"I Think I Have A Problem"

These are not the words you want to hear coming out of your mother on the day that your local paper runs a front-page special about meth addiction in Colorado.

"What is it, Mom?"

"Well, I went around the house writing down all the magazines I have lying around, and guess how many I subscribe to each month?"

My mom subscribes to a lot of magazines. She gets these cheap subscriptions deals and thinks Ehhh what the heck? You'd think that a woman with six children would have little time for reading, and truth be told, she doesn't. Yet in spite of that, she's very protective of them. She caught me--the family's pathological declutterer--attempting to recycle last month's Kiplinger's and Bloomberg Businessweek. "HEY!" she barked. "I HAVEN'T READ THOSE YET!"

"Um . . . nine?"

"No. Seventeen."

Yes, it's true. Every month, the following publications litter our countertops and bathrooms:

1. Money
2. The Economist
3. TIME
4. Conde Nast Traveler
5. Fortune
6. Bloomberg Businessweek
7. Martha Stewart
8. Parenting
9. More
10. Kiplinger's
11. Family Fun
12. Architectural Digest
13. National Geographic Traveler
14. Travel and Leisure
15. Reader's Digest
16. Better Homes and Gardens
17. Forbes

Capricious though my mother may be (SORRY! I READ THE WORD IN ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST. IT MEANS OUTRÈ), I can't help but admire her. She didn't finish college because I came along (HI!), but I think the above list is evidence of a woman who hungers and thirsts after knowledge. Seventeen magazines and not a single tabloid to be found? No Vanity Fair? No Cosmopolitan? No Women's Health? Not even an Oprah for crying out loud?

My mother is proof that you don't need a college degree to be highly educated. Her love of learning has greatly contributed to my family's financial security as she has taught herself how to invest and trade. Yesterday as I was reading in the basement, I heard a ding-ding-ding come from my mom's office. I looked at the clock--2:00pm--and immediately thought Oh, that must be the timer my mom has set to signal the end of the day's NYSE trading.

The fact that I even thought  that says a lot about my mom. The fact that I was right  says even more.

So what if my mom's magazine subscriptions could very well make for a hilarious post on the Stuff White People Like blog? And yeah, so what if she's working in her office listening to opera right now? She's a classy woman who knows what she likes and wants.

And right now, she wants subscriptions to The New Yorker and Monocle.

I may need to stage an intervention.

The Sound and the Fury

If you've been keeping up on this week's happenings (WHAT??? YOU HAVEN'T??? MY BLOG IS NOT THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN YOUR LIFE???) you'd know that Brock and I are holding down the fort while my parents are away this week. Because she's awesome, my mother prepared dinner menus ahead of time for every night except the last one (Saturday).

On Monday, my sweet grandma invited us to her house for pizza and root beer. Great! I thought. I'll just push all the other dinners back one night, and that'll take care of Saturday.

Unfortunately, the nightly plans are posted in the kitchen for all to see. So all day on Tuesday, Caden--unaware of my push-back plans--was looking forward to that night's slated dinner: Spaghetti. His favorite. (Even though he eats it with no sauce...) 

I'm fairly certain that all four ventricles of Caden's heart came to a stop on Tuesday evening upon his realization that I'd prepared chicken casserole, not spaghetti. In a nanosecond, I saw his little blue eyes dart to-and-fro with confusion. His mouth hung open slightly as he tried to process his feelings. Cue sound. Cue fury.

Tears started flowing. He collapsed--no, melted--into an inconsolable heap on the floor. I tried not to laugh.

After a little "healthy ways to deal with disappointment " chitchat from Brock, Caden came to the table and everything was fine. I have to constantly remind myself of how small Caden and Connor's world is, and that there's no problem with that. Little worlds are okay for little boys. 

When you think about it, we all live in little worlds where little things matter to us disproportionately. Caden's reaction to a spaghetti-less night was about on par with how I reacted when my camera was stolen last year--with all 200+ pictures that I'd painstakingly taken of my family's trip to Ecuador. We're so quick to judge people for sweating the small stuff when we all do the same thing. Just with different stuffs.

In other news . . .

• Caden and Connor discovered Febreeze and Old Spice body spray this week. They think a Febreezed room means a clean room, and an Old Spiced body means a clean body. The result is a dirty room that smells like passionfruit, and dirty bodies that smell like the halls of a middle school.

• We're teaching Colby (17) the tricks of the cleaning trade. Like how when you wash dishes in the sink, you use water and soap.

• I tried taking a bath a couple days ago and failed miserably. Bath fails are common for me, but usually because of their bubbleless-ness. This time, I had the opposite problem. I found a packet of eucalyptus aromatherapy salts in the bathroom and dumped them in the jet tub as it was filling up. After five minutes of awkward, naked ooh-ahh-ooh-ahh-OW!-ooh-ahh toe-dipping to find the perfect temperature, I slipped into the water and turned on the jets. It wasn't long before I was up to my EYEBALLS in bubbles. Guess I should've read the directions on the back of the packet: "Due to the foaming nature of these salts, use sparingly in whirlpool tubs." Since when do you need to read the DIRECTIONS for bath salts??!?! 

• We're teaching Caden and Connor English phrases. After Connor won a game of "Race to the Roof" the other night, we tried to coerce him into one more round, but he wasn't budging. "You need to defend your title!" we prodded. He stared at us blankly and said, "Yeah. And if I don't play, I am defending it." Touche, mon frere. How very Swiss of him.

A Plan

For the past two months, we've been in limbo. Where are we going to live? Where are we going to work? What are we going to do? What's the next step? I've written previously about how thrilling, yet terrifying, this situation is.

February marks the tenth month we've been living out of suitcases. Since ending our time in DC and Amman, we've been zipping back and forth between family in California, Colorado, and Utah. It's been so fun and we've really enjoyed having extended time with loved ones, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't getting old. We're both very independent--bumming around has started to grate on us.

Countless people have asked what our plans are, and we've truly had no answer for them. Fishing around for responses was awkward and embarrassing at first, but we're so used to it by this point that "We're homeless and unemployed college grads living at home with mom/dad/grandma/grandpa!" doesn't carry the sting that it once did. (We're so lucky that both our families can do that for us--the thought of collecting unemployment checks or living off the government in any way never even crossed our minds.)

Our goal was to have all this wrapped up by Valentine's Day, but February 14th came and went. We knew that a month-and-a-half was a tight deadline, so we didn't beat ourselves up too much over it.

Six days later: We have a plan. Brock got an official offer of employment from Goldman Sachs this morning and--provided that he passes his background check--it looks like we'll be moving out to Salt Lake City in the next couple weeks.

I would say that Brock's success in the job hunt is a result of eight months of his selfless support of my personal and academic endeavors, but viewing it as a reward seems to take away from how hard he's worked to earn it. In any case, it is a blessing and we are thankful. God is good. The position at Goldman is perfectly tailored to Brock's interests and strengths, and the fact that we're relatively close to family, friends, and mountains is icing on the cake. (Sorry Ryan and Tiffany--we tried to make DC work! Maybe someday.)

Brock, congratulations. Although this job is great, it does not define you. I love you just as much now as I did yesterday (more, actually, but GS had nothing to do with it). You're a good man, a great lover (IN THE DEVOTION SENSE OF THE WORD--but yeah, I meant it the other way, too), a college grad, a supportive husband, and sometimes you're kind of  funny.

Oh, and you have Disney-prince hair.

What more could a girl ask for?

P.S. If you could avoid insider trading, that would be great. Wouldn't bode well for my political prospects if I was married to Rajat Gupta 2.0. Peace and bah-lessinnnnnngss.

In Which I Compare Child-Rearing To Enhanced Interrogation And Tag-Team Wrestling

I have two younger brothers, Caden (9) and Connor (7). Yes, I know sixteen years is a large spread between children, but--in answer to the lady at Sam's Club--no they are not from a second marriage and no, Kiana (15) is not my daughter.

My folks are away at a conference that my dad "has" to go to which is conveniently located in Cancun. This time it's not just me on babysitting duty--Brock is here, too. Making the job easier is the fact that my saintly mother prepared all the dinners ahead of time (no more lunch-lady dinner fiascos!).

Last night, Brock heated up shepherd's pie in the oven and we all sat down to eat. It was clear that my sweet mother catered to the whims of her picky eaters: Half of the pie was topped with cheese, the other wasn't (Caden doesn't like cheese). Half the pie had green beans in it, the other half corn (Caden and Connor don't like green beans). Despite my mother's good intentions, we dished out the meal in horror: The non-cheese half had green beans inside. Caden's eyes bulged wide with dread.

Oh, the humanity.

It bears repeating that Caden is NINE YEARS OLD. Not four. Not five. Nine. (Connor has a little bit more of an excuse for being picky, but not much.) In either case, Hitler Sister thinks it's high time they grew up and ate their damn food.

When I say that there was weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, I am speaking literally. I let Brock take over after five minutes--it'd been a long day and my patience was about as long as a carpet strand. Brock spent the next half-hour in the Great Green Bean Standoff.

You know how in spy movies when the CIA interrogator enters a dark room all covert-like? And there's a bruised and bloodied foreign man strapped to a chair with a spotlight on him? And the interrogator is all "WHO IS DR. PRAVOCCI? WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT DR. PRAVOCCI???" and the foreign man is like"GO TO HELL YOU SON OF A $@#%#!!!!"

Parenthood is surprisingly applicable to that situation. Only the foreign man is your kid, Dr. Pravocci is green beans, and you are the $@#%#.

The boys' resistance tactics were predictable. First came indignation. "But I don't like green beans!" Then despair. Then holy-hell-he's-really-not-going-to-let-me-leave-the-table-till-I-eat-these-freaking-beans. Then gimmicks.

Connor doused his green beans in ketchup. Caden tried smashing them with his fork accompanied with a "DIE BEANS, DIE!!!!!!!!!!"  But in the end, it was the threats that got them. (Isn't it always?) As soon as they heard "Say goodbye to your Pokemon", all of a sudden those green beans didn't seem so bad after all. (I suggested breaking out the chair with the mesh seat cut out, but Brock vetoed.)

Later, reflecting on the situation, Brock said "It was so interesting to see Caden realize that crying wouldn't take the problem away. What a smart kid."

"Pfffffff," I said. "If he was that smart, he would've eaten the beans at the beginning. It would've taken thirty seconds and he'd-a saved himself a whoooooole lot of grief."

"Someone's angry tonight, eh?!"

"Nope. Just not in the mood to give credit where none is deserved."

The ice woman cometh.

***

SO WHAT if I'm the Ice Woman sometimes? At least I'm self-aware. I know what I like and I like discipline, responsibility, and order. I will run my household like a freaking Marines platoon and my kids are gonna LIKE IT. I don't like green beans?  What is this place, America? Sorry, little ones. Welcome to the People's Republic of I Own You.

Thank goodness for Brock. Call me Machiavellian, but I'm already thinking of ways to manipulate my kids using him as a pawn. What's that, Jimmy? Dad just delegated putting away the dishes to you? Well guess who delegated the delegating, sucker....

You see, Brock's got the sense of humor needed to raise kids that don't hate you, and I've got the Tiger Mom needed to raise kids that don't resent you when they're 23 and living in your basement. Oh, wait...

There are some nights where I would've lasted a half-hour in the Beans Ring, but last night was not one of them. Oh, well. Tagging-in is what husbands are for, right?

Photo Source

A Balanchine Valentine's

Don't ask me how I know who George Balanchine is, I just do. And I'm pret-ty proud of that clever title up there because I'm pret-ty sure it means that the next step in my life involves polo, cigars, and Scotch.

We had a great Valentine's yesterday, even if it didn't exactly go off without a hitch. Brock surprised me with tickets to Ballet West's performance of Don Quixote at the beautiful Capitol Theatre in Salt Lake! I'd never been to a ballet and had always expressed my desire to go. Next on my list is an opera, and then probably a WWF match.

The evening began with dinner at a Greek restaurant in Salt Lake called Aristo's (short for Aristotle). We hadn't eaten good Greek food since Chicago, so this was a special treat. Starting the meal off was some saganaki--pan-seared Kefalograviera cheese flambéed in a Greek brandy. (Calories don't count on Valentine's Day.) Our waiter--a lovely older man named Mark--recommended this to us and oooooh baby was it good! Moving on the the main courses, Brock decided on yemista (tomato, bell pepper, and zucchini stuffed with rice, potato, mint, and crushed tomatoes--all cooked together in a clay pot). I went for brizola, which I guess is just the Greek way of saying "12-oz. ribeye steak."

In retrospect, it might've been a little strange that the man at the table was ordering the healthy vegetarian dish and the lady was intent on downing some cow, but no matter. My steak was cooked to perfection--I couldn't believe how flavorful it was given that it was only seasoned with sea salt and pepper. I guess simplicity is best :) I was slightly embarrassed when the waiter came by later and discovered that I'd eaten the whole thing and nothing more--my tabbouleh salad and rice pilaf sat completely untouched on the plate. "I like a girl with a healthy appetite," he said. Welp, YOU'RE WAITING ON THE RIGHT TABLE, KIND SIR.

We topped the meal off with a shared piece of karidopita (a Greek spice cake with walnuts) and then headed off to the Capitol Theatre. We had awesome seats on the ground floor, about ten rows back, and right smack-dab in the center! The ballet was fantastic--aside from the dancing, I couldn't take my eyes off the sets and costumes. So beautiful. Far from being the stuffy performance you  might be imagining, Don Quixote was actually quite funny! There were two characters in particular that had me cracking up the whole time: Quixote's sidekick named Sancho, and Gamache--a puffed-up nobleman seeking the beautful Kitri's affections.

Naturally, the dancing was exquisite. It kills me how they make it look so effortless! I was also surprised to see how sturdy the male dancers were built. I mean, I suppose they have to be in order to do all the partner work, but for some reason I associated "male ballet dancer" with scrawny, wirey guys.

Seeing a ballet in Utah really makes me want to see a ballet in New York City. I'd be interested to see if the quality of dancing in noticeably better, and if the audience is noticeably less, I don't know, down-to-earth? Normally that adjective has positive connotations, but for those of you unfamiliar with Utah/Mormon culture, allow me to enlighten you. There are people here who don't know the difference between a peewee football game and a ballet. As such, when at the ballet in Salt Lake, expect hoopin', hollerin', and wooooooo!!!s after every triple pirouette.

Also, many Mormons believe that the only events they need to dress up for are church-related. Moving a step up from that, most people will dress up for things like a ballet--but in church clothes. I'm not saying you need an expensive gown to go to these things (heck, I found my dress on sale for $35 at a JCPenney), but there should be a difference between churchwear and going-out-wear. For your husband's sake, if anything. Here's a quick guide for all you ladies. If you answer "yes" to any of following questions, step it up gurrrrrl!

1. Are you wearing a wrap dress? (NOTE: In general, wrap dresses are made of clingy synthetic material that does nothing for a girl's figure. However, the existence of Kate Middleton is proof that wrap dresses be chic--but c'mon, even she doesn't wear them out on date night.)
2. Do your shoes give off a plasticy sheen?
3. Are your heels less than two inches high?
4. Are you wearing a North Face jacket?
5. Is your hair in a ponytail?
6. Are your lips bare?

After the ballet, we grabbed some banana cream pie at Dodo's in Sugarhouse, and then headed back to our hotel room at the Little America for, well, y'know.

I never anticipated sharing my Valentine's night hotel room with a man named Dick Buck, but life is funny that way.

Upon completion of the y'know, Brock and I settled in for sleep. Unfortunately, the heater in our room was giving off a gurgling sound that made this entirely impossible. It was an old-school steam heater, and the water inside was having issues. I think it ateTaco Bell for lunch. Anyway, after a good forty-five minutes of trying to sleep in spite of it, we called up the front desk for solutions. Enter Dick Buck.

Dick Buck was the name of the maintenance man that knocked on our door at 1:00am. I am not making this up. He was a short, bald guy in his late-sixties with white scruff and he sounded like a lumberjack. His solutions included turning off the heater (already did that an hour and a half ago, thanks) and entering the problem in his logbook the next morning.

Fast forward one hour: We'd checked out of the hotel, gotten our money back, packed up, driven home, and were sleeping on my grandparents' couch.

It may not have been the sexiest Valentine's night ever, but one thing's for sure: Nobody heading south last night on 1-15 at 1:30am looked better than we did.

It's A Sign

No, really.

In general, I am not a superstitious person. I don't have lucky this-es or lucky thats. I try not to read too much into things unless I have a gut feeling about them (in which case I would classify that more as intuition, not superstition). But when I drove by this sign in American Fork today (where I'm currently visiting my paternal grandparents), I couldn't help but pause because I am making excuses.

I've had two big ideas floating around in my head recently. Two really good ideas that I'm passionate about. But I'm scared to make them happen because, well, that's the hard part. There are so many logistics and fears and insecurities that you run into during the process of making ideas reality.

And yet I keep coming across various things that seem to be pushing me in that direction--in the direction of doing. One of those was a brilliant TED presentation by Nancy Duarte called "The Secret Structure of Great Talks." Her talk (unsurprisingly) was amazing, but what really got to me was not the actual content. Rather, it was how she built up that content in her intro:

You have the power to change the world. I'm not saying that to be cliche, you really have the power to change the world. Deep inside of you, every single one of you has the most powerful device known to man, and that's an idea. A single idea from the human mind can start a groundswell, it can be a flashpoint for a movement, and it can actually rewrite our future. But an idea is powerless if it stays inside of you. If you never pull that idea out for others to contend with, it will die with you.

Isn't that chilling? How sad would that be to have your best ideas die with you? How many wonderful ideas have already died with those who never brought them to fruition? On a happier note, how greatly have our lives been bettered by people who had the courage to do the opposite?

Anyway, having a literal sign thrown in my way has given me the impetus to go for it. Which is why, by the end of 2012, "Kristi Boyce" will be a name that corresponds with two more adjectives:

1. "Race director." I want to put on a small 5K and donate all the proceeds to Syrian refugees who are fleeing al-Assad's regime. Even if I fail miserably at this, I'll still have a one-up on Russia and China and their soulless, self-serving, disgusting display at the UN.

2. "Writer." C'mon, it was only a matter of time before I wrote a book, people. I've got this idea in my head for a non-fiction book about the U.S. political system, but I've been hesitating on it. How on earth could I ever come up with enough content to actually fill 200-300 pages? And even if I were able to, who would listen to me? This punk 23-year old college grad with no credibility whatsoever?

Well, doubts be damned. Maybe seeing that sign was . . .

For real. I found BOTH  these signs in American Fork, less than a mile from where I'm staying.
Pinterest-worthy? I say yes.

Such A Woman

Last night I was talking to a friend about how some of the best and most important decisions of our lives require a little bit of irrationality, to which he responded "Haha such a woman." It wasn't worth starting a fight over so I blew it off, but dang did that get my blood boiling.

I am tired of hearing the stereotypes--even in jest--of women as irrational, silly, weak, needy, or, my personal favorite, psycho. (For excellent commentary on these things--written by a man, no less!--read here and here.) People, they're not funny. They're not cute. They're offensive. And if you think I'm being hyper-sensitive, congratulations! You've just devalued my feelings about stereotypes by using another  stereotype! Wow!

This morning, my fifteen-year old sister put away the dishes in the dishwasher and hand-washed a sink full of dirty ones. She then went on to clean the disgusting bathroom which she shares with three brothers. Fifteen years old and she did all of this on her own volition. She saw something that needed to be done, and she took care of it. Such a woman, indeed.

Meanwhile, I spent an hour shoveling two feet of snow out of the driveway. I saw that our cul-de-sac was in dire need of snow removal (the city never plows it since we live outside of city limits), so I took our Excursion and spent twenty minutes doing donuts in the snow until it was sufficiently cleared away or at least patted down. I noticed that my truck and my dad's Prius were still  stuck in snow, so I spent another half-hour shoveling around them. I did all of this in a bathrobe and on an empty stomach. Such a woman, indeed.

I came in from outside--sweaty and with calluses forming on my hands--to discover my three brothers watching TV downstairs.

We were all raised by the same parents, in the same place, with the same values. What excuse do they have for their inability to look outside themselves? (Granted, two of them are young, but I wouldn't be saying this if I hadn't noticed the issue with my two older  younger brothers.) I don't have an answer for that, and a good one may very well exist, but it sure would be nice if they acted and thought more like the women in this house.

So ladies, the next time a man throws a woman-jab at you, take it as a compliment. Or smack him in the face--whichever you feel is more appropriate. You can also kindly remind him that you are the reason why his penis isn't one inch long.

At primate level, the male penis is an unimpressive organ. So far from terrorizing any female, the average King Kong can only provoke sympathy for his meager endowment in relation to his vast bulk. Man, however, developed something disproportionately large in this line, and can truly afford to feel himself lord of creation in the penile particular. And he owes it to woman. Quite simply, when femina aspiring to be erecta hoisted herself onto her hind legs and walked, the angle of the vagina swung forward and down, and the vagina itself moved deeper into the body. The male penis then echoed the vagina's steady progress, following the same evolutionary principle as the giraffe's neck: it grew in order to get something it could not otherwise reach (Miles, 24).

For further reading on this subject, see  Nigel Calder's Timescale (1984), Desmond Morris' The Naked Ape (1967), Rosalind Miles' The Women's History of the World (2001), and Elaine Morgan's The Descent of Woman (1972).

So men, the next time you feel the need to brag about the size of your member, please locate the nearest woman to you and thank her for her cavernous vagina.

It's the sole reason why you've got a pickle, not a gherkin.

What To Do With A Dead Chicken (And Other Issues You Run Into Whilst Babysitting My Brothers)

12:34pm: Connor (age 7) walks into the kitchen, crying. "Pikachu diiiiiiiied!" he whimpers. Pikachu is (was) one of the three chickens my mom is raising. The others are Bolt and Combustion. A blizzard came in last night and poor Pikachu (who was already sick) didn't make it. He lies on a baking sheet in the garage, (which is rather funny now that I think of it) until I unceremoniously chuck him off the side of the house and down into a ravine. Bon appetit, foxes.

12:38pm: I discover that Combustion has laid his first egg! Connor excitedly retrieves it from the coop and washes the poop off it. I do not eat this egg.

1:13pm: More poop. I walk into the downstairs bathroom and see an explosion in the toilet. No, really. It looks like someone took a dump and threw a cherry bomb in there. Naturally, nooooooobody has any idea how it happened, but I am told that said explosion has not precluded Caden, Connor, nor their friend Brenden from CONTINUING TO USE THE TOILET.

1:40pm: I'm sitting in the basement when I hear a large thud just outside the window. A small child, Connor, has fallen into the window well, cushioned by two feet of snow. "THAT WAS AWESOOOOME!!!!" he exclaims. Two more small children proceed to jump into the window well.

4:00pm: It's time for Brenden to go home because we have some chores to do. I announce that we are going to clean the basement together (which reeks of three sweaty little boys and all their snow gear), and that afterwards the time for computer games, TV, and Nintendo DS has ended. We are reading books until dinner, and then hitting up the dollar theater for The Muppets.

4:15pm: Basement clean. Everybody reading. This mom stuff is easy.

4:20pm: Connor's cold worsens. I give him some Dimetap and he curls up for a nap.

4:21pm: Caden (age 9) has abandoned his reading post on the stairs. A book lies open on a step.

4:22pm: I catch Caden cowering behind the bunkbed in his room, playing his DS. "Hand it over." "But I'm so boooorrrreeeeed." "READ."

4:45pm: I've showered. I go downstairs to get my lotion and, while in the bathroom, I see Caden come down the stairs as well. I spy on him using the bathroom mirror. He can't see me. I watch him as he lifts up couch cushions, looking for his DS.

4:46pm: "You're never going to find it." Caden turns on the TV. "HEY! That's not allowed either, remember?" Caden whines. "Caden! Don't you see how sad it is that you can't be entertained without the computer, TV, or your DS? You're a really smart kid. You should be able to find ways to be entertained without technology." A glimmer of self-realization flickers in Caden's eyes. He comes up with an excuse. "Well, I kind of have a headache." "No you don't. Go draw something or play the piano." "I don't know how to play the piano." "Then learn."

5:02pm: Caden falls asleep on the couch.

6:16pm: Dinner done. It's an easy casserole that I found a recipe for on the back of a Stovetop box.

6:18pm: Ewww, this is nasty. But if I admit it, that'll give Caden and Connor an excuse to snub it. Be strong. Just. keep. eating.

6:20pm: Seriously, what is wrong with this stuff?! It's ground beef, kidney beans, salsa, Stovetop, and cheese--sounds good in theory. Why is it so watery? I drained the fat from the beef.

6:21pm: I bet it was the fact that I used that weird CANNED GROUND BEEF that my mom buys.

6:22pm: Kiana speaks up. "Thanks, Kristi. This is good." What a sweet girl. "Really?" I reply. "I think it's kind of . . . mushy." Colby: "I wasn't going to say anything." Kiana: "Neither was I. But it's the thought that counts!" Connor: "Yeah, this is like lunch lady stuff." Everybody proceeds to pick up the mush with their spoons and plop it onto their plates, lunch-lady-style.

6:23pm: "Who wants cereal?"

6:26pm: Caden happily discovers leftover spaghetti in the fridge (it's his favorite). I tell everyone that they at least have to have some applesauce with whatever they're eating, so they kind of get a fruit in to make it kind of a meal.

6:34pm: Caden has not eaten his applesauce. He tries to sneak away. "CADEN. Applesauce, bro." "But I'm not hungryyyyyy." "Yeah, right. I just saw you snarf down a bowl of spaghetti like it was nothing. Get over here." "But I don't like that kind of applesauce." "I've seen you eat it before. You want me to spoon-feed you like a baby? C'mon. Let's do it." I drag him to the kitchen table. He starts to whine and cry. "I don't like this applesauce!" "Okay, well you have to eat a fruit. We've got blueberries in the fridge, strawberries, bananas, what do you want?" "Ummm . . . can I have a PB&J with strawberry jam?" I try not to laugh. "No, that's not a fruit. That's sugar. Tell you what, let's compromise. You eat four bites of this applesauce, and you can be done." Caden reluctantly agrees and starts to eat. He eats half-spoonfuls and I call him out for it. He chuckles and admits that two spoonfuls for him counts as one bite. He does this mostly to show off his math skills--he knows that two halves equal one whole. Four spoonfuls later, he prepares to take bite #2.5. He looks down at his applesauce cup.

6:41pm: "Heeeeeey. By the time I take four bites, all the applesauce will be gone." I smirk. "Yeah, you think you're the only smart one in this house, buddy?"

6:50pm: We cancel our plans to go see The Muppets at the dollar theater because of Connor's unrelenting cough. (I know it's just the dollar theater, but nobody deserves to have their night out at the movies ruined by Mr. Hackasaurus.) Caden and Connor are more than happy with this decision, as it frees up their night to play the computer games which I so diabolically forbade them from earlier.

10:25pm: My sister's friend's sister's car (got that?) gets stuck in our cul-de-sac, which is covered in deep snow. We spend a half hour trying to set it free, but to no avail. Eventually her dad comes to tow it out with his truck.

11:03pm: I sit here at the computer wondering how I'm going to survive two more days of this.

Arts Wrap: January 2012

Okay, I know  I've said I'm going to start during recurring posts on various topics numerous  times ("That's America to Me", politics, feminism, etc) but for real, let's do this. I've been a spotty blogger for the past four months or so and I'm tired of it. Even though so few people read what I write, it's a way of helping me feel productive and it's a small, small  way for me to leave a mark on the world.

Forgive me while I get all sad on you, but unless history books write about you, history will only remember you by what you've written. Even if what I jot down is inconsequential, I like to think of my writing as bread crumbs left along the path of . . . well, who knows, but they're there.

One thing I'd like to start doing is a monthly post dedicated to the arts. Mormons are taught to seek after things that are "virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy." And I figure seeking doesn't amount to much unless it turns into sharing, right? :) So here we go, the best of the best of January 2012.

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Book--Fiction: Beatrice and Virgil 

The world went beserk for Life of Pi  and waited achingly for Martel's next book. The wait was long--nearly a decade. Beatrice and Virgil  was not what people were expecting. 

It has been maligned as the worst book of the decade and praised as a masterpiece. (It's hard to write about the Holocaust and not  have the critical response be polarizing.) In my opinion, the latter is true. Beatrice and Virgil  was one of the most haunting, creative, and beautiful books I have ever read. 

At just over 200 pages long, it's more of a novella than a novel, but it's the only book in my life where--upon turning the final page--I went back to the first and started again.

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Book--Non-Fiction: Who Cooked the Last Supper? The Women's History of the World

The biology of woman in fact holds the key to the story of the human race. Although generally unsung, female monthly menstruation was the evolutionary adaptation that preserved the human species from extinction and ensure its survival and success.

Female oestrus in the higher primates is a highly inefficient mechanism. Chimpanzees, gorillas, and orangutans come on heat rarely, and produce one infant every five or six years. This puts the whole species dangerously at risk of extinction, and the great apes today survived only in small numbers and in the most favorable environments. With twelve chances of conceiving in every year, instead of one every five years, the human female has a reproductive capacity sixty times higher than that of her primate sisters. Menstruation, not hunting, was the great evolutionary leap forward. It was through a female adaptation, not a male one, that "man" throve, multiplied, and conquered the globe.

Moral of the story? Quit hating on your period and read this book. And, having been written by a British woman, you can expect all sorts of dry, subtle, dirty humor along the way to pepper things up (including a chapter entitled "The Rise of the Phallus"--seriously, you gotta read this).

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Television: Alcatraz and New Girl

New Girl is proof that you don't need a laugh track for laughs (for the love, television producers, CAN WE BE OVER THAT????) In a television world where mockumentaries reign supreme (The Office, Modern Family, etc), New Girl  is a breath of fresh air. Or maybe that's just Ms. Deschanel. Hard to tell.

Alcatraz  is proof that J.J. Abrams still has it goin' on. Like Stacy's mom, only creepier.

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Film: The Artist and Five Broken Cameras

If you're one of those people who makes a Calvin blech face at the thought of a silent, black-and-white movie, get over yourself and see The Artist. You're not too cool for it, I promise.

As for Five Broken Cameras:

I will forever be grateful to the Sundance Film Festival for screening Slingshot Hip Hop in 2008. Seeing that documentary is what first got me interested in the Israeli-Palestinian issue. It was then that I first started thinking about studying Arabic.

Who would've thought that I'd return to the Festival four years later to watch another documentary on the same issue? Only this time, I didn't need the subtitles.

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Music: Walk off the Earth's cover of Gotye's "Somebody That I Used to Know"

Five people, one guitar, magic. (Check out the original video of the song, too--it's very, very cool.)

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Dance: The Great Chinese Circus' performance of Swan Lake

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Comedy: Utah drivers; Kristen Bell's sloth story

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Journalism: Nick Kristof, Daniel C. Peterson, Andrew Malone

"Where Are The Romney Republicans?" by Nick Kristof for the New York Times

“Much of the current conservative movement is characterized by this sort of historical amnesia and symbolic parricide, which seeks to undo key aspects of the Republican legacy such as Reagan’s elimination of corporate tax loopholes, Nixon’s environmental and labor safety programs, and a variety of G.O.P. achievements in civil rights, civil liberties, and good government reforms,” Kabaservice writes. “In the long view of history, it is really today’s conservatives who are ‘Republicans in name only.’”

"Gingrich Is Wrong; Palestinians Are Not 'Invented'" by Daniel C. Peterson for the Deseret News

There are, I think, relatively few politically conservative American Arabists. But I'm one, and I reject Mr. Gingrich's declaration that Palestinians are merely an "invented people." His claim is not only needlessly provocative and inflammatory (in a region that scarcely needs inflaming) but false.

"The GM Genocide: Thousands Of Indian Farmers Are Committing Suicide After Using Genetically Modified Crops" by Andrew Malone for the Daily Mail

In one small village I visited, 18 farmers had committed suicide after being sucked into GM debts. In some cases, women have taken over farms from their dead husbands - only to kill themselves as well. 

Latta Ramesh, 38, drank insecticide after her crops failed - two years after her husband disappeared when the GM debts became too much. She left her ten-year-old son, Rashan, in the care of relatives. 'He cries when he thinks of his mother,' said the dead woman's aunt, sitting listlessly in shade near the fields.

Village after village, families told how they had fallen into debt after being persuaded to buy GM seeds instead of traditional cotton seeds. The price difference is staggering: £10 for 100 grams of GM seed, compared with less than £10 for 1,000 times more traditional seeds.

But GM salesmen and government officials had promised farmers that these were 'magic seeds' - with better crops that would be free from parasites and insects.  Indeed, in a bid to promote the uptake of GM seeds, traditional varieties were banned from many government seed banks. 

The authorities had a vested interest in promoting this new biotechnology. Desperate to escape the grinding poverty of the post-independence years, the Indian government had agreed to allow new bio-tech giants, such as the U.S. market-leader Monsanto, to sell their new seed creations.

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That's enough for this month! If you're a-hankerin' for more, spend some time perusing a website I recently came across called Artswrap. StumbleUpon is also a great way to find wonderful things if you use it right (I prefer it to Pinterest). If you find anything great ever, please share!