in the garden. But by the time I'd gathered all the kids and all the laundry I forgot. About ten hours later we came home tired and grumpy. I was bathing the little girls when Lindsey came up and told me there was water on the laundry room floor. Well, our bathroom floor sometimes leaks, so I didn't think much about it; I just told her to throw a towel on it. After the baths were done I went down to put the kids to bed. We had about two inches of standing water in the basement! I sent someone out to turn off the water in the garden and we set about getting things at least cleaned up enough to get everyone to bed. I was not a happy camper, but the kids loved camping all over the livingroom floor! We ended up throwing out all the basement carpet, and since I'd always hated the really badly finished walls in the kids' bedroom, I tore out all the drywall too (it was soaked about two feet up, so it seemed like the thing to do). We got the room fixed up, and I would have just painted the floor--seriously, I would have, it seemed like the safer way to go--but my mom donated some nice carpet and padding to our cause. (By the way, when the walls and ceiling were torn out, we fixed the burst pipe too.)

Since that last fiasco, we've remained clean and dry. Whew! Until yesterday. This time it was the swamp cooler again. This spring, when Bruce climbed up in the attic to re-connect the water pipe he'd taken a 5-gallon bucket to catch any leaks that might happen while he was working. He left the bucket in the attic when he was done; that's what saved us this time. Friday afternoon I went in my bedroom and saw a little, slow drip coming from the ceiling [see photo above]. I immediately turned off the swamp cooler and stuck a pan under the hole (at that moment, it was just a little hole). Bruce got home about 20 minutes later and hurried up into the attic. The bucket had filled up and was starting to overflow; he figured that it probably would have crashed down through the ceiling if I hadn't noticed it when I did. One danger averted!

Well, I guess all of this is just part of the joys of home-ownership. We survive it pretty well, although it can be a little irritating. But hey! At least we have running water!

Here she is!

I have a picture of Heather in the Belle dress! (Many thanks to her mom.)

Here she is in her living room (with a little quick & dirty Photoshop work done by me).

And here she is in some fancy ballroom (with more quick & dirty Photoshop work done by me).

Love Unrequited

“I am mad, head-over-heels, puppy-dog in love!” It was a line from an episode of M*A*S*H (a popular TV show), and Ken was singing it out as he came happily through the door of our third period Physiology class at Kearns High School. I had transferred into the class about halfway through the term and I sat behind Ken. Apparently an announcement like this one from him wasn’t a new thing because Brenda, who sat behind me, laughingly asked, “Oh? Who is it this time?”

I became very busy with homework as Ken bounced into the room, slid into his desk and turned around to face me. For three or four long, uncomfortable seconds our eyes met, while I sat there willing him to not say it. Finally he looked up and said to Brenda, “It’s Teresa."

“Her again?” Brenda teased him a little, and then lost interest. Ken caught my eye again before he turned around and class started. And I wondered a little; did he really mean Teresa? I didn’t think so. Ken was a nice guy; we chatted together during class and dissected rats together in the labs. Well, at least if it was me he was “in love” with, I was very grateful that he didn’t announce it to the whole class—and I was pretty sure that I actually was “the one."

As time went on my suspicions were confirmed—it was me. A couple of times he wandered the lunchroom until he found me, and then sat with me and my friend Rachael. I started ducking my head when I saw him come in, but he always found me anyway. Rachael didn’t see why I was so uncomfortable to have him come looking for me. “He’s cute!” she said. I didn’t usually eat lunch anyway, so I quit going into the lunchroom and just hung out at my locker or in my next classroom during lunch. One time Ken really embarrassed me by finding me and my friends and telling me that he had written a letter for me—and then insisting that I read it right then and there. It was really mushy, and included something about my “eyes as blue as sapphires” and “hair as soft as red satin.” I could have died (and where did the red hair thing come from anyway?)! I was just glad that nobody was reading over my shoulder. When I finished reading the letter he immediately wanted to know how I liked it. After trying to stall a little, I finally gave him some answer that he found unsatisfactory and the subject dropped.

The infatuation did not drop, but to my relief Ken at least became a little more subtle about it.

The funny thing was that I really liked him—we were good friends. Once he came and watched one of my ballet classes at the University of Utah and afterward we went to Trolley Square. (To me that wasn’t a date, just a night out with a friend—same as if Rachael had come.) But he was the only boy I had ever given my phone number; and it was Ken, not Rachael, that I called when I nearly totaled my mom’s car on the day before my A.P. History exam.

I saw him once a few years after high school. He had just returned from his mission and he looked me up. But by then I had already found the true love of my life, and when Ken took me out for a little drive we really didn’t have much to talk about.

Since then I have thought about Ken sometimes, and I wonder whatever happened to him. Looking back, I know that I did love him—not in a mad, infatuated kind of way but, as Eliza Doolittle said, “more friendly-like.” Maybe we could even have gotten married and been pretty happy. But that’s a weird idea! I know I couldn’t be happier than I am with my Bruce, and our eight kids. Still, wherever Ken may be, I wish him to be as happy as I am.

The game is up... ready for the answers?

Before I tell you the answers, here are the scores:

Brandon and Ryan each got one right. Score: 1

Becky got two right on her first guess; on the second guess she got one right, but she also changed one of her correct answers for an incorrect one. Becky's final score: 2
Tami and Lindsey tied with a score of 3

Next were Kaylie and Jason, who got four correct answers; Score: 4
Rachel did very well (and I didn't help with anything but the typing). She scored 5

Michael and Stephanie tied for second place with a score of 6.
And Bruce is so funny because he didn't think he'd know which baby was which. But when he looked at the game he got them all right. Bruce is the grand-prize winner with a perfect score of 8! [He really is a good daddy!]
A bit of trivia: All of my kids knew which baby was Jessica because of her "cow blanket."

And now, the moment you've been waiting for...Here are the true matches for Guess Which Baby?

Baby 1 was Brandon

Baby 2 was Ryan

Baby 3 was Kaylie

Baby 4 was Lindsey

Baby 5 was Michael

Baby 6 was Jessica

Baby 7 was Rachel

and Baby 8 was Jason

Thanks for playing!

The "Belle" of the Ball

In March I was asked to make a prom dress that looked exactly like Belle's dress (from Disney's Beauty and the Beast). I wanted to wait until I had a picture of Heather in the finished dress before I wrote about it, but I've given up on getting one. Which is a bummer, because the gown was gorgeous but I never got to see it modeled once it was finished. I do have pictures of the sewing process, including her wearing it when it was almost done, so here's the story of the Belle prom dress:

The dance was on May 17, so I figured I'd have plenty of time. I spent a lot of thinking time, designing it in my mind, watching Beauty and the Beast, looking for fabrics, and generally figuring out how I'd put the dress together. I couldn't find any patterns that I thought would work; a couple of years ago I could have, but apparently this year that's not the stylin' thang.

The first part of April I started trying to actually get hold of Heather so I could get her measurements; that turned out to be a big phone chase, but I finally did reach her around the third week in April. She is tiny! I had one pattern with a bodice that I thought would work; it said she's a size 12--which I really doubted, but I decided I'd try it out. So I made up a size 12 bodice in muslin and had Heather come try it on. It drowned her! I could easily grab a fistful of fabric in the back, and still have more than enough room for the girl! So I pulled out my custom pattern-making kit and drew up a pattern from scratch. That one was much better; it would have been a perfect fit for a nice Sunday dress, but for this sleeveless, strapless dress it had to be a perfect, body-hugging fit. I pinned in the seams a little and told her the next time she saw me, the dress would look like a dress. Bold words for someone who's never made a dress like this one before!

My little girls fell in love with the slip. Jessica is modeling it.

I had to order in the yellow satin for the dress, and it was taking forever to arrive (I admit, I was really beginning to worry that I wouldn't get it in time). So while I was waiting on the satin, I started with the slip. To make it exactly like Belle's dress (as requested) it needed one of those full, poofy, wedding-type slips. You know, the ones with a stiff, crinoline under-skirt, and layer upon layer upon layer of stiff netting stitched to it, and then a crinoline over-skirt. However, those slips are not very pretty; and I happen to know that Belle's slip had at least one layer of lace at the hem. (Watch her dancing with the Beast--you'll see!) So instead of the crinoline over-skirt I made it of tulle, edged with 8-inch lace. I also put a small lace edging on the under-skirt part of the slip. I spent about 15 hours sewing it, gathering 18 yards of netting to make it; the whole slip used about 20 to 21 yards of fabric and could stand up by itself. It turned out beautifully. [I think that when my girls get married I'll have to make their slips so they can have pretty ones.]

The satin arrived with only a week-and-a-half to spare! That was OK. I was pretty sure I could get it done. I had to hold my breath and start cutting up the fabric. The bodice was of a gold-toned satin and went together pretty easily, but I debated whether or not I should ask Heather to come back just to be certain that it really fit. In the end I decided just to trust my measurements--mostly because I couldn't really try it on her without putting in the zipper, and the zipper really couldn't go in until the skirt was attached anyway. I just held my breath some more.

After the bodice, it was time to do the over-skirt. It was of a sheer, sparkly, yellow fabric--lovely! After studying Belle, I could see that each of the eight seams needed to be gathered in some way to create the draping effect of the skirt. It took me a while to decide how much too long I should make the over-skirt so that once it was gathered it would be shorter than the under-skirt. Talk about brain cramps!

Once I got the sheer fabric cut, I stitched a gold satin piece to the bottom of each sheer piece to create the drape that hangs just below her knees. Then I tried gathering the seams for the draping, but they bunched up too much. So instead I decided to pleat each seam all the way down; each one had about 20-25 small pleats. To keep the skirt from fraying apart I sewed every seam in a French seam. For those who don't sew very much, that means that I sewed a 1/4-inch seam, right-side-out, trimmed it to 1/8-inch, then turned it wrong-side-out and sewed a 3/8-inch seam, encasing the first seam. Was that explanation helpful at all? Anyway, what it really means is that I sewed every seam in the skirt twice. Each seam in the over-skirt took me 45 minutes to an hour to complete--I found that rather astonishing! Once the entire over-skirt was done I attached it to the bodice; now I was ready to finish the rest of the dress.

The under-skirt was easy--the hardest part was making the French seams again, and that's more time-consuming than difficult. I got it attached to the rest of the dress, put in an invisible zipper and it was ready to be fitted for hemming, and for any alterations it might need in the bodice. Heather came the Thursday before the dance (May 15) to try it on--fortunately it didn't need to be taken-in anywhere. I also measured her for the shoulder-drape at that time. [As a bit of trivia, this gown for this girl with a 26-inch waist used almost 20 yards of fabric in addition to the 20 yards for the slip. The girl is tiny, but the dress is huge!]

Heather looked absolutely beautiful in it! Our mutual friend, Nicole, was there for the fitting and she was just thrilled with the dress. She echoed my own thoughts: If it were white and had sleeves it would be a gorgeous wedding dress.

Well, after the fitting I only had to hem it, put in the lining and attach the shoulder-drape. Simple work, and it was done by Friday afternoon (the day before the dance). I am so very pleased with the way it turned out. I just wish I had a picture of Heather in the finished product.

And now, I absolutely must thank my kids, once again, for being so good and patient while I spent ten-hour days working on this dress. I barely managed to get dinner for them during that week, but they (the kids, not the dinners) were great!

Would I do it again? For one of my girls, if they wanted it. Would I love to see it as a wedding dress? For one of my girls, if they wanted it--but only if we had lots more time to work on it!

Can you guess?

This was going to be my Father's Day game, but it took a little while to put together.
Can you guess which baby grew into which child?
[Hint: The child pictured may or may not be same person as the baby he/she is with.]

Make your guesses and post them in the comments! I'll post the answers next week.

Happy Father's Day!

There's more than this, but it's still in the works. So, in the meantime . . .

Happy Father's Day!

The Unrepentant Sinner

Last Christmas Bruce got me a copy of Cooks Illustrated Magazine, and it was full of wonderful recipes and tips. But the one that intrigued me most was "Almost No-Knead Bread" which promised the fabulous flavor and texture of the best bakery breads but with much less work. The big problem was that the recipe called for 1/4 cup of beer (not a full-bodied beer, but a nice, "light American lager"--like I'd even know the difference). So every day for about three weeks I'd look at the recipe and consider whether I was nervy enough to actually go and buy a beer. I even looked around at the stores when I went grocery shopping--only to find that it mostly comes in six-packs or even bigger packages. So then I thought maybe I'd go borrow a can from my neighbor. But which is worse, buying a beer myself or asking the neighbor for one?

I finally decided I'd just go buy one myself. So I went to Smiths--to buy brownie mix. There was almost nobody in the store; certainly no one who knew me. But I just couldn't do it. I picked up the brownie mix and started to leave. But halfway to the checkout I started debating with myself; and finally I went down the refrigerated beverage aisle and spent a lot of time looking for a single beer. I discovered that if you want a single can you can only get a GIANT one! So I went away without the loot, only to spend more time debating whether or not I should actually buy it. After three more trips through that aisle I snatched a can and hid it between the brownie mix and my purse. Fortunately I didn't run into anyone on my way to the checkout lane (the store really was dead that night).

I made it all the way to the cash register and then the cashier asked me how I was doing. Now, this 20-year-old kid doesn't know me and couldn't care less whether I bought out a whole liquor store. But here I go, babbling on about how I don't drink beer, I feel like a criminal buying one, it's for a bread recipe, etc. etc. etc. He was very helpful and said that the alcohol should all cook out anyway; he even suggested that maybe I could buy some cooking wine instead. [I don't think so!]

Well, I got out pretty much intact, but now I had to go home and sneak a HUGE can of beer past my kids. Since they were all involved in a movie I did manage to do that fairly well. Of course I had to start my bread after all the kids went to bed (it's an over-night recipe, so that's OK). And since I only needed 1/4 cup of lager I figured I could save the rest for later, also saving myself some future trauma.

Here's what I learned: You can pour beer into another container and put it in the freezer but it never loses its fizz, so it leaks all over the place. Jason saw it in the freezer and thought I'd frozen apple juice or pineapple juice (and wanted some), so I had to explain the whole thing to him. He was a little surprised.

However we all came out OK. The bread was fabulous; and in a few days the whole thing seemed like a big joke (although when I told my in-laws the story some of them seemed to totally disapprove). Still, I don't think I'll be buying any more beer any time soon. I found a recipe for a sourdough bread starter that uses grapes instead of yeast--you mix the grapes with flour and water and let them ferment. So I've started brewing my own. ;-)

p.s. The sourdough is really fantastic too!
p.p.s. I found out later that you can use non-alcoholic beer in this bread. Should've read the recipe more carefully.
p.p.p.s. I'll post the recipe on my other blog. Buy the non-alcoholic beer.

Arrrrrrrr!

I look o'er our collection o' movies an' I canna help but note that thar be an awful lot o' pirate flicks. This here may say somethin` about me lubberly family; I ain`t rightly sure. We dasn't own many movies--about 50, mebbe 55. An' o' them 55 movies, se'en o' them be swashbuckler movies--that`s makes 13 percent o' th' movies we own pirate movies, ye scurvy dogs!

Or, in plain English: I look over our collection of movies and I can't help but notice that there are an awful lot of pirate flicks. This here may say somethin' about my lubberly family; I'm not sure. We own very few movies--about 50, maybe 55. And of those 55 movies, seven of them are pirate movies--that's makes 13 percent of the movies we own pirate movies.

Actually we own eight if you count The Princess Bride (which brings it to 14.5%) but that's a stretch.

We have all three of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies; I definitely like the first one the best.

We have The Pirates of Penzance, which is just ridiculous fun set to great music.

We have Disney's Peter Pan. I have no use for Peter, Wendy or the Lost Boys, but Captain Hook and Tinker Bell are delightful.

We have the 2003, live-action version of Peter Pan, which is amazing! If you pay attention to what the characters say there's some food for thought. (To live would be an awfully big adventure!) But if you're not looking to feed your mind it's just a wonderfully told story.

But one of our all-time favorites is Treasure Island, starring Charlton Heston as Long John Silver and Christian Bale as Jim Hawkins. Unfortunately it is also the most violent movie we own, and has the worst language. But I've never heard my kids damning anyone's eyes so, I confess, I overlook those little facts.

And if I ever remember, I'd really like to rent Captain Blood some time as well.

The real question is, "Why do pirates appeal to us so much?" I mean, really, they were not nice people; and that's putting it mildly. But we (and I mean movie-goers, in general, not just my family) love those pirate stories. Per'aps we "got no more sense than a sea turtle!" (Long John Silver, in Treasure Island)

You can't deny that pirate movies are rather delightful. Almost as delightful as "to be young and have ten toes." (also Long John Silver). It could be the adventure--pirate movies always mean excitement on the high seas. It could be those fantastically choreographed sword fights--we love that swashbuckling adventure! But I think the real reason is that we just love the language. Who can resist a guy who says, in all seriousness, "Shut up, Israel, damn your eyes! Ye'd think ye never seen a man with 'is throat cut b'fore!"

Whoever coined the phrase "Terrible Twos"...

did not have a child that lived to be three!

I wrote this after a lovely April day with my three-year-old:

Everyone thinks Ryan is so cute! And he is cute, too—my little blue-eyed, tow-headed three-year old. For the most part he has a personality to match his looks and everyone loves him.

But recently his Mr. Hyde side—the side outsiders never see—has been showing through. In the first place he has figured out that in a large family there is a definite pecking order: the big kids pick on the younger kids. I suppose it’s only natural that with four older siblings who regularly assert their superiority over him, he should do the same to his little sisters (Kaylie, who is two and Rachel, who is almost one year old). Unfortunately Kaylie is the nearest and most frequent opponent, and when she’s upset her screams are deafening. Kaylie often tries to retaliate as well, thus causing Ryan to scream nearly as loud as she does. But this bickering and sibling rivalry is not really a new thing in our house.

The real horror started when (I’m guessing) Ryan started getting bored. In just one day he caused me more grief than I care to think about. The first thing he did was to go into my room and jump on my bed. Now, you must understand that my bed has a brand-new, cream-colored, dry-clean only bedspread on it; there were also about four loads of laundry neatly folded and stacked on my bed. But the laundry was tossed all over the floor to make room for his morning’s entertainment and the once neat and tidy bed was a wrinkled-up mess. In that same morning he emptied an entire tube of cortisone cream on the bathroom rugs, smeared the bedroom wall with Desitin diaper-rash ointment, and then used up most of a box of baby wipes to clean up the wall. (The clean-up didn’t start to happen until he heard me coming in the door to see what he was up to.) At some point he also managed to scribble all over both living room doors with pencil (then tossed the incriminating pencil into a nearby houseplant). All of this was interspersed with his usual fights with the little girls, which included hitting Rachel on the head with toys a few times. And he managed to do it all before lunch time!

After lunch he didn’t take his nap, but spent his time yelling at Lindsey and Brandon who share a bedroom with him. Later he managed to find (after making a thorough search for interesting things in Bruce’s toolbox) a chalk line; he opened that up and dumped the blue chalk dust all over Kaylie’s head—and the basement floor. Because he was tired and angry—and I was too—we really didn’t get along well for the rest of the evening.

At last bedtime came! Bruce went to tuck the kids in while I collapsed on the couch. Soon I heard him asking, “Who ripped up this book?” Of course, it was Ryan (who is still too young to try to blame someone else). Well it was a brand-new library book, the loss of which made Lindsey start crying because she could “never have enough money to pay for it!” The replacement fee will probably cost me a good $20, so I feel kind of like Lindsey did.

The fun didn’t stop on that day though. I really couldn’t keep track of all the things this busy boy has been doing (except for emptying the salt shaker on—and thereby killing—the sprouted plants that were a science fair project, and dumping an entire can of baby formula all over the kitchen floor early one morning—another $10 down the drain!). He has just been a supreme nuisance.

On the other hand, he spent most of this morning singing, “I love mom because she’s so nice!” to the tune of the Star Wars main title. And he frequently comes to tell me he loves me because I cook dinner, or because I made good lunch, or because I bought him some candy—or sometimes it’s just, “Mom… I love you.” Now how could I not fall for that? He really is a cute little boy!

April 2003

Work, Dang-it! WORK!!

I have to question whether any of my family knows how to work. And I'm not sure how to teach them; it just makes me crazy! I tell my sons to go weed out the garden and they start whimpering about the sun shining (even though it's a cool day). I tell my kids to do the dishes and they scatter like bugs in the blink of an eye. And while I run around cleaning the house, they slip off to their rooms to read books, or nap. AAAAAAAHHH!!!

Work is getting blisters on your feet during the first ten minutes of dance class but continuing for the full hour-and-a-half class. Work is going home with the blisters torn and bleeding but still going to the next class two days later. Work is smoothing drywall by yourself until your shoulders ache so badly that you have to stand in the middle of the empty room and cry. And then ten minutes later you go back to the drywall. Work is staying up late and getting up early to finish the project you said you would do—even if the promise was just to yourself. Work is making sure things get done because they need to get done. Tedious doesn't matter. Tired doesn't matter. Pain doesn't matter. Take care of it; get it done. Just do it!

And then work changes. It becomes the magic of an entire audience applauding just for you. It becomes a beautifully finished room. It becomes the honor of keeping your word. It becomes the satisfaction of knowing that you did a great and good thing.

Just do it!

I'm strictly a girlish girlie...

Last night, as I was walking into a business meeting, a friend greeted me and said something about my gorgeous hair. How fun! Thanks!

But again, after the meeting, as she walked past she actually touched my hair and told me what great hair I have. She said she has naturally curly hair too, but it always just "looks like this" (making that sound like it wasn't a good thing). And so I revealed my secret: I don't wash my hair. In fact, I haven't washed my hair for nearly two years.

Well, that's not exactly true. I do wash my hair, but since I read the book, "Curly Girl," two years ago I almost never use shampoo in my hair. (No-Poo for me!)

I am not normally patient with my hair. It's been long, short, long again, red, brown, blonde, spiked, highlighted, curled, straightened...you name it. But since I read the book it's been growing and curling and I am really happy with it. What's even better, I get a lot of compliments on it! How much more fun can it get?

The truth is, I am rather obsessed with looking good. If I'm in the doctor's office the first magazine articles I read are 1. how to lose weight (or get in shape); 2. how to do your hair and makeup ; and 3. how to dress. I'm not completely hopeless; I haven't sold the family farm so I can buy the fashion magazines (or the recommended makeup or clothes). But it may be possible that I have reached the height of vanity when I shower, do a complete make-up job, fix my hair and pick out my cutest clothes so that I can go to my sisters house and spend the day there by myself doing my laundry!

I love to use makeup; I want to have fabulous hair; I adore new clothes; I find cute, new shoes almost irresistible, and you already know that I'm a little neurotic about my weight. All those things that are so, so very important in America today.

My perfect day would be to get up, have breakfast with Bruce and then head to a day-spa. I'd get the works: a massage, facial, manicure and pedicure. I had a pedicure for the first time last year--something that seemed like a fluffy extra that I wouldn't care about. My feet looked so nice and pink and felt so soft! I've been dying to have another one. Well, anyway, I'd want to have all those things done. And these places do have "gentlemen's facials" as well as gentlemen's manicures and other stuff, so Bruce wouldn't have to spend the whole day just watching me be spoiled. Although I'm not sure that would bother him.

No, I guess it would have to be a perfect two days. The first day we'd go to breakfast then go get our hair done (I'd have to find a place that would follow my curly-girl ways). Then we'd spend the afternoon shopping for new clothes—for both of us. We could go to dinner and the theater (live, not movie) and spend the night in a nice bed and breakfast. The second day we could wear our new clothes and do the day-spa thing. OK. Make it three days. After the day-spa we'd go to dinner and spend another night at the bed and breakfast. Then we could just play around the third day.

I truly do love being a wife and a mom. But just think...to have three days of being a girl, with none of the usual daily business. Just a few nice days of living the carefree life we had when we were single—but with the privileges of being married. And then I'd be happy to go back to real life again.

Cashmere!

A few weeks ago one of my boys (Jason...or maybe it was Brandon) asked me this: "If you could have any super power, what would it be?" So I gave it some serious thought for a second or two. Flying? No. Super strength? Maybe. Super speed? That would help with the housework. But then I came up with the perfect one: The power to have money shoot from my fingertips! I'm not sure how I'd save the world with that, but at least it would be a lot of fun for me. (Yes, it really is all about me.)

A few days later, on the way to a family outing, I told Bruce about my chosen super-power (which he thought was a good one, too) and told him to come up with a good name for my super-hero-self. "Cashmere."
Oh, yes! Feminine; refers to my super-abilities...fabulous!

Then Michael just had to spoil the whole thing by saying that I'd be going around shooting out counterfeit money all the time. Since when does logic have anything to do with being a super hero?! But Bruce saved the day again: he said that at the same time the money was speeding along, it would also be registered at the mint. Of course, I don't know what havoc this would wreak on the economy. But what does logic have to do with this?

So the next time you're out shopping you can think of me.

Look! There, in the check-out lane! It's a cash machine! It's an ATM!
No, it's Cashmere!

A philosophical question...

photo by Jason North, age 13

If you ask someone what they do, they almost always answer, "I am a..."
I am a doctor; I am a housewife; I am a school teacher. So here's the question: Is a person defined by, or of value because of what they do?

Right now Bruce teaches school, but I don't think of him as a school teacher. I wash dishes every day, but I don't think of myself as a dishwasher. Well, not really. Here's another example: My mom likes to brag about her kids (don't we all?). Even though I haven't danced in years she still tells people that I am a ballerina. (Actually, I never really was a ballerina—I was just pretty good at ballet.)
I am very talented. I'm pretty smart, too. And I'm not just tooting my own horn (although I am apt to do that). I really am smart and talented; I can do a lot of things well. In fact when I make up my mind to do anything, I do it very well. Bruce often compliments me on the things I do, and sometimes will even say he loves me because I do "this" so well or because I'm so good at "that." Other people who know me say that I am "amazing." Which is all very nice and very flattering and makes me feel great! (OK, you're thinking that I am really full of myself; but hear me out.)

So people might say, "Loralee is a great cook," or "Loralee is a good pianist." But if I were to get in a terrible accident and lose the use of my body and/or mind—all or in part—would I then be a different person? If I couldn't cook, or play the piano, or write, or dance, or any number of things that I do, would that change who I am? I don't believe so. But it's a question that's been kicking around in my mind for a few weeks now.

Sometimes, in Relief Society, some well-meaning teacher will ask everyone in the room to look at the person at their left (or right, or directly in front of them) and then tell the class one thing that makes that person wonderful. So, at a moment's notice I'm supposed to come up with something that sounds nice and will make everyone feel good (and I really don't just want to say that her make-up looks great). I hate that exercise. Not because I dislike that person, and not just because I may not know them well. It's hard for me to do that for people I know, too.

For example: At the beginning and end of each school year at least one teacher—sometimes all of my kids' teachers—throw me for a complete loop by sending home a paper that I'm supposed to fill out saying what is wonderful about my child(ren). It just boggles me. They're just wonderful because they are! They're cute and smart and funny and they're really great. Are they great because of the things they do? I don't think so. I mean, sure they do things that I like; things that are kind, helpful, funny. But it is hard for me to tell you the good things about them.

Bruce, too. I can't tell you why I love Bruce; I can't make a list of the wonderful things he does or has done that make me love him. I just love him because he's Bruce.

Michael, Jason and Bruce got the garden ready for planting. I don't call them gardeners now. And that's not the reason I love them, although it did make me happy (so maybe it helps).

I just don't really think of people that way—"I like them because of this or that." I hope this is not just because I am so self-obsessed that I can't see what's good about anyone else. But I think really people are just people and I value them because they are people. I admit I like some more than others; some a lot more. Bruce is my absolute favorite and my kids run a very close second. But that's because I know them, I know their personalities; not because they are "a school teacher," or "great students," or "smart," or "they clean their rooms," or anything like that.

It's an interesting thought. Is a person defined by, or of value because of what they do?