I can feel myself getting dumber thinking about it but it needs to be said

I hate Elmo.

Hate.

That damn Elmo's World song makes me cross-eyed.

cheers

Many of us had the privilege of knowing and learning from (and being publicly humiliated by) Professor Michael Goldsmith, who passed away yesterday. Everyone lucky enough to know him was affected in ways that are tough to explain (and not just because he's probably the first real, live Jew many J. Reub students ever met). Sharp, vibrant, sincere, witty, with a contagious zeal for life and the law. I can't adequately express how terrifying it was to sit in his classroom, how ashamed I felt if I even though about not reading for his class, and how much higher I held my head on the day I answered one of his questions sort-of-correctly. Under his tutelage, we all wanted to be the best, most diligent version of ourselves. Some quotes:

"When you get caught speeding, don't say 'I'm sorry.' Say, 'IF I was speeding, I am sorry.' ADMIT NOTHING."

"I'm not opposed to playing games. If you want to play solitaire, bring a deck of cards."

"For expert witnesses, there are 2 requirements: must have gray hair, and must have hemorrhoids to convey the proper level of concern."

"It was horrible! He covered everything but his 1990 colonoscopy. Good example of a bad speech. Everyone wants to go home, so unless you're awfully funny, keep it brief."

"This is my job. I'm just trying to do my job, and you're giving me a hard time. I don't give you a hard time with your job. I just order my burger and fries."

"The children of lawyers who don't read footnotes will STARVE."

"Let me give you a hypothetical. Jesus goes to law school, graduates, what does He do? Criminal prosecution or defense? That's right, he's defending these monsters. He's a defense attorney. That's my gospel insight for the day."

Brief story to give you a snapshot of this guy: one of my other favorite lawyers no longer with us told me that while he was attending the J. Reub as a non-LDS student, he and Goldsmith were surprised and startled to run into each other at a bar in Salt Lake. They were each holding a beer. Awkwardly, they each hid theirs under the table for a moment, made eye contact, shrugged, and then raised their glasses and said "Cheers!"

(Goldsmith would probably want it noted that, hypothetically, if I were trying to get this admitted, the story might be hearsay and since neither one of them is here to talk about it and it doesn't fall under any recognized exception, it's inadmissible. But, I wouldn't give up that easily, bc he taught me to be a "can-do" lawyer, so I'd still get it in under the residual exception, OR just argue that it's not hearsay because no one intended to assert anything and it's not a declarative statement offered to prove the truth of the matter asserted...it's just a story.)

Thanks for everything, Prof. Goldsmith. If I weren't Mormon and pregnant, I'd drink a tribute beer right now. We'll miss you.

this I believe

In addition to my handful of strengths (being good with names, decent with accents, and the ability to nap at will), I'm also a philosopher.

((cue the fog machine))

You see, friends, in the last 27 years, I've pondered the world around me and developed several deeply-held theories that explain many of life's mysteries. I shall now share one with you.

Everyone on earth can be divided into three categories: fun haters, fun havers, and fun makers.

(1) Fun haters. Guess what they do? Hate fun. They hate having fun themselves, they hate other people having fun, they hate hearing about fun, and they hate the existence of fun. Examples: Your friend who WOULD come to your party except she's not feeling well...ever. They'll never want to go to a late movie because they'll be tired the next morning. They'll tell Mom if you sneak out during a jr high sleepover. They won't consider going to a last minute concert because it's FHE. They roll their eyes when you tell them a true funny story bc they "saw the ending coming." They never go out to eat because it's too expensive.

(2) Fun havers are willing to HAVE the fun if someone else makes it. They have the same trusty 3-4 stories they'll tell at a gathering once someone gets the ball rolling. They have a stupid human trick they do with enough prodding, e.g., walking on their hands. They'll smile and say "That's hilarious" instead of laughing. They have a good hearty ugly laugh they'll bust out when someone does something hilarious, but they don't DO the hilarious thing, they just appreciate it.

(3) Fun makers MAKE the fun, often out of thin air. These are the people who take a yawntastic get-together and get the party started. There are several sub-species of this category, including (a) adaptable fun makers, who switch freely between fun-having and fun-making depending on the circumstance, and (b) alpha fun makers, who must be the only fun maker present and can rarely relax and HAVE fun bc they are so busy making it (and wanting credit for making it).

Am I right or am I right?

Theory addendum:
Regarding fun-haters, havers and makers, my friend Wendi just made an important point about the fluid nature of these categories.

At different times, I am each one. I am a fun hater when the fun is being had by annoying teenagers or snickets. I am a fun haver most of the time, cause I'm too damn tired to make the fun. Also, I can be a great fun maker sometimes, but it all boils down to how many fun-havers show up.

Amen and amen. Thank you for your time.

hrmmmm

"Deliberately shaved heads are almost always a sign of aggression."

Discuss.

the internets are genius

Ever had an obscure [item of your choice] on your mind that you couldn't quite pin down?

And then it got even more maddening as you realized you didn't have enough information to even know where to start? For example, perhaps you catch yourself humming a little tune you can't place, and quickly realize you don't know any of the words so you can't even google it? Or you end up asking a friend a question and, as it forms, you realize you sound mildly autistic? ("What was the book you told me about, you know, the book about the girl, and the girl in it, maybe it was a boy, I think the main guy might be a boy, either way, there's this PERSON in it, and I think you said they have a friend ...")

This not-having-enough-initial-info-to-go-on happens to me quite a bit in regular life, but is even more common in pregna-life, and it can be awkward. (e.g., when packing our hospital bag for our kid's birth, I couldn't think of the word "ipod dock" and ended up asking my husband "Where's that thing that....(long pause)...(begin waving arms dramatically) makes the ipod go everywhere?")

Anyway, all this is my way of saying that if this happens to you, DO NOT DESPAIR. Hub and I were recently discussing obscure television shows from the late 80s/early 90s. Some of what we covered you probably aren't familiar with since chances are you didn't have the privilege of spending those years in Canada (Dear Aunt Agnes, anyone?), but others you may remember fondly. I found myself describing a show about which I could remember almost nothing but still insisted on discussing. The following sentence came out of my mouth:

"What is that show, with the girl, oooh, what IS it, she has a mom who is an alien living in space but she's a regular girl and they communicate through a box?"

If you've ever doubted google's power, I invite you to STAND BACK.

"What is the tv show where a girl has a mom who talks to her from a box in space?"

And what do you think is the first link listed?? Go ahead! Try it!

It wasn't even her MOM who was the alien...it's her DAD! But the internet didn't even need that info to take me to the right place! Behold, the power of the interwebs, bringing totally useless topics to your fingertips given only the most inane of clues.

Is this heaven? NO, IT'S IOWA.

If there is a better fall weekend activity than bundling up and chasing your toddler around the actual field of dreams, I don't know about it.

Also, Happy Canadian Thanksgiving. Were we still in SLC, this occasion would warrant a visit to Chuckarama or someplace similarly awesome/embarrassing. However, since we aren't, and since I am presently hanging out with our kid all day and the excuses are dwindling fast, I shall momentarily attempt to make a substantive meal. Not turkey. Geez. I'm realistic. But the goal is something warm and reasonably tasty. This could get ugly.

Let us pray.

rage against the keyboard

My tolerance for lame is even lower during pregnancy than during non-pregnancy. I have a lot more rage and am a lot more likely to lose all tact. Just be aware of that.

• Speaking of which, what I am about to say is harsh. Brace yourself. I know some may find it cruel. I loved my mission as much as anybody. It affected me a lot, in a good way. I think about it almost daily. I really feel like it was an opportunity I didn't deserve and that I will spend my whole life paying back. It rocked my world in a million ways. But it is also OVER. And when people come home, they need to move on. Keep your good habits, keep your memories, but there is no reason to yap on and on about it and YEARS later be wearing your (mission country's) soccer jersey or saying "burrrrito" like you're a native speaker or unloading useless bits of church history trivia on everyone you see. IT'S OVER. CUT THE STRINGS. LIFE GETS BETTER AND BETTER. MOVE ON. THE BEST IS YET TO COME.

• The same is true for every life event. It's cool, but it wasn't THAT cool. If you have too much pride for STUDY ABROAD '96 FOR LIFE! or DRILL TEAM '03! or if you're thirty and still talking about your ward freshman year, or really just involved any overly-nostalgic yappage, it's embarrassing. Can you mention them? Yes. Briefly. If relevant. But take the letterman's jacket off.
  

• On an unrelated note, we hit up Philadelphia last week which was awesome. Not only was it delightful to see hub's sister's fam and watch our toddlers bond (meaning ours took stuff away from theirs), but it also caused me to reflect on things like the Constitution. And sometimes you forget how miraculous it was, and that stories aren't just stories; they involve real people with real lives, but sometimes important things become so familiar that you become numb to their significance. This is true, for example, with the pioneers. You hear enough stories that you end up thinking, "Okay, they walked and walked," like you're talking about something trivial like running a lot of errands, but once in a while it seems real and you feel real reverence. I had that experience several times in Philadelphia, looking at pictures of people from the suffrage movement or abolitionists or what have you and feeling real awe and amazement and how stories aren't just stories; they involve people. Where is the balance between talking about something enough so we honor, and talking about things so much that our senses become dulled? Now, back to the griping.
  

• What is WITH the obsession with the 1950s/60's stuff? The red lipstick, the pillbox hats, the aprons, the bright kitchen appliances, the fetishization of domesticity, the whole bit. I'm pro-parenting, pro-cooking, pro-cleaning, and so on, but I'm confused about the costume-ification of SAHM-life. No offense if you're into it, but can you explain it to me? I suspect it's more than just fashion. It seems to be romanticizing a time which--NEWFLASH--was not all that innocent or really all that awesome for us women, many of whom struggled mightily to forge their own identities and be treated as non-ornaments. Do we really want to go back there? Do we? Betty Draper as a role model is pretty depressing.

• Annnd, just to remind you that I don't spend ALL my e-time outraged: a funny friend (who is also a beauty expert) sent me some Moroccan Oil for my hair the other day. Not only did it cause the best hair day of my life last week, but it also gave me a few minutes of belly laughing thanks to this video (click on the short video and then wait for the dude in the white shirt, aka, professional hair-swisher, to begin).

seven and twenty

In college, my friend Moosh had a roommate who was 26 or 27 and we thought she was old enough to be our mom. Maybe bc she was uptight. I think she taught school, and was angry, and would make us do things like clean up when we made a mess and shut up if we were shouting.

Of course, looking back, she probably wasn't uptight. WE were just obnoxious. If me-now met me-then, I would strangle me-then. Me-then did things like videotape myself driving around with people on the roof of my 1988 car, and get hickies, and get those horrible airhorns for no apparent reason. I know. So, sorry about that, girl we thought was old when really she was just normal.

Anyway, welp, today I turn(ed) 27. It feels pretty good and not as uptight as I once thought it was. If you want to celebrate my aging, you can do so with a nap and then a treat of your choice. I recommend cookie dough, a large wonderful soda, or one of those big delicious mall pretzels, which I had today after I bought some pants that I thought were on sale for $20 but then they magically rang up as $3 as a present from the planet.

P.S. On my mission, my birthday was on a rainy fast Sunday which is the longest most miserable day on missions. It was a bummer day, but at the end of it, we met these two roommates who seemed really interested and we were sure we would teach them and probably go to the temple with them in a year. We high-fived ourselves and considered them my birthday present from the planet.

But then, it turned out that they were a gay couple and not interested.

So, I'm hoping these pants don't turn out the same way.

confession

Sometimes, I like watching Wife Swap.

completely true story

This post is inspired by the illustrious MCB, who makes me wish in a sick sort of way that I'd read anything by Jack Weyland in my life.

When I was 19, I briefly dated a 24-year-old fellow who was nice enough, although looking back, I can see that he sort of resembled a reptile or kind cartoon turtle. Why he thought it was normal to date someone fresh out of high school is sort of gross now, but at the time I thought it was hot.

We once had the following bizarre exchange:

Him: "How many books have you read?"

Me: "What?"

Him: "How many books have you read?"

Me, thinking what the hell kind of a question is that? This year? In college? In a particular genre? He can't possibly mean IN MY LIFE. Note that I used to get grounded FROM reading and have to go outside to play, so in elementary school alone I probably read thirty million books...: You mean, ever?

Him: Yes, ever. In your life.

Me, giving him the where-am-I stare: Um, a zillion? (long pause while I wonder where this is going) How many books have YOU read?

He then told me that the only book that he had read cover to cover IN HIS TWENTY-FOUR YEARS OF LIFE, including high school when he just read CliffsNotes, was...









Charly.


Weird it didn't work out between us.

Updated: Though (obviously) not much of a reader, this fellow had many other redeeming qualities which is why we went out in the first place. This story, however, involves facts, which speak for themselves. No offense intended to my friend who set us up. And who is also his sister. Whooooops.