Tell You [a] Little Story

I'm writing from the grand state of Utah, where someone forgot to alert the authorities about it being Spring. Just today, I traversed the grander state of Idaho, learned from Elliot about manitees and mermaids and how people sometimes get them confused; discussed with Aaron if bad people really know they're bad or if, as he thinks, they think they're good and the good people are bad; cleaned up two poopy messes and one vomity mess, or rather, lent support to my husband while he cleaned it up. And more, much more. Now I'm going bowling.

Dear Mark, And you think blogging is pointless! I just won a(nother) bag! Dear Sarah, Isn't that funny that we were just talking about this tonight? Do you think I can pull off red patent leather? I don't know. We had fun at the hockey game. Thanks for taking us.

We've been hearing--from lots of people, actually--that this man we know has been at it again: calling, showing up at people's houses at all hours of the night in a state of paranoia. We've seen him like this before, a couple years ago, but we had effectively removed ourselves from his inner circle of go-to contacts, and he adopted other, more loving and compassionate people, to turn to when times got tough. They get tough a lot. Last night it was our turn again. One o'clock in the morning. Phone rang. It took me a groggy minute to realize who was on the phone. "Emily, They are trying to steal my truck again." "Who is trying to steal your truck?" "THEY are. I know exactly who it is. They're watching it. They want my truck." "Call the police." (Probably this is what a lot of people tell him to do. He sounded exasperated.) "The police won't do anything until they actually steal it! They are trying to steal my truck!...

Hello, 88 degrees. Hello, swimsuits. Good morning, going swimming. Goodbye, friend who asked me this weekend if I wanted to go on Weight Watchers with her. Hello, I'm quite happy with my body just the way it is. Goodbye, white, pale skin. Hello, goodbuy, good ad campaign by Target. Hi, that reminds me I need to go to Target. Goodbye, I'm late for my appointment with the sunshine.

I'm just busting out some Kenny Rogers on my dual tape deck. Makes me want to play Tetris. (I'm so living in the 80s.)

I'm too tired to do justice to this post. But if you were here, or if I was talking to you on the phone, I would tell you to look on page 81 of this week's Newsweek and tell me who that skinny girl with the glasses was. You wouldn't have the faintest idea (unless you have been reading People or watching Access Hollywood or something, which I haven't been doing). And I would say, "That's Star Jones." And you would say, "What!? Really? You are kidding me." And I would say, "Nope." Blogger is acting funny: I can't post pictures of her. But do an image search. It's crazy. Now I'm going to bed.

That's what Steve said once when, in college, I listed the singer as The Man of My Dreams in a spotlight questionnaire. R.E.M. is probably my favorite band of all time. Congratulations to them on a much-deserved induction!

Little known fact: Steve and I took the Foreign Service Exam back in the days of pre-law school, no kids. Part of the written exam was a psychological inquiry in the form of multiple choice statements that they kept rewording, to see if you would change your answers. This weekend Steve reminded me of one of our favorite questions from this part of the test. You are often surprised to learn that friends and family members are very upset with you. Always Frequently Sometimes Rarely Never This is a beautiful, bad question. How do you answer it? If I am surprised that people are upset with me, that makes me sound unaware and oblivious. If I'm not surprised, that's just a blatant admission that people are upset with me a lot. What would you have said?

I'm feeling sorry for myself today. I think it's because I ate Kraft macaroni and cheese for lunch, followed by cake that I made on impulse, and the butter/sugar/preservative/dietary disaster goop of it all is flowing through my bloodstream and bringing me down. And also because this morning when I fed Norah at 6 I really, really wanted to fall back asleep, but instead I lay awake plotting ways to not have to be on the PTSA board next year, and I don't know how I'm going to accomplish that (not being on the board). And also because my rotter mailperson once again decided she didn't need to deliver my mail, because there was a car parked in the general vicinity of my mailbox. I love getting the mail and it makes me grumpy that I have a rotter mailperson. And also because most of the time the internet and people's blogs make me happy, but sometimes they are depressing because I'm not as fill-in-the-blank as all these amazing people out there, and today was one...

I call it "Talking to my father-in-law while taking Norma** to bed on a Sunday night." * It's Self Portrait Day . **My father-in-law has an endearing habit of saying names/words wrong, only sometimes. Last night he asked about Norma. He is not alone. In my world, I notice that many people mispronounce the names of friends rather frequently. My grandma does it. Many people at church do it. I have a friend named Cerise, with a soft c. Many of her dear decades-old friends call her Cherise. She doesn't say anything. In fact, Cerise does it, too. She called yesterday looking for the Mandelin's phone number. The right name is Andelin. No wonder she couldn't find it in her directory. I am rather amused by this phenomenon.

That's what they tell me. Some from this week: Isaac ate a banana. Norah wore cute shoes that her Aunt Katie made. Aaron hula hooped it and laughed at his mom for not being able to hula hoop (why can I not hula hoop anymore? I used to be good!). Elliot practiced on the piano AGAIN the song that goes, "There's a place in France where the naked ladies dance. . . ." Lucky for all of us he doesn't know that that's how the song goes. He just thinks it's a nice song that his piano teacher makes him play over and over. . . and over. . . .