moist

There are certain words that one should never say out loud. The kind of word that make your hair stand a little bit up on end or make you feel like you've just revealed something personal that you didn't mean to share with the group. Like moist, for example. The one good thing about it, however, is that when you're trying to take a family picture with several people who are typically not very photogenic (ahem. me), and your slightly, or maybe more than slightly, crass brother shouts the word "moist" at the top of his lungs, everyone doubles over into a belly laugh that cannot be contained, which actually doesn't result in the best pictures for some of us, but it's better than an uncomfortable grimace, right?

Other words on my "banned words" list include: panties, bulbous, gyrate, (which one of my professors managed to work into almost every lecture for a whole semester. Sometimes he even acted out the verb for us...) pimple, and several words that, while pure in and of themselves, connote various body parts or functions. I'll leave those to your imagination. 

While you think of words that make you squirm, please admire these pictures of my adorable nephew at his 1st birthday party. Please feel free to share any of your most hated words.

Meet B.O.B

T-rav has been saving every penny and scouring the internet for a reasonably priced bike trailer. To his delight (no really, delight. Or maybe giddiness) he finally found one on ebay at a price that led him to believe that something just had to be wrong with it (there wasn't), and soon B.O.B showed up on our doorstop in a jumbo cheese wedge-shaped box (T-rav wanted to keep the box for memories, but really, when would one ever need to pack something in a wedge box?). Once B.O.B was fully assembled, T-rav was itching to him for a spin...preferably farther than around the block. So Saturday we hitched B.O.B to T-rav's bike and pedaled our way to a nursery to buy some plants and soil for our garden. 

We went 25 miles. B.O.B did very well and never once tipped or bounced in an unseemly way. Our plants were happily protected in the back, and T-rav claims he hardly even noticed B.O.B's added weight (I thought I should have bought more and I was right. My garden still has plenty of space for some leafy greens or something...as long as it's not long and viney. Suggestions?)

Twenty-five miles isn't too far. But it's definitely farther than I've ridden maybe ever, and there were loads and loads of hills. Really steep ones. The kind that threaten to make you and your bike tip over because you can't pedal fast enough to keep yourself upright. I may have had to walk once or twice.

Two points to anyone who can guess what B.O.B's name stands for. And no cheating! 

are you proud to be a woman?

The past two weeks have been ridiculously busy at my office job, but the project in which I've been busily engaged has been less that mentally stimulating. More like dull as rocks. The good thing is that I've had plenty of time for self-reflection and philosophizing, mostly about the role of women in society and in the Mormon church and as human beings. I have more questions than answers, but I've been thinking about what I think about my identity as a women. Maybe you can help me sort out my thoughts.

When I was 18 or so, I remember proudly asserting that I had more guy friends than girls because girls could be so hard to get along with, that I preferred being friends with guys to girls. And there are several things wrong with that.

First of all, I changed my tune about preferring male friends a long time ago. I suppose it was around the time that I got married (and most of my male friends suddenly disappeared). But I realized that my girl friends understood things about me and about my life that most men never will. And more importantly, they understand things from a female perspective. Trivial things like the trial of finding jeans that fit one's bottom and having sore bosoms at that time of the month, or more important things like sexism and discrimination or childbirth (which I obviously can't completely empathize with at this point, but the fact that I could in the future I think gives me a leg up on any man). So why would I say something like I did? I've always considered myself a feminist, even back then. Equal rights for all, just don't make me hang out with women, please! There's something dreadfully wrong with that sentiment.

Maybe the root is in our patriarchal society, the media, and maybe even women themselves. Men dominate, they believe they're superior to women (consciously or subconsciously) and therefore men demean women, so women demean women to be accepted as "one of the guys" (which is totally what I was doing...trying to impress some guys, I'm sure). I'm not one of those annoying girls. I'm a guys' girl. I'm cool. I'm tough. I'm unemotional and strong. I don't need women. And this is such a damaging attitude. Damaging because it's built upon false pretenses: strong is only a manly attribute; women are overly emotional, women are annoying, women aren't cool. Damaging because it's a woman belittling womankind.

Have any of you ladies (or gentleman) noticed this or is it just me? How does one teach women (or teenage girls) to be proud of being a woman because they are women. Not because they're "nurturers" or beautiful or dainty or whatever. I think one's identity as a woman has to be something more than that. But what? Ladies, what makes you proud to be a woman? Or are you proud to be a woman? Thoughts?

I'm adding another question after the fact: how much of what makes you a woman is based on cultural constructs, and does that even matter?

My lovely cousins Sarah and Jane came to visit this weekend.
Happy Easter!

the kite festival and laryngitis

 I lost my voice yesterday somewhere between the kite festival and my third episode of Bones for the night. Or maybe it was during Much Ado About Nothing. Either way I've been whispering when I've found it absolutely necessary to speak, which is rather disconcerting since T-rav has been trained (by me) to respond when I squeak, shout, holler, or yelp, and a silent burst of air being expelled just doesn't have the same attention-getting qualities to it. Anyway, this has forced me to analyze the quality of what I'm thinking of saying before I actually say it. It goes something like this: Is this important? Is it going to engage me in a long conversation? How can I say this as concisely as possible? Is it worth heckling T-rav and possibly trying to goad him into an argument that I will have to whisper rather than rant? It's been interesting for a day at least. You might want to try it some time.

In other news, yesterday was the Kite Festival, part of the National Cherry Blossom Festival (no matter that the cherries are quite done). It highlighted handmade kites, had flight demonstrations and a showing of tricks, and culminated with a series of kite fights where the kite fliers try to cut the other kites out of the sky by strategically wrapping their string around the other strings and sawing until the other string breaks. It was very exciting. Although the weather wasn't quite as warm as I would have liked (especially since my nasty cold had moved from hot flashes to cold flashes), there were hundreds of people out flying their kites along with the pros. Us included. It only took us five, ok fine six tries to get our kite airborne (I don't remember it being so tricky to get a kite to stay up. I swear when I was a kid, I just ran and tossed it up and voila! Kite in the air).

Sadly, my cruddy camera does not capture the massive number of kites being flown. It almost looked like a plague of locusts buzzing around the Washington Monument (did I ever mention that the earthquake was nearly 9 months ago and construction on the small cracks that appeared at the top won't even start until this summer?! And then who knows how long it will take. Bah to bureaucracy!). Almost equally as sad is the picture of me and T-rav at the festival that is most definitely not pictured here. We're pale and sickly-looking and my hair is blowing everywhere and we're both squinting weirdly even though it wasn't really sunny. I do have standards, you know. Just enjoy the whale floating in the background and imagine yourself there with us. Visitors are always welcome!

It's Spring!

Team Molly

 March 18th marked the 1 year anniversary of my cousin Molly's passing. Molly being a crazy runner and all, running a race in her honor seemed like the right thing to do, so  last weekend T-rav and I trekked down to Virginia Beach with my dad and sister Kate, and Aunt, her family, and my cousins' boyfriends and family. Together we made up Team Molly.

T-rav and I ran the 8K (we had wanted to do the half marathon, but sadly registered after it was already full. I just need to make that clear because I felt like a big wimp only doing 5 miles). Aunt, uncle, boyfriends + family, and cousin Jane ran the half, cousin Sarah ran the marathon, and my dad and Kate cheered us on. We were kind of a ragtag bunch: I was still feeling rather ill and hadn't eaten in 3 days, uncle got a stomach bug the day before the race, Sarah had a seriously pained knee, and Jane's boyfriend had a torn ACL. And he ran anyway (with dr's permission). Now THAT is dedication.

Team Molly was a great success. Our t-shirts were quite a hit--Molly loved tie-dye and bright blue--and you could hear fellow runners (mostly teenage ones) whispering about our awesome shirts as we walked/ran around town. There was an exciting energy in the race that I haven't really felt since 9th grade track meets. And although the weather wasn't fantastic (I actually think it was warmer in Palmyra for once), being at the beach and enjoying what sun we had was exactly what Molly would have wanted. She was born with one toe in the sand and the other already running.

We love you, Molly!

saltines are my salvation

I have spent the past 48 hours in various states of stomach distress. I was bloated to the point that I looked pregnant (Yes, really. T-rav noticed while I was changing but was too polite to mention it until I did). I couldn't take a deep breath and for a while I thought my appendix might be rupturing. That was what finally inspired me to go to the doctor for some unpleasant poking, prodding, and x-rays. The results of which revealed insides that showed a belly full of too much food and bubbles and acid, getting in the way of my lungs and causing significant pain in my stomach and intestines. Apparently I ate too many raw vegetables and fibrous products at once? Weird. I was sent home with instructions for liquids only for 12 hours, and then a soft and bland food diet for 3 days (which may make running my 8K on Saturday at a respectable pace a little difficult). Of course the lack of any food in my stomach or sugar in my bloodstream was almost as upsetting as all of that undigested food, so I spent today in the fetal position on the couch watching reruns of Law & Order while trying to shove  jello and plain white rice in my mouth. Things were a little sketchy until T-rav came home on his lunch break armed with crackers and apple juice. It was at that point that I started to feel significantly better. Thank heavens for Saltines.

And Zillah, if this was a fraction of how you felt the majority of the time before your surgery, I have a new level of PROFOUND respect for you.

king of the house

He's the type you'd be wise to tip-toe around. You offend him and he'll hold a grudge forever. His name reflects his personality better than most. He's smelly and rude and lets loose a string of profanity at the drop of a hat.  He must be given treats. He must not be yelled at. He must be pampered. He's very clearly the king of the house.

And he's my mom's cat.

Rascal is his name. And he's the most curmudgeonly animal I've ever met. He has a history of urinating on whomever/whatever has offended him. Case in point: while home for a short visit, my sister once yelled at him, he crept in her room while she was out, and she returned to a suitcase full of rank-smelling clothes. We've learned that if you shut the curtains in the living room and block Rascal's view of the sun, he'll let loose on them. I dared to step around him with an armful of laundry (neglecting to pat him on my way) and was treated to the most savage sounding hissing I've ever heard. And today a few hours after a I politely asked him to go into the other room while I vacuumed (Really. I spoke as congenially as I could muster), I discovered that he had again relieved himself on the mirror on the door that houses the vacuum. And now I can't get the stench out of the hall.

He's completely psycho. How do I get through the next 4 days at home without my mom to pacify the beast?

The Old Post Office

Yesterday we had the dubious pleasure of visiting another one of DC's historic, and free, points of interest: the Old Post Office. It's really an impressive building. Built in the Romanesque style at a time when it was already fading out of style, the fact that the post office survived into the 20th century is quite a feat. They considered tearing it down soon after it was built, partly because of its old fashioned facade, and partly because the postal system had already outgrown the building. During the 1970s, it was again threatened with demolition, but some vocal citizens and the chairwoman for the National Endowment for the Arts convinced Congress to reverse its decision.

So the exterior of the building is pretty fantastic. Surrounded by the bleak FBI and EPA buildings, it's certainly an architectural breath of fresh air. There's a free tour guided by the typically peculiar park rangers up the grandiose clock tower, offering one of the highest views of the city. You can also take a gander at the official "Bells of Congress" (I bet you didn't know that Congress has their very own set of bells). On the 9th floor (the highest main floor of the building) you can see a few photos that make up the pitiful "exhibit" explaining the building's history. But the saddest part of the post office is the interior. Their website boasts "some of DC's mouth-watering international cuisine, diverse shopping, and musical events." But in reality, the main floor hosts a profoundly depressing food court complete with an arcade and kitchy souvenir shops.

The most ironic thing of all is that the building serves as overflow for several different government agencies, including the Advisory Council on Historic Preservation. HA! It's a perfect example of the worst kind of "preservation:" let's turn it into a mall! A shop! An arcade! The worst kind of American commercialism. It's such a tragedy that I find myself looking forward to the day when Donald Trump starts work remodeling the post office into a luxury hotel. Maybe he'll put some class back into the poor underappreciated Post Office.

peevish

Adjective: 1. Easily irritated, esp. by unimportant things.
Synonyms:
sullen - petulant - morose - testy - crabbed - pettish

And that pretty much describes my mood the past 24 hours.

Example 1:  BA comes to class unprepared (again) and then proceeds to ask me questions that I have literally just answered to the rest of the class. He doesn't "understand" what a noun phrase is and asks what the topic is for the Thursday presentation that we've been working on since last Thursday. I try not to explain things to him like he's a 4-year-old. I'm only moderately successful and it takes all my self control.

Example 2: T-rav was in charge of loading the dishes last night, but neglected to run the very full dishwasher before going to bed. It doesn't really affect me that much since he handwashed a spoon for my oatmeal this morning, but I have a compulsive need to lash out about it. I refrain...until on the way to work. (Sorry, tio!)

Example 3: AK, one of the most extravagantly wealthy students I've ever had (no really. This guy dropped a double digit grand to buy an imported chess table) comes to class unprepared (again) and somehow manages to turn every group discussion topic into an illustration of his wealth or high-level connections. I listen as politely as I can without rolling my eyes in front of him. Frankly, AK, I don't really give a damn that your clothes are from some Italian designer, your watch was purchased in a fancy shop in Switzerland, or that you've had personal tours of such and such famous factory. Your English isn't awesome and you never bother to do homework assignments, and that's really all I need to know about you at this point.

Example 4: I run for 40 minutes, drink far too much water, and promptly feel woozy. There's no one to blame but myself, so I send myself to bed so I don't say anything nasty to poor tio for no reason.

I have more examples, but even if you're fond enough of me to read this far, you probably aren't interested in a list of all the things irritating me today. So I'll stop. On the positive side, I finally remembered to bring my electric blanket to work (there is no heater in my office, and the building almost never turns on the main heating when the outside temperature reaches 52), so I am now snuggled up at my desk like a little kid. Hopefully it will bring some improvements to my testiness. Also it's Leap Day which seems important somehow.