Tell You [a] Little Story

In the "winter," Stephen gets all geared up every night and sleeps with a ski hat pulled low and a warm sweatshirt. He piles on extra comforters and pulls them up to his chin. We live in Arizona. Our heat is set at 72 degrees. It is not cold in our house. Simply adorable.

I'm giving up sugar. For now, to see if I can do it. Today, Sunday afternoon nap, I dreamt about chocolate cake and tootsie rolls. Tootsie rolls . I am not a huge fan of the common tootsie roll, but, admittedly, I have been eating a lot of them lately as we made the unfortunate mistake of taking our kids trick or treating at the mall . Last week I had an unusual experience with the common tootsie roll. I grabbed one out of the bucket of candy and sat down at the computer to pass some time (read: procrastinate folding laundry). It was one of the big ones, with ridges (knobs? rolls? indentations?). It was gone before I knew it, and I needed another one. Must have another tootsie roll. So, being the slave that I am to my sugar addiction, of course I ran into the kitchen and got another large, ridged tootsie roll. This time as I ate it, I got an immediate fix. Sugar coursing through my blood. That may have been the first time I have had such an instantaneous and physical reaction to su

I have a neighbor who is obsessed with me being pregnant. Which I'm not. Which, I have not even discussed with her the possibility of such a thing happening in the near future, except for that time last week when she came up behind me at her son's birthday party, stuck her face over my right shoulder and said point blank, "So when are you going to get pregnant again?" and my answer was, "It will happen when it happens," by which, of course, I meant, "This is none of your business. I do not wish to discuss it with you" and which of course she interpreted as, "Emily is taking no action to prevent pregnancy." So today, she sees me get out of my car wearing workout clothes. She crosses my yard and says, "Exercising, huh? Trying to get in shape before the stress of the baby?" "Um, what?" I ask. " What baby?" "My husband and I have been trying to guess if you're pregnant. I have been wrong a few times befo

While I was reading Kacy's blog, I was reminded that Thanksgiving is great because it reminds me to use a wonderful expression that ought to be much more widely circulated and understood than it is. And Amy June ought to get a nickel every time someone uses it. The expression is: Indian Feather. Now, I love my Native American brothers and sisters and I mean no disrespect. "Indian" is a politically incorrect term, and wearing Indian feathers on a paper headband to celebrate the first Americans and their contribution to our harvest celebration is not exactly kosher. And let's not forget the enigma of why the LDS church teaches children to pantomime pejorative actions to a song in a minor key and a steady beat about the Lamanites. That doesn't seem very nice to me, and thank you, Dennis , for pointing that out to me a long time ago. I cannot endorse any of that. What I do endorse is the practice of identifying Indian feathers and calling them on it. That said, India

Did anyone catch NPR's All Things Considered story yesterday about transorbital lobotomies? Riveting, disturbing, gross, fascinating, and messed up. That's all I have to say about that.

At school, Elliot has a group of friends with whom he plays chase at recess. During this game, Elliot is a monkey--as in, he channels the powers of a monkey to help defeat his opponents. What are these special gifts? A monkey is "smart, well-skilled, and a free spirit," so says he. How do these apply to the real E? Yes, yes, and sort of. I would say he is less of a free spirit and more of a worrier. But we all agree he is a monkey. In fact, there is another monkey that comes to mind when considering Elliot's unique gifts. Elliot is curious. Let me illustrate. Elliot spent his two weeks abroad this summer exploring an all-too-often overlooked aspect of the beautiful Spanish landscape: trash. He spent his days with eyes on the ground, looking for treasures to collect in his overflowing pockets. At the end of any given day, I would empty said pockets and discover treasures, indeed: broken luggage wheels, rocks, rocks, and more rocks, broken glass, spent subway tickets, busin

So now I know why countertop dude is ignoring me. I just found out that I have written thirteen thousand dollars worth of bad checks. I paid lots of people with obsolete checks that no longer connect to our money market fund. I had run out of checks for this account and found some in the back of a desk drawer. Oops! Come to find out, my money market account managers have changed banks at which they hold my funds and these old checks went to the old place, where my money isn't. Ahhhhhhhhh! Sorry, my friend the ceiling guy. Sorry, my friends the cabinet people. Sorry, countertop dude--but you should have called. I still blame you. Tears. Lots of tears.

I wish I could have my kitchen sink. And my dishwasher. Why won't countertop dude return my calls? Steve said something funny tonight: "Our countertop dude's last name is Loya. I feel like calling him and saying, 'You're not the only Lawya around here.'" Speaking of lawyas, we went to a lawyer's house tonight who lives on top of Phoenix. This gentleman, in his opulent digs, says his house is higher in elevation than any other house in the valley. It's just too fitting to argue with. Of course he lives at the top of Phoenix. He lives at the top of the world. Anyway, we met a senator and an Arizona chief justice at this house tonight. We saw many an original piece of artwork--this fellow has a corner on the Greg Olson originals market. We ate steaks that were rarer than we prefer. We came down the mountain and got lemon sorbet and ameretto ice cream at Cold Stone and talked about if we ever want to be that rich. The answer is not so much a definitive

Ten years ago I would have been too cool for this book club. Back then I was sassy, savvy, opinionated and passionate. I inwardly rolled my eyes at things other people said or liked or did because they were too boring/conformist/ignorant/bourgeois/elitist/racist/judgmental/materialistic/ uninteresting/sappy to make a connection with me. I would have been bored to tears by the discussion of this book: How important are friends to women and to their growth in life? Are you a ten-cow wife? Does life get better as we age? Pul-lease!! Gag me with a pre-printed list of book-club discussion questions. I would have found a way to disassociate my book discussing habits from this collective group of womanly "them." You know, "them," like the "them" that eagerly read every word of every nightly 50-page assignment in high school AP history, and eagerly answered every question while "us" sat in the distant corner and wrote limericks and made up new languages

There were a few tense moments during testimony meeting yesterday. It's really a liberal policy, if you think about it. Once a month set aside a block of time in your worship service during which anybody can and does stand up and say anything at all. Supposedly the bishop or other presider has the responsibility to monitor and intervene and clarify, if things get out of hand, but have you ever seen that happen? I haven't. Actually, I was secretly hoping it would happen yesterday. Although I was sending prayers heavenward like the next guy that such-and-such wouldn't go on and on for 25 minutes, like she could very well do, and so-and-so-the-inactive-dude-wearing-t-shirt-and-jeans-and-tennis-shoes (although last week it was a three-piece suit, so you never know with him)-and-who-waxes-bizarrely-philosophical-at-every-opportunity wouldn't pontificate ludicrous doctrine, or swear from the pulpit--sometimes there's nothing better than a really bad run-on sentence--I wa

This one goes out to the one I love . Woo-hoo, my first html experience ever !

If ever you find yourself in need of a new mom, might I suggest mine. Just a sampling of what she could do for you: --drive across town four nights in a row to help you paint--or rather, paint for you--buying needed supplies and refusing reimbursement --arrange and pay for tickets for you and your husband to see an off-Broadway show instead of going herself --come to your house to babysit while you are at show because it is easier for you --take kids to a birthday party while you go to a meeting, then fearlessly brave the dreaded sports picture event at Peter Piper Pizza with a zillion people everywhere and three children begging for tokens --spend $5 to appease the begging children despite horrendous restaurant noise and crowds --work her grandmotherly magic to make your youngest fall asleep when you can't do it --compliment your choice of paint color, when you're starting to doubt yourself --put your kids to bed --restore calm --clean your house --love your children abundant

1. If you're cool and you blog (wait, are those two mutually exclusive??), you gotta have a Halloween post. 2. I am inexplicably drawn to, possessive of, and willing to fight for the Butterfinger bars in the kids' giant tub o' loot. I do not eat Butterfingers at any other time of the year. 3. If you go to the mall for trick or treating, you better like Tootsie Rolls and stickers. 4. Tootsie Rolls + decaying crowns and/or cavities = not a good idea. 5. Painted hermit crabs from the mall kiosk that have been abandoned in apartment complex hallway will attack if approached. 6. Creative costumes are overrated. 7. Sixteen-year-olds who trick-or-treat need to get a life. 8. Sixteen-year-olds who dress up as suicide bombers and push the buttons on the timers strapped to their chests and threaten to blow up your house after they have just taken candy from you are irresponsible and in extreme need of getting a life. (What, you don't like Sweetarts?) 9. Six-year-olds who