How to Ask a Cute Blonde on a Date

Blake just gave me permission to totally embarrass him here on my blog. ...Okay, okay, so that's not quite how he put it, BUT he did tell me it was fine with him if I shared this story. And so, without further ado, I bring you

That One Time When Blake Asked Lindsay On Their First Date

It was the end of January 2004. The new semester had begun, which meant two things:

1) My class schedule had changed,
2) So now, in order to get 20 hours of work in a week, I had to show up at the office at 7:00 am.

Because I was the sort of girl who would much prefer to take a free bus ride to campus rather than trudge a mile in the snow, uphill and in the dark, I'd show up at the bus stop at about 6:45 each morning. Usually I was the only person waiting for that early bus, but one Tuesday morning, to my surprise, I arrived at the corner to find Blake standing there shivering.

Blake and I had been in the same FHE group the semester before. However, our ward had just wrapped up their obligatory New Semester FHE Group Shuffle, and we were no longer in the same "family." That was a little sad, because my roommates and I had just recently decided that we had the best FHE group in the ward.

Even though he didn't like taking the bus to campus, Blake apparently thought that that particular Tuesday morning would be a nice day to try it out because, after all, it was pretty cold and snowing a little, and -- well, what d'ya know, Lindsay had to be at work at 7:00, too, AND took the early bus? Well, what a delightful coincidence!

Already I was growing a little suspicious. Blake was not one for coincidences; he was far too observant to let those just casually happen. After I asked him how long he'd been standing out there (because he looked pretty cold), and he replied that he'd been out waiting for the bus for a half an hour already because he wasn't sure what time the bus came, my suspicion kind of leaped to a new level.

I knew that Blake worked in the Talmage building, so I figured that, once we exited the Wilk after being dropped off from our short bus ride, we'd pretty much go our separate ways. Only that's not what happened. Instead, he continued to walk with me as I made my way down to my office in the McDonald building, on the south end of campus. When I asked him why he wasn't going to the Talmage building, he told me that first he had to stop by the Clyde building to check on something for a class he TA'd for.

"What do you have to check?" I asked, trying to make conversation.

"I need to make sure there are enough chairs in the classroom," he said.

He needs to make sure there are enough chairs in the classroom? I thought. That's a little strange, but okay, whatever.

We arrived to the north doors of the Clyde building, and I figured that since this was his stop, and since it was so darn cold outside and he'd surely be wanting to quickly get inside where it was warm, we'd be saying goodbye. Only, apparently my logic was faulty because he kept walking with me.

"Don't you need to go to the Clyde?" I asked him.

"Oh, I do," he said. "I'll go in the other doors."

"But aren't you cold?" I asked. "Don't you want to go in the close doors?"

"Ummm...." he stalled.

By this time we'd reached the south doors of the Clyde building, and it was really time for Blake to go. I started to say goodbye as I began walking the rest of the way toward the McDonald building when suddenly Blake started talking again.

"Um...would you like to go to a concert with me on Saturday?" he said quickly and very nervously. To me it seemed more like he was throwing up all over the sidewalk rather than asking me out on a date.

To be honest, I was pretty surprised that he was asking me out. Yeah, for the last month or so, he'd started coming over to our apartment to visit on evenings other than Monday's, but I'd kind of assumed that the reason for this was because he had a bit of a crush on my roommate, Michelle. Turns out he had a bit of a crush on another blonde in the apartment.

"Sure," I said. Because I was honestly incredibly flattered to be asked by him. Blake was a Very Nice Boy who was the first guy to ask me on a date with more than just an hour's notice. Which meant that I was his first choice for Saturday's concert. And that made me feel kind of tingly.

So we went out that Saturday to a concert on Temple Square, and Blake, who let his roommates, sister, and an apartment of girls down the way dress him up all fancy schmancy, looked pretty good, if I do say so. And throughout the whole evening he was ever the gentleman and always kept the conversation from awkwardly coming to a halt (most boys I'd gone out with couldn't keep up a conversation for the life of them!). I decided after that evening that I'd accept a second date, if it was offered (which it was), and we pretty much haven't stopped dating since.

And so there you have it: the asking for the date that got me hooked on Blake. Stay tuned another day for the retelling of Courtship Story Number 2 -- That Time Blake Attempted to Cook Lindsay Dinner.

Austenland

I spent my lunch hour today devouring the last few pages of Shannon Hale's latest book, Austenland. After publishing four young adult novels, this was her first for "grown-ups." I have to admit -- it wasn't my first choice for Favorite Shannon Hale Novel (that award would go to Princess Academy, hands down), but it was definitely a charming -- and rather ... indulgent -- little read. I was tickled by it, anyway.

This gist of the story is this (as borrowed from the book flap):

Jane Hayes is a seemingly normal young New Yorker, but she has a secret. Her obsession with Mr. Darcy, as played by Colin Firth in the BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice, is ruining her love life. No real man can compare.

When a relative bequeaths her a trip to an English resort catering to Austen-crazed women, Jane's fantasies of meeting the perfect Regency-era gentleman suddenly become realer than she ever could have imagined. Decked out in empire-waist gowns, stripped of her modern appliances, Jane throws herself into mastering Regency etiquette and flirts with gardeners and gentlemen -- or maybe even, she suspects, with the actors who are playing them.

It's all a game, Jane knows. And yet the longer she stays, the more her insecurities seem to vanish. Is she about to kick the Austen obsession for good, or could all her dreams actually culminate in a Mr. Darcy of her own?

There are a few reasons I was charmed by this book:

1. It is written in true sassy Shannon Hale form. And sassy is sure fun to read.

2. All right, my female readers, admit it: you, too, have entertained Colin-Firth-as-Mr.-Darcy fantasies. These daydreams have entertained you during dull classroom lectures and have kept you up late at night with your girlfriends giggling, sighing, and fanning your flushed, gushing selves. We've all done it. At least I've done it, and I KNOW I'm not alone. But how many of us are actually brave enough to take these delicious little daydreams to a slap-happy extreme, get it all down on paper, and publish it in book form? I don't know about you, but I tend to prefer to keep my silly, fantastical thoughts in my head where they belong, thank you very much. But I have to be honest -- it really is kinda fun to discover that, even if I wanted to, I don't have to because Shannon Hale beat me to it. And she did a fine job at that.

3. The book is dedicated to Colin Firth. How fabulous is that? The dedication reads:

For Colin Firth
You're a really great guy, but I'm married, so I think we should just be friends.

She even sent him an advanced copy of the book in the hopes that he'd read it and review it. You can read the letter she sent to him here.

4. Not to spoil the ending or anything here, but I have to warn you that there's a really great airport scene in the last few pages. It basically fulfills every girl's fantasy of having two men fight over her affections. It's pretty darn great.

So anyway, it's a fun little read. And now I wish I still had at least a few more pages left because, man, my feet have swollen up like water balloons and it sure would be nice to just lay out in a fantasy land with my feet propped up and surrounded by pillows. Maybe it's time to go re-read a bit of Darcy in the original. Or maybe I'll just put in my copy of the BBC adaptation. Mmmm...that sounds juicy.

The Luckiest Girl

I think I am the luckiest girl.

Because:

I have friends.
And I don't even know them all personally.
But they still delight me,
and provide me with a fun and almost unbeatable support system.

Even though I got stuck in standstill night freeway construction traffic,
I still made it on time to the airport to pick up Blake --
Who, you may have guessed by now, was able to resolve the canceled flight problem.

Blake's interviews went well;
he told me all about them on our late-night drive home from the airport.
(I think they like him - but we'll find out for sure in a few days.)
And from his big city adventures, he brought me back an awesome souvenir.

My doctor's pleased with my progression,
which has just about doubled since the last time,
and hints that this baby could come anytime.
He also gave me some much-needed confidence in my prospect of childbirth.

I didn't have to pester management
to tackle the little puddle problem in our utility room.
And now we have a new water heater.


And even though I still have some more waiting to do --
For a job offer, for a baby, and a few other rather pesky items --

I think I am still the luckiest girl.

Cast Your Vote!

You guys are delightful, and because I'm quite frankly a little tickled that a guessing game of sorts was started to predict the arrival of our baby, I've decided to build on it. Just submit in the comment section your guess as to the details of his arrival: the date, time, stats, etc., and we'll see who gets the closest.

The Contestants:

• Amy Jean: July 2, early morning
• DesMama: July 8, 7 lbs 13 oz, 19 in.
• Sarah: July 7, 5:32 a.m.
• Amyjane: July 15, 9:00 p.m.- ish
• Kristeee: July 1st, 11pm, 20", 7 lbs 15 oz.
• jer & ro: July 4th, 1pm, 7lbs. 4oz.
• Tyler: July 22nd, 3540 grams, 457.2 mm (Gee, Tyler, I'm not so sure I want to hold out that long, though it would be cool if the baby shared a birthday with his favorite Uncle Tyler.)
• Jenny: 7.14.07, 7lbs 14oz at 7:14 (a.m. or p.m.)
• Silly Marie: June 30th, 8 lbs, 20.5 in., 11:45 p.m.
• Blake: June 27th, late/June 28th, early, early morning, 6lbs, 13 oz
• Heather: July 17, 7lbs 8oz, 20 in.
• Jeanine: 7-7-07, 4:03 am, 7 lb 3 oz, 20 in
• Claire: July 6, 11:42 am CST, 6 pounds 10 oz.
• Katie: July 17, 2007 at 7 pm, 7 lbs. exactly, and... 17 inches long.

Of Airlines and Extra Baggage

Last week, less than 24 hours after Blake was informed of his flight itinerary by the Human Resources department of the company in NYC he's interviewing with, we received a phone message from the airline they booked him with stating that his Indianapolis to NYC flight had been cancelled, but good news - they'd automatically rescheduled him on a later, much less direct flight. Which would have put him on the runway at LaGuardia four minutes before he was scheduled to begin his interviews. Hmmm...not so good. Because he's responsible, Blake immediately called his HR people and asked about the best way to handle this new little... situation. Because they are very nice people (and probably also because it was their job), they said they'd take care of it, and the next day (after they'd apparently been on the phone for over an hour trying to sort things out) had him a new, direct flight (with a different airline) to NYC -- which would get him there plenty early for his interviews.

The original plan was that Blake would fly in to NYC in the morning, interview for several hours in the afternoon, and fly back home that evening. After the juggling our HR friend did with the flight arrangements, this was still to be the plan because the return flight remained unchanged. Only last night, as Blake was packing his carry-on bag in preparation for this trip, he discovered that the airline had decided to also cancel the return flight. Lucky for him, they let him know of this cancellation in plenty of time for him to make other arrangements. Oh wait -- they didn't. After a moment of slight panic, Blake decided his best option would be to contact HR in the hopes that his message would be received first thing in the morning. He let them know that he was still planning on coming to NYC in the morning, but that, currently, he had no way home, and perhaps that could be changed?

And so we arrive to today. After getting up at the unseemly hour of 4:00 a.m., we whisked Blake off to the airport. If all has gone according to plan (which, at this point, who's to say that's even possible?), he should be in Manhattan right now, working on calming his nerves over brunch with an old friend of his. Cross your fingers that the interviews (which will most likely be brain-picking and grueling) will go well. As scared as we are of the prospect of becoming New Yorkers, it would still be a truly exceptional experience -- both the job, and the new life there. Also, cross your fingers that he makes it home tonight because I for one am most anxious to hear how it all went.

And now, to switch gears a bit. For those of you who are interested, here's a photo of me and my Special Extra Baggage at 37 weeks:


When they weren't telling me that I look tiny and hardly three weeks from my due date (even though I insisted that I was, and that this baby is a lot heavier than they're giving me credit for), everyone at church yesterday kept telling me with their eyebrows raised, "It looks like you've dropped, hmmm." They phrased it half like a question and half like an all-knowing statement. Indeed, I suppose I have, though the process has not been incredibly sudden. I'm sure it all began about two weeks ago when my doctor felt the need to tell me the baby's head was resting nicely on my bladder, and has continued with the realization earlier this week that I could sit and eat a whole normal sized meal in only one sitting. He must be moving down. But I'll let you be the judge:

Being that I'm officially now "full-term," I suppose this baby could technically come any time. Blake's betting on Wednesday. I'm betting on somewhere closer to three weeks from now. Maybe later today my doctor will have some insight of his own. We'll see. In the meantime, though, I think I'll just work on trying to calm myself from the frequent bouts of panic I keep getting over the whole inevitable and ever-impending bit they call "childbirth." Ack!

Family history -- yeah, I am doing it.

Yesterday Blake and I went to Fort Wayne and spent 6.5 hours (!!!) doing some family history research at the Allen County Genealogy Library. It was our first trip to Fort Wayne, which, I admit, is kind of silly seeing that it is only a little over an hour north of us and offers a much, much better array of shopping options (including Bed, Bath and Beyond, which we took advantage of on our way home) than Muncie does (and probably ever will).

The Allen County Genealogy Library is just one portion inside of the city's HUGE public library. This department itself is not small. In fact, it's one of the largest family history centers in the world, second only to the Church's in Salt Lake City, with whom they actually work quite closely, sharing resources and whatnot.

We were there on a mission to help Blake's dad gather some information on dead-ended family lines. It was my very first attempt at doing real family history work, and I'd like to say that we were at least a little successful, but I'm not entirely sure if we were or not. I did, though, learn a few things about the experience:

• It takes a truly organized person to truly enjoy genealogy as a hobby, because wow, there is A LOT of information available to swim through!
• Family history research is exhausting, and it's probably not the wisest of ideas to decide to delve right into it when you're nine months pregnant.
• Bring lots of loose change, because when you're not in the stacks, you'll most likely be hanging out at the copy machine.
• It can be rewarding, but usually only when, at the last minute, you discover something that just might be incredibly useful in continuing those stopped family lines.

Though the experience was valuable, I'm not sure yet if I like doing family history work. Maybe that's because I mostly felt pretty crummy yesterday, or maybe it's because doing it is a little more involved and complex than just sitting down to read a fascinating primary source as you dig around for information before settling in to write your history major capstone paper. Family history work is hard and complicated and has the tendency to be really, really frustrating. But at the same time, I can see how it can be incredibly rewarding and fulfilling. So for now, I think I'm going to leave the work to the "experts," but that's not to say I won't try my hand at it again in the future.

Wherein I totally scarf down a slice of local history

I came across this article in today's edition of the local paper about a mother who began, on January 7, 1900, a baby book for her son. It struck me as incredibly sweet and timeless. Because the writer-historian-almost-mother in me particularly enjoyed it, and because this blog is a place where I can post up things that I enjoy, I'm going to paste the article below. Read it if you'd like. I'm sure there are at least a few of you out there, whose hormones are as out of control as mine are, for whom this little gem will strike pleasantly close to home.

Hallie Prow, like so many new mothers before and since, started a journal the day her son was born.

"Harold Pace Prow, born Jan 7th 1900, Sunday, 12.20 A.M., Weight six lbs., Length twenty inches," she wrote on the first page.

Today the little book's square tan cover is crumbling and the corners of its pages are bent, and even if she hadn't carefully noted the date each time she sat down to write, you would be able to see that time had passed, from the changing style of her loopy cursive.

"Papa brought him his first toy rattle from Indianapolis Mar. 14th."

"Noticed our expression when we laughed without talking to him and laughed back Mar. 21st."

"He gets sweeter and more interesting every day."

She glued black and white photos on every left-hand page, but they outstrip her entries. In her observations on the right-hand pages Harold grows, walks, talks. Later there's even a first-grade report card tucked between two pages. But in the photos on the left he remains an infant, only slowing taking on new expressions, sitting upright for the camera.

Hallie herself appears in a few of the photos, a thin woman in black, blond hair pulled severely back, head bowed over the baby. "With mamma," she wrote underneath.

She is revealed in other, funny ways too.

"Aug. 5th he said mamma today a number of times and seems to know what he ment also repeated it after me," she wrote. "He also said things that sound like papa ... but it only seemed accidental."

Read the book through from beginning to end like a novel and you are struck by how much things have changed in just a hundred years. In all the photos the little boy wears a lacy white dress like a girl's. The mother's recipe for formula is heavy on cream and sugar.

But in recording all her son's small likes, dislikes, funny habits and cute sayings Hallie shows how little the experiences of motherhood really have changed at all. Her book reads in part like a love letter. It is breathless with love.

"Jan. 7th 1901," she wrote on his birthday. "Our little one is one year old today and so dear to us we don't see how we could live without him."

Stuck randomly between the pages are many loose leaves, scraps of paper, backs of letters, on which Hallie pressed her son's ink-stained hand or traced around his fingers with a pencil. She saved handprint after handprint. One she cut out -- it barely covers your palm. You can hold it, a little flat shadow of a hand.

Locks of Harold's blond hair are there too, thin wispy curls sewed to the pages with thread and one, near the back, the longest, pressed loose between the leaves. So soft you can barely feel it.

Just like a novel, suspense grows as you read further. The Christmas after his first birthday Harold got sick. From then on he was sick often, sometimes seriously, and Hallie's entries became less frequent. He caught what seems to have been the flu, which killed so many then, and was sick a whole summer, listless, refusing to eat or play, comforted only by rides in the horse buggy with his mother.

The journal jumps forward and forward again in time. Scarlet fever. Mumps. Harold had to miss his 10th birthday celebration, Hallie wrote, her handwriting grown small and harried looking. And you know, as a present-day reader, that all this happened a century ago. The drama has been over for many years. And yet you start to worry about the little boy in the entries, the smiling baby in the photos. You can't help flipping forward to the end of the book to see, to make sure the writing doesn't cut off too suddenly.

It doesn't. Close to the end, Hallie glued a newspaper clipping, a wedding announcement for a grown-up Harold and his bride. "Miss Maud Imogene Wingate, of Albany, and Harold Pace Prow, of Bloomington, son of Dr. and Mrs. F.J. Prow ..." it begins. Much of the wedding party came from Muncie, and the couple would live in Bloomington where "Mr. Prow is engaged in the real estate business," the clipping reads.

The book finally ends with a brief entry on March 2, 1937: "Harold and family left Bloomington today to locate on their grandfather Evans farm near Albany Ind.," Hallie wrote. " ... He now has three children. Mary Alice soon will be 14, Priscilla Jean will soon be 12. Frederick Wingate 9 1/2."

It's somehow anticlimactic. Harold grew up to have children and sell real estate and live on a farm -- such an ordinary life. And yet what child ever was able to live up to the extravagance of his mother's love? And how pleased she obviously remained with all his doings large and small, to keep the small book and keep writing in it for so long.

Hallie Prow lived in Bloomington. Her book passed into the hands of relatives in Muncie and then Ball State University's Archives and Special Collections in Bracken Library, where it sits in climate-controlled stacks near an original Ulysses and one of the nation's best John Steinbeck collections. Few people have read it start to finish. Few people have seen, since she glued it into place, the last picture of Harold, in odd juxtaposition near an entry about his being drafted into World War I at age 18 but then the war fortuitously ending.

He's a little boy in a girl's white dress. His hair is in blond ringlets that obscure his face. He's bending over a flower in his mother's garden.

What Summer Has Taught Me

• ALWAYS put on sunscreen, and re-application is a good idea, too. Because it only takes 15 minutes to turn a painful shade of red, and a few hours to turn a horrible shade of purple.
• If you draw a chalk circle around an ant, he'll think that he's trapped and won't cross over the line.
  
• Not all beaches are warm. Especially not Oregon beaches. But that doesn't mean a family vacation to the coast won't be fabulous; it just means to remember to bring your jacket and get used to numb toes.
• Even if you're working several jobs to save money for college, there will always be time to plow through a pile of books from the library.
• Trampolines + Sprinklers = Good times, my friends, good times.
  
• If you don't learn to dive correctly, you won't pass swimming lessons.
• Bike trails are adventures waiting to be discovered. They can take you just about anywhere you want to go.
• The Wonder Bread Thrift Store is a great place to pick up cheap duck food. And also cheap human treats.
• Dollar movie theaters are the perfect place to cool off on a hot day.
• Fudgecicles are better than Popcicles, hands down.
• A tomato garden will flourish if you water it. A row of sunflowers will flourish even if you forget.
• Canning jars, decorated with twigs, leaves, and grass, make nice homes for grasshoppers and caterpillars.
• Stepping on fireworks will burn a hole in your bare feet -- or at least it will in your brother's bare feet because you remembered to wear your shoes.
• Birds do not belong in the house, even if they're able to sneak their way in through the attic swamp cooler.
• They say that once you learn, you'll never forget how to ride a bike. However, this principle does not apply to roller skates.
• You can't beat a picnic in the canyon.

Happy First Day of Summer, everyone!

theraintheraintherain

Breathing deep,
I inhale the distinct aroma
of earthworms on
soggy sidewalks,
sprinkled with a splash
of pine needles.

My hair falls loose and
sticks to my cheeks,
while glistening wet beads
drip from my lashes,

and satin-gray skies
toss their precious collection
of shining silver dollars
into pond-sized puddles.

I close my eyes
and let myself soak.

This is the way we build our nest.

So I totally spent the weekend nesting. It was crazy. And pretty glorious, if I may say so. On Saturday we were able to pick up the dresser which was so generously donated to us by our favorite Muncie friends, who, sadly, are moving today. (It really is a Catch-22 -- we have to say goodbye to some of our favorite people in the world, but because they're leaving, we get to partake of the furniture they're not bringing with them.) We pretty much had to completely rearrange our bedroom to make room for it because we decided that, since we were at it, we might as well also set up the family heirloom cradle, which was passed onto us and stuffed in our trunk when we were with my family in Utah last month. And now we seriously have like 2 1/2 rooms worth of furniture in our little bedroom, but cozy is good, right?

Anyway, here's the dresser:

It was a little bigger than we thought, but we squeezed it in. We both really like it. It's nothing fancy, but it's been well-cared for and it was free. Also, it's useful. And that makes it perfect.

Because we now have a place to keep them, we pulled down our collection of baby clothes and blankets from the attic, washed them, and put them away:


And here's a picture of the cradle. Sweet, isn't it?

So, I suppose this means we're ready to have a baby. Or...something like that. At least he'll have clean clothes and a place to sleep once he gets here.

By the time we finished our projects Saturday evening and got our house looking live-able again, we decided that we totally deserved a night out. So we went to see a movie. And now I have the authority to tell you all that Nancy Drew is a charming little film and that you should all go see it.

And this, my friends, is apparently how we celebrate Father's Day at our house: we nest. Together. Because there is no way I could have taken on these projects by myself. Blake totally came through for me and my desperate urge to get ready for this baby. And he did so happily. He's amazing.

But on a more serious note, I need to say that I think Blake will make a most excellent father. I mean -- he's taken care of an awkwardly-shaped, worn-out, hormonal combo-version of both his wife and baby for the last 8 months. That's got to count for something, so I don't care if other members of our ward's Elders Quorum question whether or not Blake should truly have been celebrating Father's Day or not. Our son is going to be one incredibly lucky little boy to have him.

Big Fat Baby

If you will all humor me and take a little peek at the baby ticker located at the bottom of this page...

[I'll wait while you scroll down, take a look, and scroll back up.]

...you will notice that the baby has moved to THE LAST SPOT.

Whoa Nelly.

That is all.

Well, now, isn't this exciting?

So, it turns out that a New York City marketing research firm wants to fly Blake out for further interviews!

After a successful phone interview with them at the beginning of last week, he was promptly asked to perform a case study, which basically required him to take a raw set of data and whip together an analysis and presentation. Apparently they are impressed with his skills (and we all know that having good skills is most important) because now they want to fork over the time and money required to get him to Manhattan for a long day of introductions and face-to-face interviews.

So -- EXCITING!!!

(And a little nerve-wracking...we're another step closer to becoming New Yorkers, which, though really cool, is a little daunting. Especially when you stop to consider that a life in New York City is about as different from a life in Muncie as you can get. But -- we're not thinking about that. Not yet.)

We're not sure yet when he's flying out there, but it should be sometime before the end of June. Which we're hoping will also translate to before the baby comes. Because I'm not so much a fan of welcoming our first baby without my husband there to do it with me.

Hot Linens

Because you all apparently enjoy my stories, here's another gem.

A few days after my sixth grade year wrapped up, Provo was hit with an incredibly strong storm. It was called a microburst and, among other things, it knocked down countless trees and power lines around town, blew my neighbor's trampoline across the street and entangled it around a chain link fence, and whipped siding off of homes. We were left without power for about three days.

About a week after the storm, I was invited to my friend Kari's house for a birthday sleepover. Among those invited was a girl from our class named Linsey, who, despite the fact that she spelled her name completely wrong, was a nice enough girl. She had been living in a camper trailer by the river when the storm hit and blew a tree on top of the roof, practically splitting the trailer in half. For one of the party activities, we all decided to take a walk down to see the damage -- it was pretty impressive. I'm surprised that she, and everyone else inside it at the time, came out with only minor injuries.

Linsey's bruises, which were mostly located on her hip, started bothering her early in the evening, so she asked Kari's mom for a heating pad, and went to sleep early. When I got over the shock that for pretty much the first time EVER I was NOT the first girl at the slumber party to call it a night, I enjoyed staying up with the other girls, playing games and giggling in the dark about boys.

Soon, though, our whispered conversations were interrupted by stirring from the corner where Linsey slept.

"MY UNDERWEAR'S ON FIRE!!! MY UNDERWEAR'S ON FIRE!!!" she suddenly yelled out, completely startling the rest of us.

We jumped and skipped a breath simultaneously before we grounded ourselves enough to investigate the situation -- and also to fall on the floor laughing at the hilarity of what she just said. Apparently Linsey, who was still sound asleep, was getting too hot under the heating pad.

Someone volunteered to turn off the heating pad, and Linsey rolled over. In the morning, she had no recollection of her fire.

Only 8 1/2 left to go.

I was a little surprised to hear my doctor tell me yesterday that I've dilated to 1 1/2 centimeters. I guess all those crazy contractions I've been having for the last six weeks or so have not been for naught. While I was told that this is perfectly normal, that all it means is that things are progressing as they should, the doctor also felt the need to tell me, "But let's try to keep this baby in there for a few more weeks." Though Blake is convinced otherwise, I still really don't think that, unless the contractions I've been having suddenly change dramatically, that the baby will come early -- or at least very early. We'll see though, I guess. (But I still think that, should he come early, July 7th would be a pretty awesome date -- 07/07/07.) At any rate, I only have 8 1/2 centimeters left to go. That's something, right?

The doctor also felt it necessary to tell me that the baby has been lowering and that his head is resting comfortably (for him, not for me) on my bladder. As if I couldn't have told him that myself! If my bladder isn't being treated like a trampoline, it's being used as a soft, bury-your-head-in-deep pillow. Ah well, what can you do?

Six Vignettes

In continuation on a theme of Grandview Elementary.

Boys Chase Girls
In kindergarten, the standard recess activity was a rousing and uncomplicated game of Boys Chase Girls. But sometime during the winter, when we were up to our knees in snow, a group of apparently worn out boys decided that it was time to switch things up a bit. And so we started playing Girls Chase Boys. And that lasted for about a week before we girls decided to boycott that endeavor all together. Which just goes to show that even 5-year-old girls recognize the importance of letting the boys do all the chasing down work.

Early Matriculation
It was the habit of my first grade teacher, Mrs. Capener, to write up the day’s schedule on the board so that we budding new readers would know what to expect of our school-day. One day, we read that for art we would be doing a collage. Only we thought it said we’d be going to college. Justin was particularly confused, and wondered out loud to our teacher just why in the world we had to go to college for our art lesson – we were only 7! And that’s when Mrs. Capener thought it prudent to teach us the grand difference a single letter could make in a word.

Failing Miserably
Near the end of second grade, I found myself, along with every other student in school, lined up in the gym waiting for my turn to take the mandatory eye exam. One fuzzy glance across the room at the poster of upside-down and backwards ‘E’s told me I was in serious trouble. It turns out that faking your way through an eye exam will land you in a real optometrists chair getting fitted for your first pair of glasses.

Multiplication Tables
A word to the wise: Any number multiplied by zero is zero. Any number multiplied by one is itself. Not ONE. Which is easy to forget when you’re speeding through a timed worksheet of multiplication problems. And which is very embarrassing when your teacher decides to use your worksheet as an example of what NOT to do.

Physical Fitness
I walked up 101 stairs to get to school every single day. You would think that that would have enabled me to perform well in PE. But I’ll tell you what: 101 stairs does NOTHING to improve your torturous and pathetic-looking 15-minute mile – especially when it’s run alongside a boy who would grow up to become one of the fastest runners in the nation.

Lines
My second grade teacher kept a box of scratch paper that we were more than welcome to use anytime we found ourselves needing something to write on. One day, I came upon my friend, Martha, preparing to write out a note on said scratch paper. She was drawing lines across the page, and each line slanted a little more than the previous one. I asked her what she was doing. “Drawing lines on my paper so I can write straight,” she said. “How can you write straight if you’re drawing crooked lines?” I stupidly thought to ask, at which point she got really mad at me and started me on a long dose of Silent Treatment.

Weekend Getaway

We got back late last night from another lovely weekend spent with our favorite Mascoutah Wiests. They again welcomed us with open arms, taking us on pleasant outings to the park and the pool, and kept us on our toes with a few rounds of Guess Who? and a few innings of Backyard Family Baseball. We had an awful lot of fun with them.

Because to a pregnant woman only five weeks away from welcoming her first child everything is suddenly more poignant, I naturally noticed a few things that I don't think I otherwise would have. For example:

• This was the last quick weekend trip Blake and I will be able to take for a long time where we will be able to pack as lightly as we did for this one; and
  
• When a toddler goes through the often troubling "look at me, I can take off all my clothes" phase, it's wise to duct tape his diaper on -- even though that won't necessarily ensure that you won't have an unpleasant surprise to deal with when he wakes up from his nap.

Blake and I had a GREAT time, and hope that our potentially impending job-related move won't take us so far away that we can't easily come see them again soon. Thanks, guys, for a fantastic visit!

Why Plexiglass is Safer

At Grandview Elementary, the playground for the first and second grades was long and narrow. It was sandwiched between a row of houses on the north and the school on the south, almost as an afterthought. Because of its shape, and because of the fact that the school side of the playground was lined with about a million classroom windows, we were, at the beginning of each school year, explicitly told that we were NOT allowed to play any kind of game or sport in the direction of the short side. On the other hand, we were allowed to do as much running and playing in the direction of the long side as we wished.

Usually, though, come spring, we'd pretty much forgotten that rule.

During lunch recess one sunny spring day when I was in the second grade, Jason, a boy from one of the other second grade classes, and a few of his friends found themselves enjoying an exciting game of football. They were, as you may have guessed, playing in the direction of the short side of the playground. But who were we, a bunch of jump roping girls watching them from the sidelines, to remind them of the playground direction rule? Besides, they seemed to be playing carefully enough. But we moved our jump roping endeavors a little farther down the playground anyway, so as to make sure that we weren't run over as Jason, playing the role of star quarterback, dove deep to catch the ball.

When the bell rang, telling us all that the lunch period was over, we slowly moved back inside. I was one of the first to arrive back in my classroom, and I sensed something was a little fishy from the moment I stepped in to find the room dark and devoid of my teacher. Things got even fishier when we noticed a fist-sized hole in one of the windows, and a small, deep-red puddle of blood beneath it out of which, one ingenious classmate noticed, a trail of splattered drops formed, marking a path through the room, out into the hallway, and in the direction of the main office.

What could possibly have happened? we all started asking each other as our imaginations started to run wild.

If I could have put two and two together and get four as quickly then as I can now, I wouldn't have had to wait for my teacher or Jason, once he got back from the emergency room, to put it together for me. As it turned out, the hole in the window was fist-sized because it was Jason's fist that charged through it as he dove to catch the football. In his version of the story (which I consider to be quite reliable), the skin on his wrist sliced right off and fell on the floor, and for whatever reason, he thought it prudent to pick it up and take it with him to the office. Which later turned out to be a good decision -- the doctors were able to sew it right back on. (He was always pretty proud of that scar.)

Jason's little encounter with the window prompted school officials to seriously consider taking some preventative measures in the form of Plexiglass. Because, in the world of elementary school-aged children, glass windows and narrow playgrounds do not a good mixture make. And so, for the last few months of the school year, and probably into the summer as well (each classroom in the building had A LOT of windows), our classroom discussions on dinosaurs and cursive writing were interrupted by a lone but crafty glass man in a blue jumpsuit cutting out the glass windows and replacing them, using a very distinct-smelling and thick putty, with those made of Plexiglass. Because, after all, if you're going to repair one broken window, you might as well repair all the unbroken ones, too.

Australians and Why We Like Them

I've heard recently that Grandview Elementary, the school I attended from kindergarten through sixth grade, is slated to be closed and also possibly torn down in the next few years. This makes the sentimental side of me a little sad. So, in an effort to make that side feel a little better, I've decided to document a handful of the random-yet-wacky stories and memories I have of my time at that one heck of a swell school.


When I was in the fifth grade, we had a foreign exchange student transfer into our class. His name was Liam and he was from Australia. Now that I think about it, he wasn't so much of an exchange student (his whole family had transplanted themselves in the United States for either his parent's business or education; I can't remember which) as he was just foreign. Very foreign. We're talking thick accent and an undying love for Vegemite foreign.

Liam was not shy; rather, he was perkier than just about everyone in the class combined. He was also incredibly charming, with his debonair mannerisms and big white toothy smile, and before we knew it, my fellow female classmates and I had developed small, pre-pubescent crushes on him. At least, I imagine it was a little crush that made me feel light-headed and fluttery when he was assigned to sit at my table. And, because his world nearly revolved around soccer (or, I guess, football), he also got on incredibly well with the boys.

When we weren't crushing or letting our jaws drop over his knowledge of the World Cup, we let ourselves grow giddy with fascination over the things that made him so different from the rest of us. He spoke English, but it wasn't our English, and we knew it mostly because he pronounced the word aluminum as al-you-mini-um, which we all got a big kick out of. He was also a world traveler, something that none of the rest of us had the privilege of being.

Our quick-thinking teacher, Miss Stuart, decided to take advantage of his first-hand world expertise -- and his collection of slides which documented that know-how -- and asked him if he'd mind sharing some of his experiences -- and photos -- with the rest of the class. Of course, Liam, who loved all of the fascinated attention he was getting at school, couldn't say no.

And so, with the lights turned low and the slide projector humming, we toured his family's most recent vacation to Holland. I'm not sure if it was his dizzying display of Amsterdam, or bad cafeteria food, but Jared, the very quiet blond boy who sat next to me, couldn't take it for too long. Green-faced and shaky, he slowly got up and walked to Miss Stuart's desk.

"Miss Stuart," I heard him whisper, his voice trembling. "I think I need to --"

And that was it. His lunch went splattering all over our teacher and into a puddle at her feet.

The rest of us, meanwhile, continued to be awed by photographs of windmills and tulips, and entranced by Liam's smooth-talking Australian brogue. With the exception of those sitting closest to Jared's unfortunate incident, most of the class didn't notice and were a little confused when the janitor came in and piled strong-smelling chemicals onto the carpet around Miss Stuart's desk. So while the rest of the class liked Liam either because he was cute or because he could easily maneuver his way around the world of sports, Jared liked him because he distracted 90% of the class away from what was quite possibly his most embarrassing moment.

Something's different...

Look at the two pictures below. Can you tell what's missing from the second picture?



If you said, "Oh, that crispy, dead tree is gone!" you are right. Ding ding ding! Gold stars for you!

After spending a year trying to determine just how dead that tree was, we finally decided that it was "morally, ethically, spiritually, physically, positively, absolutely, undeniably, and reliably dead." -- And not "just merely dead, but really most sincerely dead."* So late last fall, after a series of smaller thunderstorms kept bringing crispy, dry branches down onto our porch, we suggested to management that they seriously consider just taking the tree down. Because, you know, images of bigger branches crashing through our living room window during a bigger thunderstorm didn't exactly sit well with either of us. They smiled and nodded. And did absolutely nothing.

And then, about a month ago, we got new a new team of more motivated management.

And last Friday, we came home to a crew putting the finishing touches on this:


I have to say, as one who likes checking things off of her own to-do list, I'm all for apartment management who checks things off of their to-do list.

*More gold stars for you if you can name that movie.

Sunday FAQ

Q: How's the job search going? Have you found a job in Muncie yet?
A: In Muncie? Um...no. And until a large research firm, or a company large enough to have its own research division, comes to town, I really don't think there's much here in Muncie to keep us here, job wise. I know the Muncie ward really wants us to stay, and because you're great people, we wouldn't mind sticking around, but I just don't see that happening. Sorry folks.

But, since you asked, Blake does have two phone interviews this week -- one for a job in Manhattan, and one for a job in Kansas City. Pretty exciting! Cross your fingers.


Q: And how about you -- how are you feeling?
A: Oh, I'm doing fine, really.

What? You don't believe me? What? My hacking cough, my drippy, sneezy nose, and scratchy voice make you think otherwise? Okay, okay you caught me. This week's been rough. Being 34 weeks pregnant by itself isn't easy, but add a draining summer cold to the mix, and you've got one wiped out girl. It doesn't help that the only safe things a pregnant woman can take to relieve cold symptoms are Tylenol, saline nasal spray, and one brand of cough medicine. And it also doesn't help, when your baby-squished lungs already make you short of breath all the time, to add to it a congested nasal passageway. Breathing has never taken me such effort! But I've been taking it easy this weekend, and slept for 3.5 hours this afternoon, and I think I'm on the mend.


Q: When are you due again?
A: [In my head] What? Do I look bigger all of a sudden? Why are you asking?

[Out loud] July 16th. Yep, it is coming up fast. Six more weeks, in fact. And yes, I'm excited. And yes, I think we're just about done getting ready for his arrival. We were even given a dresser this weekend by a dear friend in the ward who's moving out in a few weeks. So pretty soon I can start organizing all of the preparations.

A Few Things I Love Today

1. My mom. Because she is great. Also, today is her birthday. So if you're also planning to spend your day at IKEA, and you happen to run into her, be sure to wish her a good one. Happy birthday, Mom!
2. That I am of sound mind enough to get myself to Target to buy boxes of Kleenex. Because a drippy, sneezy nose waits for no one.
3. The pregnancy comments I get these days from Blake. Things like: "Wow. You're getting big." And "Um, it looks like you spilled again." And "Are you having contractions? Maybe you should sit down and let me finish the dishes." And "So, do you still have a belly button?"
4. Never having to wait more than 30 seconds in the waiting room at the doctor's office.
5. Hearing my doctor tell me that 1) he considers me and this baby to be healthy, normal, and right on track; but more importantly that 2) the type and frequency of the contractions I've been having are completely normal.
   
6. Finally being just about caught up with my photo album (note that I said photo album and not scrapbook. I do not scrapbook). Seriously, it's never a good idea to let yourself get 2.5 years behind on projects like that.
7. Rummage sales. Because one of these days I WILL find a decent dresser for this baby. Like, maybe tomorrow.

What do you love today?