Dear Shirtless Gardening Man,
Thank you for making my day. It's not every day that I see a full grown man with no shirt on in 37 degree weather gardening. When the weatherman mentioned that it was going to be in the low 60's today, I think he meant after the sun had fully crested the hill. Don't feel bad, I made the same mistake. I got up, peeked out the window blinds and promptly dressed for my morning run in shorts and a t-shirt. The difference between us is that I went back inside and put on long pants and a sweatshirt.
However, it is only April 29th and I'm not entirely sure that, short of a flukey spring day, the weather in late April would ever justify you being outside without a shirt gardening at 7:00 in the morning. I guess the fog I was seeing could've been smoke blowing out of my ears, but I'm pretty sure it was my breath. In any case, I was pleasantly warm in my long pants and sweatshirt.
I'm just giving you a heads up. You looked mighty cold.
Sincerely,
A Concerned Runner
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Dear American Idol Judges,
You should just send everyone else home and get to the showdown between Danny and Adam. It was predicted something like 40 weeks ago, so let's get on with it. Geez. How many more sappy weeks do we have to endure?
Also, everyone knows that the only judge who's opinion matters is Simon. Everyone else should just sit there and look pretty.
Best Regards,
Somewhat Faithful Follower
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Dear Celebrity Apprentice,
What did you expect was going to happen when you invited Joan Rivers and her equally creepy daughter Melissa to participate in your show? That was some high class entertainment, if not a little awkward. Thanks for the laughs.
Truly Yours,
Fervent Watcher
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Dear Susan Boyle Critics,
How was she suppose to know that she would become an overnight sensation? So she made a joke about never being kissed and turns out it's not true. Boo hoo hoo. Does that make her any less of a singer? American Idol contestants could take some lessons in song choice from her.
An Avid Fan of Susan Boyle
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Dear Judge with a Power Issue,
Who peed in your cheerios? So somebody sent a text message from your courtroom. Does that justify a 30 day stay in jail? For your information, it costs taxpayers in the neighborhood of $60 a day to incarcerate someone. Your outlandish punishment was going to cost us $1800. That's more than double my mortgage payment. Add that to the amount we'll be picking up for this particular couple's spending habits that have gone belly up, and I'm spending a lot more on them than I am on myself.
How about sending people to jail who really deserve it instead of people who do idiotic things. Otherwise the majority of the county would be clogging up your prision system.
Pissed Off Tooele County Resident
P.S. Don't think that just because you let her out, you'll get re-elected. You're the idiot.
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Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Letting Go
- It's been extremely hard to let go of my dream house. Mainly because we keep talking about theoretically buying it. We've even gone so far as to sit down and work out the money. And it keeps coming back to just because we can doesn't mean we should. Also, we keep going over and looking at it. Trying to find that one thing that's a deal breaker. It's time to let go and concentrate on getting into a better position to accept opportunities like this should they pop up again. But...you know...it's easier said than done.
- This last month has been crazy insane with the amount of exercising I've done. Between my runs to keep on schedule with my half-marathon training (which is off the table because of a wedding) and that stupid boot camp thing I signed up for which is more like a gentle nudge than the yelling-in-my-face-making-me-sweat ordeal I was prepared for and swimming to get in shape for triathlon season, and hour aerobics at the church every morning, you'd think I'd be skin and bones. But, stepping on the scale this morning, I've lost nothing. I keep telling myself that I'm gaining muscle.It's time to let go of the scale and the implications that it brings, but...you know...it's easier said than done.
- I've been lamenting Wade's schedule to everyone who will listen for a while now. I think it's safe to assume that it's been hard to adjust to not really having someone else around to help out with the kids and my patience level is quite low at the present time. I realize that there are people in a lot worse situations than me and I need to be grateful for the blessings I have. There's a season for everything and ten years from now, we won't even remember the lonely nights and the years struggling with little kids. It's time to let go and enjoy the time I have with my kids, but...you know...it's easier said than done.
- There are a thousand things I want to get done every day and it seems like I'm always doing the same four things: cleaning the house, feeding the baby, folding laundry, or cooking dinner. Each night I go to bed frustrated that there seems to be a lack of "productivity" for the day. I need to let go of unreal expectations and try to treasure each day as a new beginning, but...you know...it's easier said than done.
- I desperately want to get faster at running, but I don't have the discipline to really invest my time and energy into doing it. At night when I think about my morning run scheduled for the next morning, I'm always excited and can picture myself running the best run of my life. However, it rarely comes to fruition. I'm not a runner by nature. I've never been considered "petite" at over 5'8" and with an "athletic" build. Part of the allure of running for me is the ability to be competitive without having to be elite. I need to learn to be competitive with myself, not just with my running buddies and my age group. I need to be happy if I can get a better time each race and see improvements. I need to let go of dreams that only frustrate me., but...you know...it's easier said than done.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Birthday Monster
Josh has grown leaps and bounds this last year. Physically, he's the size of a five or six year old. His communication skills--as well as his manipulation and negotiating skills--have come a long way in the last 365 days too. It's hard to believe he's already four.
Last year, when I took him in for his well-child checkup, he didn't know a lot of shapes and his colors were the different characters from Cars; "red" was Lightening McQueen, "blue" was Doc, etc. He was slow to talk and it took us a long time to decipher what was being said.
My, what a difference a year can make.
Josh knows all of his alphabet and can write every letter. He can write words like "mom", "dad", his name, and some odd ones that are thrown in there for variety: pie, Brock (one of his good friends), candy, cow, candle. He'll copy words from the Sunday bulletin at church to pass the time during Sacrament meeting.
He LOVES paper. We have to hide the reams of paper from him or he'd go through it in a day. He likes to draw, cut it up into itty bitty tiny pieces that are nearly impossible to pick up and write words.
Josh has figured out the remote to the tv tuner on the computer. We record several shows for him a day from PBS. Curious George, Barney, and Word World are his favorites. Word World is a cute show where all the characters are the letters of their name ('cow' for the cow, 'sheep' for the sheep, etc) arranged to look like the object. One day I came into the bedroom to find Josh sitting at the computer, copying down all the words from the show. Each time a new one came up, he'd pause the show, write down the name, and then hit play again. I should just sit him in front of the computer for 2 hours and save my money from preschool.
He's also recently begun to read a little. He knows the words "the", "hat", "man", "and", "George" and "Crocodile". It's very much like the foreign language classes we all took in high school. You learned these words and phrases that you could never quite use to complete a coherent thought, unless you were trying to introduce a "man" "George" "and" "the" "Crocodile" "hat".
We taught Josh my mom's telephone number this last year, mostly because we thought he'd never retain the information. But he has. And uses it quite a bit. So we decided a few weeks ago that he should probably know his phone number as well. So on a ride home from visiting my brother in Heber, we taught Josh our telephone number and address. Should he ever get lost, he'll know how to reach us.
He can read a calendar, a digital watch and knows the days of the week. He can also count almost to 30. Josh loves puzzles and still really loves his cars. He'll play with his cars for a couple hours a day. He really likes the Wii as well and will play that too until he gets too frustrated and throws the remote. Then we have to take it away. According to the neighbors who all have kindergarteners this year, he's surpassed what they're being taught. This next year, I need to look into school programs and make a decision on where to send him to school since he still has one more year of preschool before starting kindergarten. If he's already pass what they teach in kindergarten, then what?
On Tuesdays and Thursdays I walk around the neighborhood with a group of ladies from the ward. Josh will ride his trike the entire time. He's almost too big for it, but I've been reluctant to pull out the bigger bike. The other day, I brought my GPS watch with me to clock how far we were going and he rode 2.5 miles. That's a long way on a little plastic tricycle. I think this year, I'm going to sign him up for fall soccer. He really likes to be outside and seems to have endless energy. I'm also going to sign him up for a kids 1K event that usually follows a 5k.
I'm still at a lost of what to do about food. He's an extremely picky eater and is stubborn as all get out. The doctor suggested last year that I hang on to his dinner plate until he's ready to eat. We've tried that a few times this year and he's gone to bed hungry, but he wakes up a monster. He's like me if his blood sugar level dips too low. I just don't have the patience, energy or desire to make every meal time a power struggle, so he thrives on what he'll eat from the menu that's being served that night. I make it a point not to make him his own dinner on most occassions. Sometimes, I'll make him Mac and Cheese if Wade and I are going to eat late or something. It's been a constant struggle this last year to get him to eat and I'm pretty sure this will extend into his 4th year as well. I have gotten him to try a few new things this year, so I'll consider that a success amongst the failings.
Josh has my patience level, which is to say, not very patient at all. He's quick to get angry and will drive you crazy with any request until it's completed. He's also been acting out a bit lately because of the baby now that she's getting a little bit older and demands a more attention from me. He can be extremely loud and obnoxious at times and I'm trying really hard to give him the attention he's obviously craving. It's also been quite an adjustment not to have Wade in the picture as much. I can be really short with him at times, and I'm making a concentrated effort not to lose my temper with him, but some days it's a struggle. It certainly doesn't help that Wade is gone much of the week.
This year we're going to set up a weekly allowance with a chore chart and things he has to do to earn his allowance. He'll have to start paying tithing and saving money to get the things that he wants at Walmart (like paper!) A friend and I were talking about teaching our kids the value of money early on during our run yesterday morning. She mentioned that her dad always told her to pay 10% to the church and 10% to herself first. She wishes he would've made her do that instead of just suggesting she do it because then she would've built herself up quite a nest egg before even embarking on her own. I guess it's time to start, right?
Josh continues to be a blessing in our lives and another year has passed reminding me that he's growing up.
Last year, when I took him in for his well-child checkup, he didn't know a lot of shapes and his colors were the different characters from Cars; "red" was Lightening McQueen, "blue" was Doc, etc. He was slow to talk and it took us a long time to decipher what was being said.
My, what a difference a year can make.
Josh knows all of his alphabet and can write every letter. He can write words like "mom", "dad", his name, and some odd ones that are thrown in there for variety: pie, Brock (one of his good friends), candy, cow, candle. He'll copy words from the Sunday bulletin at church to pass the time during Sacrament meeting.
He LOVES paper. We have to hide the reams of paper from him or he'd go through it in a day. He likes to draw, cut it up into itty bitty tiny pieces that are nearly impossible to pick up and write words.
Josh has figured out the remote to the tv tuner on the computer. We record several shows for him a day from PBS. Curious George, Barney, and Word World are his favorites. Word World is a cute show where all the characters are the letters of their name ('cow' for the cow, 'sheep' for the sheep, etc) arranged to look like the object. One day I came into the bedroom to find Josh sitting at the computer, copying down all the words from the show. Each time a new one came up, he'd pause the show, write down the name, and then hit play again. I should just sit him in front of the computer for 2 hours and save my money from preschool.
He's also recently begun to read a little. He knows the words "the", "hat", "man", "and", "George" and "Crocodile". It's very much like the foreign language classes we all took in high school. You learned these words and phrases that you could never quite use to complete a coherent thought, unless you were trying to introduce a "man" "George" "and" "the" "Crocodile" "hat".
We taught Josh my mom's telephone number this last year, mostly because we thought he'd never retain the information. But he has. And uses it quite a bit. So we decided a few weeks ago that he should probably know his phone number as well. So on a ride home from visiting my brother in Heber, we taught Josh our telephone number and address. Should he ever get lost, he'll know how to reach us.
He can read a calendar, a digital watch and knows the days of the week. He can also count almost to 30. Josh loves puzzles and still really loves his cars. He'll play with his cars for a couple hours a day. He really likes the Wii as well and will play that too until he gets too frustrated and throws the remote. Then we have to take it away. According to the neighbors who all have kindergarteners this year, he's surpassed what they're being taught. This next year, I need to look into school programs and make a decision on where to send him to school since he still has one more year of preschool before starting kindergarten. If he's already pass what they teach in kindergarten, then what?
On Tuesdays and Thursdays I walk around the neighborhood with a group of ladies from the ward. Josh will ride his trike the entire time. He's almost too big for it, but I've been reluctant to pull out the bigger bike. The other day, I brought my GPS watch with me to clock how far we were going and he rode 2.5 miles. That's a long way on a little plastic tricycle. I think this year, I'm going to sign him up for fall soccer. He really likes to be outside and seems to have endless energy. I'm also going to sign him up for a kids 1K event that usually follows a 5k.
I'm still at a lost of what to do about food. He's an extremely picky eater and is stubborn as all get out. The doctor suggested last year that I hang on to his dinner plate until he's ready to eat. We've tried that a few times this year and he's gone to bed hungry, but he wakes up a monster. He's like me if his blood sugar level dips too low. I just don't have the patience, energy or desire to make every meal time a power struggle, so he thrives on what he'll eat from the menu that's being served that night. I make it a point not to make him his own dinner on most occassions. Sometimes, I'll make him Mac and Cheese if Wade and I are going to eat late or something. It's been a constant struggle this last year to get him to eat and I'm pretty sure this will extend into his 4th year as well. I have gotten him to try a few new things this year, so I'll consider that a success amongst the failings.
Josh has my patience level, which is to say, not very patient at all. He's quick to get angry and will drive you crazy with any request until it's completed. He's also been acting out a bit lately because of the baby now that she's getting a little bit older and demands a more attention from me. He can be extremely loud and obnoxious at times and I'm trying really hard to give him the attention he's obviously craving. It's also been quite an adjustment not to have Wade in the picture as much. I can be really short with him at times, and I'm making a concentrated effort not to lose my temper with him, but some days it's a struggle. It certainly doesn't help that Wade is gone much of the week.
This year we're going to set up a weekly allowance with a chore chart and things he has to do to earn his allowance. He'll have to start paying tithing and saving money to get the things that he wants at Walmart (like paper!) A friend and I were talking about teaching our kids the value of money early on during our run yesterday morning. She mentioned that her dad always told her to pay 10% to the church and 10% to herself first. She wishes he would've made her do that instead of just suggesting she do it because then she would've built herself up quite a nest egg before even embarking on her own. I guess it's time to start, right?
Josh continues to be a blessing in our lives and another year has passed reminding me that he's growing up.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
My Dream House
There's this cruel game that we (read: Wade) likes to play. It's called Let's-Go-Check-Out-Other-Houses-And-See-Where-We-Could-Be-Living.
When we originally built our home in 2002, we knew for sure that this was not our dream home. It's a great starter home, but it's crafted just like every other house in the neighborhood and has zero personality (I know, I know, most of the personality comes from the owners, but there's only so much oomph you can put in to a zero personality home.) At the height of the housing boom, we thought about upscaling, but in the end we decided that we liked our payment and opted to finish our basement instead.
At the time we moved out here, I was positive that eventually we'd move back into the city. I couldn't see myself liking it out here. But, lo and behold, I love it. I don't see ourselves ever returning to the city. I like how far we are from Salt Lake and the hustle and bustle there. Everyone looks at us like we're nuts when we say we're 30 minutes from anywhere, but I'm fine with the drive. Some days it's absolutely gorgeous and other days, it's brain-numbing dull--just like every drive. There's hardly any traffic and there are a ton of places to explore on my runs.
And so, my dream location is up over the hill into Lake Point. And right now they're building these incredible homes. Incredible, gorgeous homes.
Easter Sunday found us driving around and we ended up in Lake Point looking at homes for sale. Just because we (read: Wade) likes this game.
We saw an amazing home and Wade, in keeping with the game, jotted down the realtor's number AND CALLED HIM. Like he was interested!
Tonight, I pull into the driveway. It had been a long day in the sun and spinning and whatnot. Wade pulled in behind me and said the magic words: "Remember the house on the hill? I went in it today. "
Why? Why? Why?
Of course, I want to see it because Wade was going on and on about how amazing it was and so we drove over there.
And he's right. It was amazing. From the tile floors to the fireplace in the living room AND bedroom to the upstairs room that would naturally be my writing nook where I'd crank out best sellers. Not to mention the view. This place was incredible. My dream home except for I wouldn't be building it because it was already built.
The best part was that Wade had talked the realtor down something like $29,000 in the four minutes he spent on the phone with him.
We theorized how we could possibly get the home, because it is theoretically plausible to do in our current economic state. However, it would be a no-brainer if our current house was paid for. I told Wade that if our home was paid for, I'd put it up on the market tonight--no qualms about it. But alas...
So, we returned to our dinky home with our half finished basement, resolved to do better with our budgeting so that if an opportunity like this comes up in the future, we'd be in the position to take it. And we promptly saw our neighbor's three year old son running stark naked through our yard, reminding us why we play the "game" in the first place.
When we originally built our home in 2002, we knew for sure that this was not our dream home. It's a great starter home, but it's crafted just like every other house in the neighborhood and has zero personality (I know, I know, most of the personality comes from the owners, but there's only so much oomph you can put in to a zero personality home.) At the height of the housing boom, we thought about upscaling, but in the end we decided that we liked our payment and opted to finish our basement instead.
At the time we moved out here, I was positive that eventually we'd move back into the city. I couldn't see myself liking it out here. But, lo and behold, I love it. I don't see ourselves ever returning to the city. I like how far we are from Salt Lake and the hustle and bustle there. Everyone looks at us like we're nuts when we say we're 30 minutes from anywhere, but I'm fine with the drive. Some days it's absolutely gorgeous and other days, it's brain-numbing dull--just like every drive. There's hardly any traffic and there are a ton of places to explore on my runs.
And so, my dream location is up over the hill into Lake Point. And right now they're building these incredible homes. Incredible, gorgeous homes.
Easter Sunday found us driving around and we ended up in Lake Point looking at homes for sale. Just because we (read: Wade) likes this game.
We saw an amazing home and Wade, in keeping with the game, jotted down the realtor's number AND CALLED HIM. Like he was interested!
Tonight, I pull into the driveway. It had been a long day in the sun and spinning and whatnot. Wade pulled in behind me and said the magic words: "Remember the house on the hill? I went in it today. "
Why? Why? Why?
Of course, I want to see it because Wade was going on and on about how amazing it was and so we drove over there.
And he's right. It was amazing. From the tile floors to the fireplace in the living room AND bedroom to the upstairs room that would naturally be my writing nook where I'd crank out best sellers. Not to mention the view. This place was incredible. My dream home except for I wouldn't be building it because it was already built.
The best part was that Wade had talked the realtor down something like $29,000 in the four minutes he spent on the phone with him.
We theorized how we could possibly get the home, because it is theoretically plausible to do in our current economic state. However, it would be a no-brainer if our current house was paid for. I told Wade that if our home was paid for, I'd put it up on the market tonight--no qualms about it. But alas...
So, we returned to our dinky home with our half finished basement, resolved to do better with our budgeting so that if an opportunity like this comes up in the future, we'd be in the position to take it. And we promptly saw our neighbor's three year old son running stark naked through our yard, reminding us why we play the "game" in the first place.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Best Calling Ever...Maybe
In March I was released from my calling as RS babysitter...uh, secretary. I had been RS secretary for two years following a very stressful two years as the Primary Secretary. Since being released, I've been laying low. I'm not someone that needs a calling to feel needed and loved. Sometimes, I just enjoy showing up on Sunday to church for the sole purpose of coming to church.
But my days were numbered since our enormous ward was split and the picking pool had been greatly diminished. And so I wasn't surprised when I was pulled out of RS this morning to chat with the bishop.
He called me to be the Communications Specialist for RS. I asked him what he thought this meant. He didn't have a clue. I asked the RS president and she was vague with her description..."Uh, you're in charge of advertising."
"Posters?" I asked. "Because I don't do posters very well. I'm not an artist."
"I don't think so." She replied.
We have a few women in the ward who are a little particular about how their things are advertised and I can tell you right now I'm going to be a sore, sore disappointment. If that's really what I'm suppose to do.
But if the RS president doesn't know what I'm suppose to do, then who does?
A friend and I were theorizing what exactly the calling meant. She thought maybe I should be giving out vocabulary lists and quizzing everyone the following week. I thought maybe a "word of the day" feature where each instructor and speaker had to somehow work it into their lessons. Something like rhubarb. Or distend. I mean, there should be something to keep our attention in Sunday School, right?
People more spiritually guided then me would try to find out from someone--anyone--what exactly this calling entails. They'd make up tasks so that it looked like they were doing their job and doing it well. I, however, just googled Communications Specialist LDS Relief Society and nada. If it's not in Google, it must not really exist and I consider myself the proud owner of one of those callings. One of those callings that we can only dream about when we're doing something much more responsible/time-consuming/dirtier in the church. A made up calling. And who am I to tell the people who made up the calling what I'm suppose to do, so I'll just continue laying low. Maybe they'll forget about me.
But my days were numbered since our enormous ward was split and the picking pool had been greatly diminished. And so I wasn't surprised when I was pulled out of RS this morning to chat with the bishop.
He called me to be the Communications Specialist for RS. I asked him what he thought this meant. He didn't have a clue. I asked the RS president and she was vague with her description..."Uh, you're in charge of advertising."
"Posters?" I asked. "Because I don't do posters very well. I'm not an artist."
"I don't think so." She replied.
We have a few women in the ward who are a little particular about how their things are advertised and I can tell you right now I'm going to be a sore, sore disappointment. If that's really what I'm suppose to do.
But if the RS president doesn't know what I'm suppose to do, then who does?
A friend and I were theorizing what exactly the calling meant. She thought maybe I should be giving out vocabulary lists and quizzing everyone the following week. I thought maybe a "word of the day" feature where each instructor and speaker had to somehow work it into their lessons. Something like rhubarb. Or distend. I mean, there should be something to keep our attention in Sunday School, right?
People more spiritually guided then me would try to find out from someone--anyone--what exactly this calling entails. They'd make up tasks so that it looked like they were doing their job and doing it well. I, however, just googled Communications Specialist LDS Relief Society and nada. If it's not in Google, it must not really exist and I consider myself the proud owner of one of those callings. One of those callings that we can only dream about when we're doing something much more responsible/time-consuming/dirtier in the church. A made up calling. And who am I to tell the people who made up the calling what I'm suppose to do, so I'll just continue laying low. Maybe they'll forget about me.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Falling Slowly
Here was an actual phone conversation I had with my dad yesterday:
Me: Dad?
Dad: Yes?
Me: Mom has fallen in the garage. She's half under the jeep. I can't move the car up because it's too close to the awning and I can't move it back because I'll run her over.
Note: my parents bought an awning for their patio in January or February. Since it was too cold to install it, they've been storing it in their garage. It stretches from the wall to the man door on the other side of the garage. It's conveniently placed in front of the stairs leading inside the house so that every time you come in through the garage you have to step over this tube that's about a foot in diameter. Last weekend, they removed the awning from the tube to get the installation instructions out and now you have to step over the tube and the awning--about a span of 18 inches. Apparently, my mom didn't quite make it over all 18 inches.
Dad: Oh, dear.
Me: The thing is she's flat on her belly and there isn't any room for her to roll over onto her back so I can help her up. I can't even wedge myself in there to help get her up either. I think we have a problem. She's cursing so I guess that's a good sign that she's alive.
(me giggling)
Dad: Hmmm
Me: Yeah. She's not very happy.
Dad: I would imagine not.
(me trying to stifle the giggling because mom is getting angrier.)
Me: She's especially impatient with her four year old grandson because he keeps telling her what she should've done. 'Grandma, you went the wrong way. You were suppose to jump over it like this.' We may have to call the paramedics.
Dad: Hmmm
Me: Wait, her she comes. She's managed to free herself. I'm sensing some anger. I think she wants to talk to you.
Note: My mom was just a little shaken up by her unfortunate fall and nothing broke. I even mentioned that this was too good to pass up as a blog entry and she reluctantly gave her permission. Which is good because I would've felt guilty posting it anyways. Besides, as I mentioned to her, one day, I'm going to write a book and get millions of dollars and she'll be on the receiving end of some of it.
Me: Dad?
Dad: Yes?
Me: Mom has fallen in the garage. She's half under the jeep. I can't move the car up because it's too close to the awning and I can't move it back because I'll run her over.
Note: my parents bought an awning for their patio in January or February. Since it was too cold to install it, they've been storing it in their garage. It stretches from the wall to the man door on the other side of the garage. It's conveniently placed in front of the stairs leading inside the house so that every time you come in through the garage you have to step over this tube that's about a foot in diameter. Last weekend, they removed the awning from the tube to get the installation instructions out and now you have to step over the tube and the awning--about a span of 18 inches. Apparently, my mom didn't quite make it over all 18 inches.
Dad: Oh, dear.
Me: The thing is she's flat on her belly and there isn't any room for her to roll over onto her back so I can help her up. I can't even wedge myself in there to help get her up either. I think we have a problem. She's cursing so I guess that's a good sign that she's alive.
(me giggling)
Dad: Hmmm
Me: Yeah. She's not very happy.
Dad: I would imagine not.
(me trying to stifle the giggling because mom is getting angrier.)
Me: She's especially impatient with her four year old grandson because he keeps telling her what she should've done. 'Grandma, you went the wrong way. You were suppose to jump over it like this.' We may have to call the paramedics.
Dad: Hmmm
Me: Wait, her she comes. She's managed to free herself. I'm sensing some anger. I think she wants to talk to you.
Note: My mom was just a little shaken up by her unfortunate fall and nothing broke. I even mentioned that this was too good to pass up as a blog entry and she reluctantly gave her permission. Which is good because I would've felt guilty posting it anyways. Besides, as I mentioned to her, one day, I'm going to write a book and get millions of dollars and she'll be on the receiving end of some of it.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Off the Hook
1. Two people meet, fall in love, and have two children. 21 years apart.
2. Child #1 falls in love and marries just as child #2 is learning to walk.
3. Child #1 has two children just as child #2 starts puberty.
4. Child #1 raises his two kids into adulthood.
5. Child #2 falls in love, marries and has three children of her own. We call her mom.
6. Mom's kids grow into adulthood, marry and start their own families.
7. Child #1's oldest son, Son A, meets nice lady, moves in with her. Sets wedding date.
8. Child #1's youngest son, Son B, gets sick. Wedding cancelled.
9. Son A sets another date. Something happens. Wedding cancelled again.
10. Years pass.
11. Son B doesn't get better. Still sick. Son A decides to get married, again.
12. Son A sets date. Moves wedding to Vegas so easier for mom and her children to attend. Child #1 and Son B won't be attending.
13. Date set for the same weekend as the half-marathon that mom's daughter has been lamenting about since signing up for it in a panic in February.
14. Mom's daughter decides Vegas sounds much more enjoyable than Ogden, running 13 miles. It might have been the 35 degree weather on April 15th that pushed her over the edge. Besides, the wedding party is only 7 big, so her presence would be greatly missed.
15. Mom's daughter calls her training buddies and gives them the good news. They're ecstatic that Friday morning won't be marred by an 8 mile run at 6 am.
16. Mom's daughter is mad at herself for feeling so elated that she's not obligated to run the half-marathon, but is looking forward to a 5k that she really wanted to do earlier in the month that she couldn't do because of her long runs.
17. Mom's daughter is pledging to get faster for the half-marathon she is definitely doing in August. Hoping to break 2:10. That's about a minute faster per mile than what she's currently running. It's probably wishful thinking, but at least now she has the time to devote to speeding up.
18. Best of all, mom's daughter is going to Vegas to an actual wedding with Elvis. How cool is that?
2. Child #1 falls in love and marries just as child #2 is learning to walk.
3. Child #1 has two children just as child #2 starts puberty.
4. Child #1 raises his two kids into adulthood.
5. Child #2 falls in love, marries and has three children of her own. We call her mom.
6. Mom's kids grow into adulthood, marry and start their own families.
7. Child #1's oldest son, Son A, meets nice lady, moves in with her. Sets wedding date.
8. Child #1's youngest son, Son B, gets sick. Wedding cancelled.
9. Son A sets another date. Something happens. Wedding cancelled again.
10. Years pass.
11. Son B doesn't get better. Still sick. Son A decides to get married, again.
12. Son A sets date. Moves wedding to Vegas so easier for mom and her children to attend. Child #1 and Son B won't be attending.
13. Date set for the same weekend as the half-marathon that mom's daughter has been lamenting about since signing up for it in a panic in February.
14. Mom's daughter decides Vegas sounds much more enjoyable than Ogden, running 13 miles. It might have been the 35 degree weather on April 15th that pushed her over the edge. Besides, the wedding party is only 7 big, so her presence would be greatly missed.
15. Mom's daughter calls her training buddies and gives them the good news. They're ecstatic that Friday morning won't be marred by an 8 mile run at 6 am.
16. Mom's daughter is mad at herself for feeling so elated that she's not obligated to run the half-marathon, but is looking forward to a 5k that she really wanted to do earlier in the month that she couldn't do because of her long runs.
17. Mom's daughter is pledging to get faster for the half-marathon she is definitely doing in August. Hoping to break 2:10. That's about a minute faster per mile than what she's currently running. It's probably wishful thinking, but at least now she has the time to devote to speeding up.
18. Best of all, mom's daughter is going to Vegas to an actual wedding with Elvis. How cool is that?
Sunday, April 12, 2009
My Easter Message
My grandparents--my mom's parents--were old. Very old. And I'm not just saying that because everyone over the age of 50 looks old when you're a kid. They were in their mid 40's when they had my mom and by the time I cam around, they were 74 and 79. All my memories of them have them in their 80's which is ancient in little kid time. I just assumed everyone spent Sundays at the nursing home with Grandpa.
My grandpa died when I was 9. He was 88. My grandma was a spitfire and hung in there for another 12 years past him, dying five years ago at the ripe age of 96.
For the last seven years of her life, she lived in a hospital that dealt solely with Alheizmers. She had the disease fairly bad and though it was devastating to watch it suck the life force out of someone who had been so vibrant, she did not deteriorate to the point that some of the people in the hospital did.
My brothers and I would entertain ourselves when we went to visit Grandma. For some reason she always thought it was Christmas, EXCEPT for the one day that it was Christmas. Then we couldn't get her to open her presents because she was going to wait until Christmas Day to do so. We would tell her stories about what we were doing in our lives and towards the end, we'd let her call us by the wrong name and just go along with the stories. For instance, 5 foot 8 inch, redhead 20-something year old me was my 4 foot 10 inch Brazillian 70-something year old aunt. I would just go along with it because in a few minutes I'd be someone new. Sometimes we'd see who could invent the most outrageous thing. My oldest brother--a person who can charm the pants off of anyone--won when he introduced me as Snoop Dog to a "visiting" patient. Without batting an eyelash, the lady turned to me and said "How do you do, Snoop Dog?" Didn't even phase her.
The best part about visiting Grandma was her collection of items from other patients' rooms. Since everyone was free to roam, often times, we'd find someone else's pictures and stuffed animals sitting on her dresser when we came by to visit. For whatever reason, she thought that my twin brother was someone else's son, who had Down Syndrome. The picture was old, as though it had been taken a long time ago. Each time we stopped in, we'd ask Grandma who that was a picture of and she'd look at us like we were crazy. "Scott of course." She'd reply. Before leaving, my mom would sneak it off her dresser and return the picture to it's rightful owner. A few times, Grandma would tell us about how someone kept stealing her picture of Scott and so she took to hiding it in her underwear drawer.
One Easter, we came in and there was a present waiting just for me. She had "purchased" a stuffed lamb for me, her only granddaughter. When you pressed the belly of the lamb, it would croak "Happy Easter" though it talked with a lisp, so it sounded more like "Happy Ether". I was 16 or 17 at the time, a little old for such gifts, but I took it with a smile. We never could find it's owner and so it came home with us.
A few nights later, I sat down to dinner of lambchops and the refrain "Happy Ether" "Happy Ether" "Happy Ether" kept running through my head and ever since, I have not been able to eat lamb.
As I was "consulting with the Easter Bunny" last night at Wal-mart because I had left things to the last minute, I was reminded of this story. 10 years later I still remember how happy my Grandma was when she handed over her pilfered lispy lamb.
May we all find such simple pleasures and joys in life.
My grandpa died when I was 9. He was 88. My grandma was a spitfire and hung in there for another 12 years past him, dying five years ago at the ripe age of 96.
For the last seven years of her life, she lived in a hospital that dealt solely with Alheizmers. She had the disease fairly bad and though it was devastating to watch it suck the life force out of someone who had been so vibrant, she did not deteriorate to the point that some of the people in the hospital did.
My brothers and I would entertain ourselves when we went to visit Grandma. For some reason she always thought it was Christmas, EXCEPT for the one day that it was Christmas. Then we couldn't get her to open her presents because she was going to wait until Christmas Day to do so. We would tell her stories about what we were doing in our lives and towards the end, we'd let her call us by the wrong name and just go along with the stories. For instance, 5 foot 8 inch, redhead 20-something year old me was my 4 foot 10 inch Brazillian 70-something year old aunt. I would just go along with it because in a few minutes I'd be someone new. Sometimes we'd see who could invent the most outrageous thing. My oldest brother--a person who can charm the pants off of anyone--won when he introduced me as Snoop Dog to a "visiting" patient. Without batting an eyelash, the lady turned to me and said "How do you do, Snoop Dog?" Didn't even phase her.
The best part about visiting Grandma was her collection of items from other patients' rooms. Since everyone was free to roam, often times, we'd find someone else's pictures and stuffed animals sitting on her dresser when we came by to visit. For whatever reason, she thought that my twin brother was someone else's son, who had Down Syndrome. The picture was old, as though it had been taken a long time ago. Each time we stopped in, we'd ask Grandma who that was a picture of and she'd look at us like we were crazy. "Scott of course." She'd reply. Before leaving, my mom would sneak it off her dresser and return the picture to it's rightful owner. A few times, Grandma would tell us about how someone kept stealing her picture of Scott and so she took to hiding it in her underwear drawer.
One Easter, we came in and there was a present waiting just for me. She had "purchased" a stuffed lamb for me, her only granddaughter. When you pressed the belly of the lamb, it would croak "Happy Easter" though it talked with a lisp, so it sounded more like "Happy Ether". I was 16 or 17 at the time, a little old for such gifts, but I took it with a smile. We never could find it's owner and so it came home with us.
A few nights later, I sat down to dinner of lambchops and the refrain "Happy Ether" "Happy Ether" "Happy Ether" kept running through my head and ever since, I have not been able to eat lamb.
As I was "consulting with the Easter Bunny" last night at Wal-mart because I had left things to the last minute, I was reminded of this story. 10 years later I still remember how happy my Grandma was when she handed over her pilfered lispy lamb.
May we all find such simple pleasures and joys in life.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Party Crashers
I was invited by a friend to the Wasatch Presbyterian Church's annual Easter Egg hunt this morning. Since it was slightly more than what my church was planning on doing for Easter, and I had to be in Salt Lake anyways, I wholeheartedly agreed to go.
Josh had a great time making art projects centering around larges crosses and even won a plastic green cross necklace that he proudly wore around his neck.
Hey, Christ is Christ. And a little child is a little child.
Then it was time for the Easter Egg Hunt. Since I had Aunika with me, my friend and her husband split up our two boys and each took one. They were off and Josh, carrying his Halloween pumpkin, got quite the cache. It's not lost on me that he chose (adamantly, I might add) to bring a symbol of a holiday that focuses on death to a religious celebration centering around rebirth and life.
After the hunt, we headed to Target to get a few things. It was in the parking lot that Josh was forced to remove his green plastic cross. He did so with out a lot of complaint.
Off to a family birthday party and then it was home.
Where was Wade for all this fun? Aerating lawns for a scout fundraiser. As I pulled into the neighborhood, I thought I'd go search him out. I drove up our street and down the one behind us. There was Wade, trying desperately to keep a little boy from running into the street. Another guy was working the machine.
Just the two of them.
"Um...where's the scouts?"
"They've gone home."
"Home? The scouts have gone home during THEIR fundraiser?!?"
"Yep."
And that's how I found Wade. 8 hours after starting, trying desperately to finish. Hopes of me getting out for my seven mile run quickly diminished in the fading sunlight. I returned home, with two new little boys in tow because the wife of the other sucker left to finish the fundraiser had dropped them off before heading into Salt Lake.
I was slightly irritated because me, my children, and my half-finished basement have given up the entire month of April Saturdays to scouts.
It's no secret that I'm not really fond of children. I like my own kids, but I don't particularly like other people's kids. I would rather just pay a babysitter for a few hours than trade with another mother for "free" babysitting. I don't do playdates for the sole reason that eventually it will be my turn to keep other people's kids entertained.
But here I was, tending two children so that my husband could raise funds for the scouts to go to camp by aerating (something he's never done, by the way) lawns.
The sun slipped behind the mountainside and I sadly gave up my quest of running seven miles outside. After a trip to the pizza place to get dinner and to Wal-mart, it became all too clear that I wasn't going to get down to the treadmill either.
I'm reminded of a board I saw at the Presbyterian Church. It had all the tasks that need to be done each Sunday and room for people to sign up. So, if you want to play the piano that week, you sign up. Or if you want to usher or greet people. It's a very novel idea. Like if you want to be the wife of the scoutmaster, sign up here.
Josh had a great time making art projects centering around larges crosses and even won a plastic green cross necklace that he proudly wore around his neck.
Hey, Christ is Christ. And a little child is a little child.
Then it was time for the Easter Egg Hunt. Since I had Aunika with me, my friend and her husband split up our two boys and each took one. They were off and Josh, carrying his Halloween pumpkin, got quite the cache. It's not lost on me that he chose (adamantly, I might add) to bring a symbol of a holiday that focuses on death to a religious celebration centering around rebirth and life.
After the hunt, we headed to Target to get a few things. It was in the parking lot that Josh was forced to remove his green plastic cross. He did so with out a lot of complaint.
Off to a family birthday party and then it was home.
Where was Wade for all this fun? Aerating lawns for a scout fundraiser. As I pulled into the neighborhood, I thought I'd go search him out. I drove up our street and down the one behind us. There was Wade, trying desperately to keep a little boy from running into the street. Another guy was working the machine.
Just the two of them.
"Um...where's the scouts?"
"They've gone home."
"Home? The scouts have gone home during THEIR fundraiser?!?"
"Yep."
And that's how I found Wade. 8 hours after starting, trying desperately to finish. Hopes of me getting out for my seven mile run quickly diminished in the fading sunlight. I returned home, with two new little boys in tow because the wife of the other sucker left to finish the fundraiser had dropped them off before heading into Salt Lake.
I was slightly irritated because me, my children, and my half-finished basement have given up the entire month of April Saturdays to scouts.
It's no secret that I'm not really fond of children. I like my own kids, but I don't particularly like other people's kids. I would rather just pay a babysitter for a few hours than trade with another mother for "free" babysitting. I don't do playdates for the sole reason that eventually it will be my turn to keep other people's kids entertained.
But here I was, tending two children so that my husband could raise funds for the scouts to go to camp by aerating (something he's never done, by the way) lawns.
The sun slipped behind the mountainside and I sadly gave up my quest of running seven miles outside. After a trip to the pizza place to get dinner and to Wal-mart, it became all too clear that I wasn't going to get down to the treadmill either.
I'm reminded of a board I saw at the Presbyterian Church. It had all the tasks that need to be done each Sunday and room for people to sign up. So, if you want to play the piano that week, you sign up. Or if you want to usher or greet people. It's a very novel idea. Like if you want to be the wife of the scoutmaster, sign up here.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
All Creatures Great and Small
I have a confession.
For my 22nd or 23rd birthday I was given a hermit crab by a good friend from high school. She brought it over in a cute little crab case complete with an owner manual and everything. The crab seemed to be somewhat personable, as well as you could tell, and even spent some time enjoying the view from outside his shell. When we returned from dinner, the hermit crab and its habitat were no where to be found. However, two very guilty looking cats were staring at us with perplexity in their eyes. We scanned the room and found the case by the couch. I set the case back on the table and we went about our evening.
At some point I looked over to find both cats with their faces plastered to the case. I can only imagine what the view was like from inside the box.
I saw the crab emerge from his shell roughly two or three times after that, and each time he/she/it poked out, a cat would pounce. Understandably, the crab took to hiding inside it's shell. I would feed it and eventually the food was gone, but I never did see it come out again.
Soon though, the food was taking longer and longer to be devoured. Sometimes days. And I was a nervous wreck. I would think the thing was dead and then find the food gone when I checked. Or the shell would be in a different spot in the case. Maybe. I couldn't tell for sure.
It got to be so that this hermit crab was causing me a lot of stress. Everyday, I would stress over whether I was housing a dead animal or not. I was getting stomach aches over this.
And so I made an executive decision. One day, I threw it in the garbage. Just opened the case and dumped it all in the trash.
I felt really guilty, because all creatures, big or small, are God's creatures, but I couldn't grasp why God would make an animal that was so hard to determine if it was alive or dead. And the stress was killing me. I figured that I was maybe a little more important on God's priority scale and so I disposed of the animal myself. It's not like I gave it to the cats to play with.
Ahh...I feel so much better.
For my 22nd or 23rd birthday I was given a hermit crab by a good friend from high school. She brought it over in a cute little crab case complete with an owner manual and everything. The crab seemed to be somewhat personable, as well as you could tell, and even spent some time enjoying the view from outside his shell. When we returned from dinner, the hermit crab and its habitat were no where to be found. However, two very guilty looking cats were staring at us with perplexity in their eyes. We scanned the room and found the case by the couch. I set the case back on the table and we went about our evening.
At some point I looked over to find both cats with their faces plastered to the case. I can only imagine what the view was like from inside the box.
I saw the crab emerge from his shell roughly two or three times after that, and each time he/she/it poked out, a cat would pounce. Understandably, the crab took to hiding inside it's shell. I would feed it and eventually the food was gone, but I never did see it come out again.
Soon though, the food was taking longer and longer to be devoured. Sometimes days. And I was a nervous wreck. I would think the thing was dead and then find the food gone when I checked. Or the shell would be in a different spot in the case. Maybe. I couldn't tell for sure.
It got to be so that this hermit crab was causing me a lot of stress. Everyday, I would stress over whether I was housing a dead animal or not. I was getting stomach aches over this.
And so I made an executive decision. One day, I threw it in the garbage. Just opened the case and dumped it all in the trash.
I felt really guilty, because all creatures, big or small, are God's creatures, but I couldn't grasp why God would make an animal that was so hard to determine if it was alive or dead. And the stress was killing me. I figured that I was maybe a little more important on God's priority scale and so I disposed of the animal myself. It's not like I gave it to the cats to play with.
Ahh...I feel so much better.
I'm Loving It
*Yesterday, after waiting much of the day, the UPS man showed up with my birthday present from Wade. A netbook--a stripped down tiny laptop. It's roughly the size of a book and about an inch thick. It fits very nicely in my purse and is quite functional. And who says you can't buy love?
* I'm still really upset over Monday's House episode. It was a complete shock. I'm not sure why I'm so upset over it, but I've been obsessing about it since I saw it yesterday morning.
* American Idol didn't record last night on the TiVo and I was very, very mad about it. I might have taken out my frustration on my amazing husband who just bought me a very cool birthday present.
*I've been waiting for two days now on word on whether I got a freelance opportunity or not. The stress is about to kill me.
*We received notice yesterday that our permit from the county for the basement will be revoked on Monday if we don't get our inspection done. So now we're in hyper mode. Somehow I got roped into cleaning the basement today. And putting up insulation once we get the go ahead.
* I'm still really upset over Monday's House episode. It was a complete shock. I'm not sure why I'm so upset over it, but I've been obsessing about it since I saw it yesterday morning.
* American Idol didn't record last night on the TiVo and I was very, very mad about it. I might have taken out my frustration on my amazing husband who just bought me a very cool birthday present.
*I've been waiting for two days now on word on whether I got a freelance opportunity or not. The stress is about to kill me.
*We received notice yesterday that our permit from the county for the basement will be revoked on Monday if we don't get our inspection done. So now we're in hyper mode. Somehow I got roped into cleaning the basement today. And putting up insulation once we get the go ahead.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Bootcamp
On occassion, I have some real hairbrain ideas. Ideas that should never materialize for the sheer stupidity of them.
This is one of these.
A few weeks ago, I was approached by two friends looking for a third person to join with them in this month long bootcamp through a local gym. If there were three of you who signed up together, then you got a price break.
I agreed, because I usually agree to do most things athletic or endurance wise. People know they can count on me to add to their team, whatever their endeavor.
The stupidity doesn't lie so much in the bootcamp itself. It's a fairly benign workout 3 times a week, plus measurements and the added joy of filling out a food journal for a month.
It's the training for the Ogden Half Marathon that is throwing a kink into everything.
Like this morning.
At 7 am, I set out with two (different) friends on a six mile jaunt through Erda. It was pleasant enough, though the nitty gritty details are best left undiscussed. 45 minutes after returning, I changed clothes--to different workout clothes that didn't smell quite like dirty gym socks--and went over to the gym for an hour.
The workout itself wasn't difficult, but on rubbery legs, I was having a hard time. It definitely looked like I was a slacker to the instructor, someone who is in the ward and knows me quite well. I'm usually the first one to announce that I've already run six miles, but I kept my mouth shut (though I probably should've kept my arms down as well) because it didn't seem right to brag about my athletic prowess at a bootcamp type activity designed to get people off their butts and working out.
As I was watching myself (and the others, of course) in the wall length mirror while we were doing our aerobics, two thoughts came into my mind:
(a) I do not look nearly as good as I sometimes think I do when I'm exercising. Perhaps I should invest in a wall length mirror for home to remind me of this.
(b) No one looks good doing aerobics. No one. Even if you're cute and bubbly and the instructor. Everyone looks like contorted, gasping, uncoordinated freaks.
I'm just glad these two realizations came about now and not three weeks into the bootcamp.
This is one of these.
A few weeks ago, I was approached by two friends looking for a third person to join with them in this month long bootcamp through a local gym. If there were three of you who signed up together, then you got a price break.
I agreed, because I usually agree to do most things athletic or endurance wise. People know they can count on me to add to their team, whatever their endeavor.
The stupidity doesn't lie so much in the bootcamp itself. It's a fairly benign workout 3 times a week, plus measurements and the added joy of filling out a food journal for a month.
It's the training for the Ogden Half Marathon that is throwing a kink into everything.
Like this morning.
At 7 am, I set out with two (different) friends on a six mile jaunt through Erda. It was pleasant enough, though the nitty gritty details are best left undiscussed. 45 minutes after returning, I changed clothes--to different workout clothes that didn't smell quite like dirty gym socks--and went over to the gym for an hour.
The workout itself wasn't difficult, but on rubbery legs, I was having a hard time. It definitely looked like I was a slacker to the instructor, someone who is in the ward and knows me quite well. I'm usually the first one to announce that I've already run six miles, but I kept my mouth shut (though I probably should've kept my arms down as well) because it didn't seem right to brag about my athletic prowess at a bootcamp type activity designed to get people off their butts and working out.
As I was watching myself (and the others, of course) in the wall length mirror while we were doing our aerobics, two thoughts came into my mind:
(a) I do not look nearly as good as I sometimes think I do when I'm exercising. Perhaps I should invest in a wall length mirror for home to remind me of this.
(b) No one looks good doing aerobics. No one. Even if you're cute and bubbly and the instructor. Everyone looks like contorted, gasping, uncoordinated freaks.
I'm just glad these two realizations came about now and not three weeks into the bootcamp.
Friday, April 3, 2009
I Was Born To Do This. Maybe.
Despite all my big talkin', I am deathly afraid of standing up and giving a speech in front of people. Especially people I don't know. Double especially in front of people that are considerably better at public speaking than me--you know, people who are part of a public speaking club.
However, it had to be done, and so I jumped in to do it last night, giving my first speech at Toastmasters.
Let me remind you that I did not necessarily sign up because of an intense desire to speak in front of large crowds of people. I signed up as an activity to do with my dad as an adult. But I do still need to go through the motions of actually participating in the activity.
I've spent the first part of this week trying to put together a 4-6 minute speech about myself that I thought others would want to hear. The biggest obstacle being that I'm really not that interesting of a person. I stay at home and my activities don't range much in variety. No one wants a 4-6 minute speech on the amount of time I spend on the computer a day or how much laundry seems to accumulate over the course of the week.
While I do have outside interests, like running and my bowling league, it's hard to stretch those into a speech because of my mediocre ability. Who wants to hear about the 11 minute miles I ran last weekend or the 115 score I got in bowling?
So, the first challenge was writing a speech that would be entertaining and not sleep-inducing. Within minutes, I had the best opening line that I've ever produced:
"On May 1, 19__, I made my grand entrance into this world, aided--I'm sure--by a gentle push from my brother, with whom I'd been sharing tight living quarters with for the previous nine months."
Gorgeous, isn't it?
I went on to describe how big we were--8 lbs 4 oz and 8 lbs 11 oz respecitively--and then I talked about where my name came from.
Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee.
Kidding.
I'm actually named after the nurse that delivered me and Sandra Day O'Connor, the first woman to sit on the United States Supreme Court.
I described two past accomplishments I'm most proud of; running a marathon and getting my bachelor's degree. I know, surprised, right?
After briefly touching on my day-t0-day life, I talked a little about what I wanted to do in the future.
I sat down, relieved, but nervous as well. I couldn't remember if I pronounced my words correctly or if my sentences even made sense. I could hardly recall what I had said. The only thought that was running through my head was that this was EXHILARATING. I had so much fun and it was light years different from speaking in church. Probably because in church, 95% of the audience knows more than I do.
The evaluator of my speech stood up and gave a raving review. I was genuinely impressed by what she had to say. Apparently, my voice--quavering as it was to my ears--was clear and my speech was wonderful.
Of course it was. There was no doubt, right?
The Grammarian--the guy that counts my ahs and ums (4 to be exact)--made note of two sentences from my speech. He likes to point out sentences that use great words and structure; "a love of numbers does not neccessarily a mathematician make" and "my plans were thwarted--as even the best laid plans can be--when I fell in love".
I know. I'm surprised they came out of my head too.
Every week, the other members of the club pick the best speech of the night. You guessed it. I won on my first speech. Of course, Wade thinks that they let all the new people win on their first speech so that they'll keep coming back. That may be true, but I still won, and I'll be coming back.
And not only did I win the best speech for the night, I also won best Table Topics--the speech that is given off the cuff--for the night as well. Take that.
I wasn't entirely at ease up there, but I think I'm getting the hang of this. And I'm having a blast. That's all that counts, right?
However, it had to be done, and so I jumped in to do it last night, giving my first speech at Toastmasters.
Let me remind you that I did not necessarily sign up because of an intense desire to speak in front of large crowds of people. I signed up as an activity to do with my dad as an adult. But I do still need to go through the motions of actually participating in the activity.
I've spent the first part of this week trying to put together a 4-6 minute speech about myself that I thought others would want to hear. The biggest obstacle being that I'm really not that interesting of a person. I stay at home and my activities don't range much in variety. No one wants a 4-6 minute speech on the amount of time I spend on the computer a day or how much laundry seems to accumulate over the course of the week.
While I do have outside interests, like running and my bowling league, it's hard to stretch those into a speech because of my mediocre ability. Who wants to hear about the 11 minute miles I ran last weekend or the 115 score I got in bowling?
So, the first challenge was writing a speech that would be entertaining and not sleep-inducing. Within minutes, I had the best opening line that I've ever produced:
"On May 1, 19__, I made my grand entrance into this world, aided--I'm sure--by a gentle push from my brother, with whom I'd been sharing tight living quarters with for the previous nine months."
Gorgeous, isn't it?
I went on to describe how big we were--8 lbs 4 oz and 8 lbs 11 oz respecitively--and then I talked about where my name came from.
Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee.
Kidding.
I'm actually named after the nurse that delivered me and Sandra Day O'Connor, the first woman to sit on the United States Supreme Court.
I described two past accomplishments I'm most proud of; running a marathon and getting my bachelor's degree. I know, surprised, right?
After briefly touching on my day-t0-day life, I talked a little about what I wanted to do in the future.
I sat down, relieved, but nervous as well. I couldn't remember if I pronounced my words correctly or if my sentences even made sense. I could hardly recall what I had said. The only thought that was running through my head was that this was EXHILARATING. I had so much fun and it was light years different from speaking in church. Probably because in church, 95% of the audience knows more than I do.
The evaluator of my speech stood up and gave a raving review. I was genuinely impressed by what she had to say. Apparently, my voice--quavering as it was to my ears--was clear and my speech was wonderful.
Of course it was. There was no doubt, right?
The Grammarian--the guy that counts my ahs and ums (4 to be exact)--made note of two sentences from my speech. He likes to point out sentences that use great words and structure; "a love of numbers does not neccessarily a mathematician make" and "my plans were thwarted--as even the best laid plans can be--when I fell in love".
I know. I'm surprised they came out of my head too.
Every week, the other members of the club pick the best speech of the night. You guessed it. I won on my first speech. Of course, Wade thinks that they let all the new people win on their first speech so that they'll keep coming back. That may be true, but I still won, and I'll be coming back.
And not only did I win the best speech for the night, I also won best Table Topics--the speech that is given off the cuff--for the night as well. Take that.
I wasn't entirely at ease up there, but I think I'm getting the hang of this. And I'm having a blast. That's all that counts, right?
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