Because sometimes someone else can say it better.

I.
The first rose on my rose-tree
Budded, bloomed, and shattered,
During sad days when to me
Nothing [else] mattered.

Grief of grief has drained me clean;
Still it seems a pity
No one saw, -- it must have been
Very pretty.

--from "Three Songs of Shattering"

***

II. (1928)
For you there is no song . . .
Only the shaking
Of the voice that meant to sing; the sound of the strong
Voice breaking.

Strange in my hand appears
The pen, and yours broken.
There are ink and tears on the page; only the tears
Have spoken.

--from "To Elinor Wylie"

***

II.
Heart, do not bruise the breast
That sheltered you so long;
Beat quietly, strange guest.

Or have I done you wrong
To feed you life so fast?
Why, no; digest this food
And thrive. You could outlast
Discomfort if you would.

[...]

Heart, do not stain my skin
With bruises; go about
Your simple function. Mind,
Sleep now; do not intrude;
And do not spy; be kind.

--from "Theme and Variations"

***

When it is over -- for it will be over --
Will there be none the less, will there be still
In April on the southern slope of an orchard, apple orchard hill,
Red-and-white buds already fragrant, intent upon blossoming? --
There will; I know there will.

--from "When It Is Over"

Apparently the cable network TV Land has released its list of the 100 most memorable catchphrases from television. Several of the winning quotations came from commercials, one of which was "Pardon me, would you have any Grey Poupon!" from the Grey Poupon ads of the early '90s.

You remember those commercials, I know you do. You know, the ones with the random limousine passenger who rolls down the window to ask for mustard.

I think I was in 4th grade when these commercials started airing. A boy in my class named Rob took a rather bizarre liking to them. I'm still not sure why. I mean -- they weren't all that spectacular or anything. But every recess, and eventually whenever opportunity presented itself from then on until we parted ways in middle school, he would find me, tap me on the shoulder and emphatically stress, "I want my Grey Poupon!" When I told him I didn't have any Grey Poupon, he'd repeat again, "Well, I still want my Grey Poupon!"

Very annoying. And for reasons heaven and Rob only know, it continued for years.

After 6th grade, the commercials became more sparse, and Rob and I didn't see much of each other anymore due to the rigors of middle school. But we found our way to the same class again during our junior year of high school.

That class was journalism and while, yes, it was a weighty responsibility to produce a monthly student newspaper, there was an awful lot of downtime. The class was held in the school's computer lab, which was equipped with that newfangled gizmo, the Internet. My good friend, Emily, and Rob, and I would sit at neighboring computers and to kill time we'd send each other short, silly emails back and forth.

One day I got an email from Rob. I opened it and read something along the lines of, "Pardon me, but do you have my Grey Poupon yet?"

"You still want it??" I sent back.

"Why of course," he replied. "You think I'd forget?"

Well, I kinda hoped he would. Because, truth be told, I have still never tasted Grey Poupon mustard, and I never could figure out why Rob thought I kept a ready supply with me.

And...that's about all I can think of to share about this memory. Pointless, wasn't it? Oh well -- it's Tuesday and I'm feeling pretty blah. So I guess we'll just have to live with it, eh?



*Gold stars to you if you can name the song I tweaked this post title from. Bonus gold stars if you can name the artist, too.

Sometimes you just need a little bit of good, solid validation. Because sometimes, even though you also have made a short list of items to purchase during the After Thanksgiving Sale at Best Buy, it's just not enough to make getting up at 5:00 a.m. -- or earlier, if you're a True Crazy -- on a holiday worth it.

And so, at 10:30 Thanksgiving night, we drove through the dark, empty streets of Muncie searching for our validation.

First we went to Best Buy where we were not disappointed. The parking lot was packed and a line of very eager shoppers -- True Crazies, if I may -- were already wrapping themselves around the building. And they were not empty handed: they'd come with tents, lawn chairs, blankets, and a Siberian Tundra's worth of coats, hats, mittens, and scarves. We chuckled as we drove past them -- those poor, crazy people, anxious and shivering.

"I'm starting to feel like it's just not worth it to get up early tomorrow," I told Blake. He readily agreed.

But our search for validation would not be complete without a visit to Circuit City. Our drive of just one block west of busy Best Buy topped us off. There, too, were hoards of True Crazies bracing themselves against a cold six hour wait -- only these people didn't bring their tents. We chuckled again as we drove slowly past.

"Well, I think we can sleep in tomorrow," said Blake.

"Yes, let's," I said.

And so we drove home and brushed out teeth and curled up under our warm covers. We slept soundly; we had our validation. And we didn't truly climb out of bed until about 10:00 Friday morning.

When we did, though, we decided that, heck, why not venture to Best Buy? After all, we'd gotten our sleep. And the True Crazies had probably gone home. And 10ドル computer speakers and a 3ドル DVD would definitely be worth a peek inside, even if the likelihood of there being any left was slim.

Only apparently the odds were not too slim after all. We found our 10ドル computer speakers sitting happily on a shelf with about 10 others, and we swiped a 3ドル copy of Big Fish from a cart of abandoned and otherwise misplaced DVDs. We were in and out in about 7 minutes. Record time. And we chuckled again as we walked out of the store, desired purchases in hand. Because talk about validation! We have become living proof that sometimes you really can sleep in on the day after Thanksgiving AND check off the items on an After Thanksgiving Sale shopping list.

I finished my quilt! And, if I may say so, it's not half bad for a first quilt. And, if I may say so again, there's nothing quite like 5ish hours of Pride and Prejudice to keep you company as you hand-stitch the binding.

Anyway, here's the final result:


Acknowledgments:
1. Thank you to Auntie Colleen for helping me find a pattern.
2. Thank you to the good folks at the cutting counter at JoAnn Fabrics for reassuring me that sewing a quilt isn't that hard.
3. Thank you to my sister, Katie, for taking a high school quilting class just so that she could machine quilt this one. (Okay, so she didn't take the class just for this reason...but it was definitely good timing!)
4. Thank you to my friend, Sarah, for teaching me how to do the binding.
5. Thank you to to my mom for making a long-distance last-minute fabric purchase so that I could have better material for the binding.
6. Thank you to Blake for putting up with my frustration every time my sewing machine got jammed.
7. And lastly, thank you to all the people I keep showing it to for putting up with my excitement over my new-found ability.

Ack! Blake is leaving for Houston tomorrow to spend the weekend presenting his research at an academic conference. Which means that I'll be here in Muncie all by myself. To keep myself occupied and entertained, I've been working on a list of things I can do to distract myself from feeling too lonely.

• Put the binding on my quilt. My friend, Sarah, has so kindly offered to help me with this Saturday morning.
• Return the two extra bath poufs to Target. (We learned about the importance of good personal hygiene last night at Activity Days. Each girl got a little kit with things like nail clippers, soap, toothpaste, and hand sanitizer, to name a few. And let me tell you -- I've never seen 10-year-olds so excited to shower!)
• Do my Thanksgiving grocery shopping. I'll take my list and the list of my friend, who is coming to feast with us from St. Louis, and I will shock the Muncie markets with my shopping prowess.
• Look for new khaki pants for Blake. Because I like my husband to dress well.
• Plan the Relief Society lesson I have to teach on Sunday. Any thoughts along the lines of "Temporal and Spiritual Labor, 'Hand in Hand Together'"? No seriously -- any thoughts?
• Watch the BBC Pride and Prejudice and maybe also The Secret of Roan Inish. Because Blake will be gone.
• Bake. I have stuff for zucchini bread and banana bread. Maybe I'll tackle those.
• Clean the bathroom. Not because I love cleaning the bathroom, mind you, but because we have guests coming next week. And I do like having a clean bathroom.
• Buckle down and work on that novel I foolishly said I'd write this month.
  

Well, this seems like a good list. I think I'm bordering on overexerting myself -- which is a good thing, in this case. But if I'm lucky, it will also distract me from thinking to much about that dreaded drive to the airport I have to make by myself. (Have I ever told you how I really don't like driving to the airport by myself? I don't.)

In the meantime, I think I'll watch new lakes form here in Muncie. For the last few days it's been raining. And raining. And raining. And hard. We have a new small river in our front yard, and on the way to work this morning, we noticed several dozen new small lakes developing in people's yards. So maybe while Blake's gone I can also go fishing.

If you've ever had to pack a lunch to take with you to school or work or wherehaveyou every single day, you probably can relate to the need to spice things up once in a while. I mean, a ham and cheese sandwich, apple, and crackers every single day can get old pretty quick. Sometimes, when you're lucky, there's a chocolate chip cookie to throw into the mix, or sour cream and onion flavored chips to replace the crackers, or maybe some strawberries, if they're in season. But eventually things, for whatever reason, always seem to go back to the way they were, every single day.

I'm a good wife: I pack a lunch for Blake and I every night after dinner. Doing this has become just about as routine as the food I pack into the lunch. It's a good thing, then, that I also (being the good wife that I am) go grocery shopping. Last week, during my latest pilgrimage to my favorite grocery store ever, Aldi, I decided that enough was enough. This same lunch every single day business was getting old. A major overhaul was long, long overdue.

And so, in a very bold move, I splurged. Splurging is something I've rarely done when it comes to sack lunches. The rule of thumb for sack lunches growing up, which has carried over into my adult life, was that if I can't put it into a sandwich baggie myself, it's probably too expensive and therefore unnecessary. But a major overhaul calls for revolutionary thinking and actions. And so I bought applesauce cups. I bought cups of sliced peaches. I bought granola bars. I bought some adventurous fixings for salads, as well as some new salad dressing. And I bought jell-o cups -- two different kinds! Anything -- anything! -- to make lunchtime a meal to look forward to.

And it's been grand! It's been a long time since I've swam in such edible luxury! Today, at Blake's request, I packed us both a jell-o cup. These jell-o cups, had they only consisted of boring old jell-o, would be rather hum-drum. I mean, isn't jell-o little more than a fruit-flavored glob of gelatinized Kool-Aid? But no, these jell-o cups are special. The first kind, which we tried yesterday, was peaches in strawberry jell-o. Very tasty. And today's was pineapple in green jell-o....

...Which was quite the trip back to my Utah roots. I mean -- green jell-o! With fruit inside! I didn't know such a thing was even conceivable beyond the bounds of the Intermountain West, let alone actually available in Indiana! And yeah, I guess the strawberry jell-o with the peach slices was also a bit of walk down memory lane, too, because, heck, it's fruit. In jell-o. But green jell-o. With fruit inside. You can't get much more Utah Mormon than that!

It's too bad, though, that I'm really not a fan of green jell-o. This little discovery would be even cooler if I was. My youngest brother went through a green-jell-o-at-every-meal phase once a long time ago, at which point we were all obligated to eat it as well. But where I come from, red jell-o reigns supreme. Strawberry. Raspberry. Watermelon, sometimes. That's the good stuff. Especially if there's bananas and pineapple inside, with a smidgen of Cool Whip on top. (I wonder if one girl in Muncie could petition the Aldi corporation to market that. Hmmm.)

And so anyway, to all of you out there who have fallen into the horribly drab routine of eating the same thing for lunch every single day, I say that it's totally worth splurging to spice things up. And if that splurging includes fruity jell-o cups, then, why, all the better.

Audrey Niffenegger's innovative debut, The Time Traveler's Wife, is the story of Clare, a beautiful art student, and Henry, an adventuresome librarian, who have known each other since Clare was six and Henry was thirty-six, and were married when Clare was twenty-three and Henry thirty-one. Impossible but true, because Henry is one of the first people diagnosed with Chrono-Displacement Disorder: periodically his genetic clock resets and he finds himself misplaced in time, pulled to moments of emotional gravity in his life, past and future. His disappearances are spontaneous, his experiences unpredictable, alternately harrowing and amusing.

The Time Traveler's Wife depicts the effects of time travel on Henry and Clare's marriage and their passionate love for each other as the story unfolds from both points of view. Clare and Henry attempt to live normal lives, pursuing familiar goals -- steady jobs, good friends, children of their own. All of this is threatened by something they can neither prevent nor control, making their story intensely moving and entirely unforgettable.
-- Summary borrowed from this website

Yesterday I finished reading The Time Traveler's Wife, and whoa! was it good! Good, and intense, and riveting. I was totally sucked in! And I have to admit that it made me cry. (But then, that's nothing too surprising: lots of books have made me cry and for lots of different reasons. Maybe someday I'll divulge my weak emotional restraint when sucked into a good story. Maybe.)

Though it is about two people affected by time travel, this book is by no means a fantasy. It's incredibly realistic and familiar. Though very unusual, Chrono-Displacement Disorder might as well be a medically possible as the common cold. I appreciated how Niffenegger helped me as the reader keep track of everywhere Henry was "visiting." At the beginning of each section, she'd list the date(s) and ages of Henry and Clare, so not only would I know when in time the story currently was, I would know from what place in time Henry was coming from.

The book is very detailed and covers basically the entire lifetimes of Henry and Clare. And it is told from the point of view of both characters. So because I got to see so much of their lives and because I got to hear it told from both of them, it was hard not to find myself relating to them both on several levels. Henry and Clare and their story was about as real to me as if it was happening to myself, and that's probably why I cried.

A question raised several times throughout the book is that of whether or not it's good to know your future (assuming you had the opportunity to find out). Henry takes the stance that unless it's absolutely necessary for someone to know something in their future, it's probably best if he keeps his knowledge of it to himself. He believes that it's safer that way. I mostly agree with him. Yeah, I'm sure it's safer to just not know and live your life as you would anyway. But at the same time, though, it pretty much kills me when I have to be left in the dark while someone close to me basks in knowledge that I can't know yet. Though I like to pretend that they aren't, surprises are difficult for me to wait for.

Anyway, good book. Fascinating book! I definitely recommend it.*


*However, I should say, for those of you who are more sensitive than I apparently am, there is a bit of language in this book. So if a colorful way of expressing things is not up your alley, you might want to read something else.

I still feel crummy, and, because I’m having a rather difficult time thinking straight and writing coherently, I seriously toyed with the idea of just totally skipping out today. But I couldn’t because I know that I have loyal readers out there (yes, I’m tracking you – feel free to come forward. I won’t bite) who I just can’t bring myself to disappoint. After all, some of them have come a long way just to read what I have to say (which is honestly quite flattering. Thank you, Loyal Readers!). So I’m going to post. (I hope you’re happy.)

But let’s be honest with ourselves: I feel like at any moment I could just wither into a crumpled ball onto my couch. I’m in no position to truly write. So I’m going to let one of my favorite passages from one of my favorite children’s novels do the talking. I hope it makes you laugh like it makes me laugh!

from The View from Saturday
by E. L. Konigsburg

I wondered if I should bring a gift. It was always better to bring something. I didn’t know what. I suspected that sports equipment was out. Books: He probably had as many books as the library. Video game? Wrong. Clothes: NO! Then, when I was in the shower, a word dropped from the showerhead. Puzzle. That was it. That was exactly it. A puzzle would be the perfect present for Julian Singh. The video store at the mall had dozens of different puzzles that were not electronic. I had seen three-dimensional puzzles and jigsaw puzzles that had a different picture printed on either side.

I didn’t want to tell anyone that I was going to a party. A tea party of all things. I hardly believed it myself. I needed a way to get to the mall, so on the Saturday of the party, I asked Mother to please drop me off at the mall on the way home from the market. She asked me why, as I knew she would, and I told her that I had to a buy a present for a party I was going to later that afternoon. Mother was not pleased. She liked to get home right after market so we could unload the truck and straighten out the accounts. She said all right – not gladly – and told me that she would wait in the truck while I made my purchase.

Why couldn’t she come into the mall and browse like a normal woman? Why? Because she knew there was no better way to get me to hurry.

I hopped down from the truck and ran to the video game store. As luck would have it, no salesperson pounced on me the minute I entered. If I had been there to browse, not buy, they would have. Now, I had to practically beg for attention. High on top of the shelves stocked with closed cartons of games of every sort was a display of jigsaw puzzles. There were picture puzzles of waterfalls, 1,000 pieces. There was another one that was a painting of water lilies done in a very loose way. Still another had a picture of a waterfall on one side and a picture of a koala bear on the other. One was a totally white circle. That would be tough because there would be no pattern to help a person line up the pieces. I decided on that one. Two salesclerks were standing at one end of the counter talking. I walked toward them and had to say “Excuse me” twice. I pointed to the puzzle I wanted and said I would like it gift wrapped.

“That’s number four-sixty-two. We’re all out.”

“Then why do you have it on display?

“It’s very popular. We’re expecting another shipment next week.”

“I need it today,” I said. “It’s all right with me if you sell me the sample.”

“I can’t.”

“Why? I don’t need a discount or anything just because it’s the display. I’ll pay full price.”

The clerk said, “The models are glued together, see, and pasted on a board. So how else do you think they stay up?”

I looked around. “Then I’ll take the one that has two different pictures. The one next to the all-white one.”

“We’re out of that one, too.”

“Could you please check your stock in the back?”

“I checked this morning. We don’t have it. We have the heart-shaped one in stock.”

I looked it over. Instead of a circle, it was shaped like a heart. It was all pink except for a small red heart within the large pink one. Although it wouldn’t be quite as difficult as the all-white circle, it, too, would be hard. But it was pink. Pink! Even on Valentine’s Day, for a Valentine’s Day party, I wouldn’t consider giving a pink heart to another guy. “I’ll take the water lilies then.”

“That’s one of our most popular puzzles,” the clerk said. “It’s a reproduction of a famous painting by an impressionistic French artist who was famous.”

“Does that mean you are out of it, too?”

“’Fraid so.”

I thought of Mother waiting in the truck. “Okay,” I said, “give me the heart-shaped one. And gift wrap it, please.” How could a store that seemed so un-busy be sold out of all the good stuff?

“That will take a while,” the clerk said.

“Can you hurry? Please?”

“Not if you want me to do a good job.”

“Medium,” I said. “Can you do a medium job in a hurry?”

The salesclerk smiled and called to her fellow worker. She asked him to do the gift wrap as she rang up the sale. Then while we both waited, she asked, “Is that a present for your girlfriend?”

I knew it. I knew it. My choice was not half wrong, it was all wrong. I was on the verge of asking her to take it back and give me a refund when the clerk emerged from the back room carrying the puzzle box all wrapped in pink paper. I thought I was going to die. Then I thought of Mother waiting in the truck and asked for a bag to carry it in.

Mother folded the newspaper she was reading. She turned the key in the ignition before she asked, “What did you get?”

“A puzzle.”

“Good idea,” she replied.

“Yeah, about twenty minutes ago, I thought so, too.”

By the way, where is this party?”

“The Sillington house.”

“Well,” Mother said, “I’ll bet you’ll have good food. I hear that Mr. Singh is a wonderful cook.”

“I don’t guess I’ll be finding that out. I’m only going for tea.”

“For tea?” Mother asked, a broad smile breaking across her face. “Tea?” she repeated.

I wished I could bite off my tongue. How in the world had I let that piece of information escape? “Yes,” I said. “For tea. It’s a tea party, and tea is always at four.”

(If you want to read more, which of course I know you'll want to because this book is fabulous AND it's a Newbery winner, you can buy it at Amazon.com. I’d link you directly to the book, but apparently Amazon.com is feeling crummy today, too.)

...to catch a cold.

I'm not feeling that great today, what with the sneezing and dripping and nose blowing and watery eyes and tissue consumption. So instead of subjecting you to my unfocused ramblings, I'm going to share an article by Garrison Keillor from his column "The Old Scout" dated August 16, 2005, that I thought was absolutely hilarious. Maybe you, too, will appreciate it. Enjoy!

Edith Wharton and the War on Terror
August 16, 2005

Minnesota came out OK on the federal transportation bill, considering that we voted for John Kerry last year. Of course we didn't do as magnificently as Alaska did because Alaska has more unpopulated areas where you can put bridges and highways without bothering anybody, but we got some nice stuff - a few guardrails, some reflective strips on bridge abutments, a few SLOW CHILDREN signs, that sort of thing.

For Alaska, the Republicans earmarked 223ドル million for a bridge almost as long as the Golden Gate to link the town of Ketchikan (pop. 8,000) - which is a town that exists to sell T-shirts and postcards to cruise passengers for three months a year - to the local airport on Gravina Island, replacing a seven-minute ferry ride. Alaskans also will receive a billion-dollar two-mile-long bridge connecting Anchorage to hundreds of square miles of undeveloped wetlands, a great convenience for birdwatchers who now, instead of having to kayak across the water to observe the red-bellied grommet, can drive over in their Explorers and bring a mobile home with them.

Had Minnesota voted Republican, as Alaska wisely did, we might have gotten a canal connecting the Mississippi to Lake Superior and a high-speed rail link between Bemidji and Roseau and maybe a 10,000-foot runway at the Waseca (pop. 8,389) International Airport.

I once was a passenger in a single-engine plane flying into a little town in western Wisconsin late at night and as we descended, the pilot clicked a button on the control stick and suddenly the runway below lit up like a video game, an enormous strip of fresh asphalt outlined in bright light, and we landed and taxied to the hangars where I saw about 30 planes like ours parked. For 30 hobbyists, the federal government had installed a state-of-the-art night-landing system, and if you weren't a pilot, you might never be aware of it. You might live two miles away with your kids in a school where music education and foreign languages have been cut from the curriculum for lack of funds, but anybody who wants to land a Cessna at 2 a.m. in an unmanned airport can do so, no problem, which must be a godsend to dope smugglers, but never mind.

There is no fighting these boondoggles and politicians know it. The stuff gets passed and signed into law and taxpayer groups fire off a barrage of press releases and a week later it's old news. The sensible thing is to fight for your own boondoggle.

I belong to an enormous special-interest group that, unlike Alaskans or hobby pilots, has never exercised much clout, and that is the English-major community. For us, the equivalent of the Gravina Island bridge is the public library equipped with leather sofas and an espresso bar and librarians who are trained in pressure-point massage. Greek columns would be nice, and a pair of stone lions, and a rare book collection and a three-story lobby with marble floors so your footsteps echo as if you were in an Edith Wharton novel. And a statue of Minerva.

I imagine that a super-library of that caliber might cost 223ドル million if you add in the books, the banks of computers with high-speed Internet connections, the movie theater, the Children's Room, the Steam Room, the Nap Room, the Hobnob Room where English majors can gather for a libation, the underground parking garage, and the kindly reference librarian with the bun, the faint moustache on the upper lip, the navy-blue knit dress, the sensible shoes, and the glasses on a chain around her neck. Those ladies have become rare and do not come cheap.

We English majors need a mouthpiece in Congress of the caliber of Rep. Don Young of Alaska. And we need to promote public libraries as a tool in the war against terror.

How many readers of Edith Wharton have engaged in terroristic acts? I challenge you to name one. Therefore, the reading of Edith Wharton is a proven deterrent to terror. Do we need to wait until our cities lie in smoking ruins before we wake up to the fact that a first-class public library is a vital link in national defense?

Which side is your congressman on? If we English majors would make our voices heard and flood Congress with angry sonnets, we would get a major library bill passed. I hope that Minnesota will get the first 223ドル million library, but if Ketchikan wants one too, fine.

(Originally posted here on his website.)

Be warned, too: the history teacher in me is surfacing again.

Today, as you should all be aware, is Election Day. Blake and I went out and did our civic duty this morning and cast our votes before we headed to campus. I got to feel all high-tech and stuff because our state/county/city/whathaveyou, as many of yours have, has moved to the new electronic system of voting. Seriously, though. I literally voted with the press of a button. (An informed press of a button, mind you. I'm not a reckless voter, or at least I try not to be.) So, that was kinda cool.

This reckless abandonment of the old punch system has worked people into a frenzy. First people are freaked out that their votes will be manipulated. And then, come election day, the whole network decides to work only when it feels like it. Though we personally encountered no technical glitches as we voted, the polls in Delaware County, Indiana (of which Muncie is the county seat) have had enough problems to make national news. From USAtoday.com's front page story:

"Election officials in Delaware County, Ind., planned to seek a court order to extend voting after an apparent computer error prevented voters from casting ballots in 75 precincts. Delaware County Clerk Karen Wenger said the cards that activate the machines were programmed incorrectly. "We are working with precincts one-by-one over the telephone to get the problem fixed," Wenger said."

Apparently, they got the court order. At least now the polls are going to remain open until 8:40 p.m. to make up for the 2 hours and 40 minutes missed this morning during the technical difficulties.

Indiana's making election news in other ways as well. Long known as a conservative state, often forgotten during election time, the races in Indiana have moved to the forefront of the excitement. Three seats in Congress, currently held by Republicans, are being contested even as I write this, and it's making everyone anxious as to whether or not they'll get to keep those seats. It's brought a lot of political big-wigs here to campaign on behalf of both parties. In fact, just a few weeks ago, Laura Bush was here stumping for her husband's party. Also, it's resulted in ugly, mud-filled commercials belittling the various candidates. Good grief, people! I've never seen anything this bad! Ever heard of the golden rule?

As for me, well, I've done my part. I researched as much information as I could regarding the candidates and their stands on the issues and I went out and voted this morning. And now I can sit back, put my feet up, and watch non-painfully-fierce-mudslinging commericals on TV (because, geez, those were getting annoying!).

Anyway, guys, if you haven't already, be good citizens and GO VOTE!

(Thank you.)

So, I've been officially indoctrinated as a whole grain Hoosier: I spent Saturday afternoon watching the basketball movie Hoosiers. AND I watched it WHILE living in Indiana. (Fulfilling the Hoosier dream, now aren't I?) It was my first time watching it (sports flicks don't usually captivate me), but I figured that if I was going to make my time in Indiana truly complete, I'd have to watch at least this one.

It would be no fun to post about my viewing of Hoosiers if I only told you that. So I've garnered up some insider tidbits for your enjoyment.

• The movie is loosely based on a true story (but I figure you probably knew that already).
  
• What you probably didn't know was that Hickory High School's 1951 team was based on Milan (pronounced MY-lun) High School's 1954 team.
• Milan is located about 2.5 hours south of Muncie.
  
• It was filmed at the gym in Knightstown, Indiana, a small town about an hour south of Muncie, along Hwy 40. Occasionally fans will sell Hoosiers paraphernalia in the gym. Also, this gym is reportedly much smaller than portrayed in the movie (if you can imagine that).
  
• I recognized nearly every team Hickory played in the movie: Decatur, Jasper, Linton, Bloomington, etc. Only I didn't recognize Dugger. Nope, never heard of Dugger, Indiana.
• The team Milan played in the state finals in real life was not South Bend, but Muncie Central. Muncie was King of Indiana Basketball in the '50s. Go Muncie!!
• Unlike Hickory, Milan wasn't a sprung-out-of-nowhere underdog. They were good. Small, but good. And were actually slated to take state from the beginning.
• My co-worker's husband, Dave, loves loves loves the movie Hoosiers, and tried out for a part as an extra.
• In reality, Milan got a new basketball coach not because the previous coach died, but because he'd been fired for buying new team uniforms without the superintendent's permission.
• The movie was renamed to "Best Shot" in Europe because most Europeans wouldn't know what a Hoosier was.
• To join the argument on what exactly a Hoosier is, see here.
  

And that's all the behind-the-scenes digging I'm going to do for you. If you're dying to uncover more facts about the movie, feel free to dig them up yourself.

It was 21 degrees and icy earlier this morning, and we’re only expected to reach a high today of somewhere in the mid-30s. These numbers make me both nervous and excited:

Nervous: Because Blake is going to apply for a job that could take us to South Bend, Indiana, where, rumor has it, it’s much (much much much) colder.

Excited: Because it’s making me look even more forward (if such a thing were possible) to spending Christmas in San Antonio, where, rumor has it, it’s much (much much much) warmer.

Today my office is celebrating a lesser-known holiday called Pitch It Day. Actually, judging by the fact that I am here at work, it’s really not much of a holiday at all. It’s a cleaning day. Here’s what I’ve done so far:

• Tossed last year’s campus directory
• Air dusted my keyboard
• Threw away a non-functioning electronic pencil cup (electronic pencil cup? What the heck?)
• De-germed my telephone
• Filed a pile of miscellaneous papers which were begging for a home
• Spray-cleaned my desk
• Found homes for 54 (ish) misplaced paperclips
• Moved boxes of brochures to the back storage room
• Shredded stacks and stacks and stacks of paper.

It’s nice having a clean workspace again. Heck, it’s nice being able to see my desk again! You know, it’s true what my mom told me growing up: if you just put things away when you’re done with them, it won’t take you so long to clean up later.

Take our apartment, for example. We cleaned it pretty well last Saturday, and followed through with a few more cleaning-tasks over the last few days. This morning, Blake expressed his amazement at the fact that our apartment was still clean. I have to say, though we are generally clean people, it’s rare that our apartment is still this clean after almost a whole week! No jackets folded over the arm of the couch. No scribbled papers of notes by the computer. No stacks of books in odd places. And all because we put our things away when we’re done using them. It’s really just that simple. I could get used to this.

Even so, it is nice to have a day set aside every once in a while devoted solely to cleaning things up and tossing stuff in the trash. I love tossing stuff in the trash. I also love sharing my stuff with Goodwill. Blake thinks I like this a little too much. And maybe I do. Maybe I’m just making up for the days when as child I was a bona fide pack rat. Anyway, why keep the clothes you’re never going to wear again? Or the trinkets and souvenirs you just hide in drawers anyway? Or books you never want to read again? (Blake always worries when I get urges to de-clutter the bookshelves.) But I can’t help myself anymore. I don’t like being burdened down by stuff – especially when the writing on the wall tells us we’ll be a family on the move for the next decade or so.

So where do you fit?

Hoarding Pack Rat --------------------------------------- Generous Goodwill Giver

Today I was going to write about how last night at Activity Days we cooked a healthy meal for two YSA girls in our ward (because “college students don’t have time to be healthy,” said my girls). I was going to tell you how my sugared-up-on-Halloween-candy girls were wild and giggly and silly and fun. I was going to tell you about the fabulous job they did whipping up spaghetti with vegetable marinara sauce, sliced fruit, spinach salad, and whole wheat rolls. And I was going to tell you about the facts they taught with child-like simplicity to the YSAs about why this meal was nutritious (their answer: “Because it’s healthy”)…

And then I was going to tell you that whoever it was who told me that moving to a humid climate would make me want to throw all my lotion into the trash with reckless abandon wasn’t remembering that winters in a humid climate make skin like mine look (and feel) more like the Mojave desert than a Brazillian rainforest…

And then I was also thinking about telling you that my poor husband Blake hasn’t been feeling well lately, so today after work I’m going to buy him some vitamin C and something for his throat. And, heck, while I’m out there, I’ll do my grocery shopping as well so I can come home and make him some hearty stroganoff and juice so maybe he’ll feel better soon…

And I was also going to remind you that The Office is on tonight and that you should all watch because, even though they sometimes have to dish out the reruns (ahem…last week…), it’s still a hilarious show and hilarity deserves support…

But then I thought that maybe you’d heard all this already, so I changed my mind and decided not to tell you, because no one likes to hear about the mundane twice. Sorry guys.

I learned today that SPAM* has an interesting -- some might argue spamtastic -- history. For example, how many of you are aware that SPAM's original name was "Hormel SpicedHam"? And how many of you are aware that the term SPAM was chosen by means of a naming contest after the market share for Hormel SpicedHam declined? And how many of you are aware that "Something Posing As Meat" is NOT an acronym for SPAM (though many of us, I'm sure, believe that it could be)?

SPAM comes in many varieties: Original SPAM, SPAM Oven Roasted Turkey, SPAM Smoke Flavored, and Electronic Spam.

Wait -- Electronic Spam? I thought we were talking about canned meat?

Eh, no matter... I generally consider both to be pretty nasty. Though, it's not just their poor taste, if you will, that they have in common. The term spam, meaning unwanted mass-distributed junk email, found its roots in Canned Meat SPAM. Back in 1970, Monty Python broadcast a sketch called "Spam," in which Mr. and Mrs. Bun, two hungry patrons of the Green Midget Cafe, ask the waitress what's on the menu. Turns out that our poor Buns are out of luck because every menu item contains a little (though more often a lot) of SPAM, and they are tired of eating SPAM. (Because apparently during WWII, SPAM was one of the only foods that wasn't rationed in Britain, and the Brits grew incredibly sick of the stuff.) A lot of shouting ensues, mostly by SPAM-loving Vikings enjoying their SPAM-filled meals at the Cafe. Their chants of "SPAM, SPAM, SPAM, SPAM, lovely SPAM, wonderful SPAM!" drown out the waitress and the Bun's conversation, thus "SPAMming" the dialogue. Though junk mail spam didn't actually exist until a few decades later, when it was finally born, people were quick to remember this skit and voila! The term email spam was born!

Blake and I both get a lot of unwanted spam mail. About a week ago, we decided to make a contest out of it. Since Gmail claimed it wouldn't delete spam mail for 30 days, we decided to see who could collect the most spam in a month. We would check it three times: after 24 hours, after 1 week, and after 1 month. Unfortunately, we had to cut our contest short because, even though Gmail says it won't delete Spam mail until it's been sitting for 30 days, it will delete any over 200. So here are the totals we did collect:


Clearly, I was the winner. Clearly. I think I saw mine go up to 211 before Gmail started deleting it. So now my question is: if I could collect over 200 spam email in one week, how many would I get in a month? Too many, that's what.

So there you have it: SPAM. It's more than just meat in a can.

Wait? What?! You want more?! All right. Suit yourself. But don't say I didn't warn you.





*The good people at Hormel would like it to be known that canned meat SPAM should be spelled in all capital letters and treated always as an adjective. There. Now you know. So don't blame me when their copyright and trademark lawyers get after you for improper spelling and usage.