My Alternate Universe

I am so sorry that I haven't been blogging. It came to my attention recently that it's been roughly three weeks since my last post! I can't believe how quickly time flies. Between having two jobs, being in graduate school, and active social life and a grueling gym schedule, I barely fit in time to sleep! I get nervous sometimes when I realize how quickly time flies... this life is so short! But at least life is treating me right, and I'm having a lot of fun. I can only think of a three things I would even improve at all: I wish I were warmer more often (it's cold here!), I wish I made more money (but who doesn't?) and I wish my back didn't hurt. As for the back thing, I fell down my *ICY* front steps on the the way to work about a month ago, and now I have a sharp sharp sharp sharp sharp pain in my lower right back when I bend over or move or sit a certain way. Even crossing my legs can make me go cross-eyed sometimes. I'm suspicious of a pinched nerve, so I'm going to hit the chiropractor when I find time to get things adjusted and see if that fixed the problem.
Here's my favorite picture from Christmas break, which I spent at my parents' house in Los Angeles:

This is me, holding Clare, my 9 year-old cousin. I can't believe that it's been so long since she was born! It feels like yesterday that she was breaking hearts with her chubby legs and curly baby-hair. I pretty much worship her. And here's my OTHER favorite picture from Christmas break:

Now, I recognize that the word "favorite" denotes only one, but I couldn't ignore this picture. This is my dad and my nephew, Quentin. Quentin is my parents' first grandchild, and watching them love him is really fun for all of us. I came down one morning for breakfast and Poppie was nonchalantly holding Quentin like this. It kind of melted my heart on the spot! My dad also loves to sing the Talking Heads song that goes "Little baby, you're just a play thing, I want to make you stay up all night..." to which my sister-in-law good-natured-ly scoffs and takes back baby.
In other news, my good friend Whitney Low got married over break, and is now Mrs. Whitney Erickson. It was a beautiful event, and it was wonderful for me to be able to participate in Whitney's happiness (not to mention shopping for honeymoon unmentionables!!) Congratulations, Whitney!!

Here's a 30 second video of me making my nephew Quentin laugh. It's the first time that I've heard him laugh, and I loved it. Please ignore how silly I sound. And yes, I do have a life outside of my nephew... it just isn't represented very well on my blog.

Here's Grandpa Carmack holding his Great-Grandson, Quentin. How could you not love them?

...or maybe an aunt, if we want to be technical.

But I think it's funny when people ask if you're an aunt or an uncle, in order to determine the gender of your sibling's child. Four days ago, on July 10th, the Palmers welcomed our newest member, Quentin John Palmer. He's the first grandchild of Brian and Lisa, the first son of Megan and Christopher, and the first nephew of yours truly. Both mom and baby are doing well. I have the luck of living 2.2 miles away from the new little tyke, so I've been spending a lot of time cooing over babycakes and taking pictures. Mostly for the sake of my family, but also for those who love babies, I'm posting some pictures here from Quentin's first day out of the womb. Poor guy, he seemed a lot more comfortable surrounded by amniotic fluid.

But as you can see, Quentin is perfect. He has all of his fingers, all of this toes, and all of his internal organs. Being that he was produced by cute parents, he's cute. I've had a tendency in my life to think that babies are ugly, that they look like little aliens with shriveled faces. Maybe I'm biased, but I'd say Quentin is a major stud. Lock up your daughters, America! Here he comes!

When I showed a friend a picture of "Q-doggy-dog" on my phone, she said "FINALLY! A cute baby!" If you were wondering who calls a 4 day-old white infant "Q-doggy-dog," that would be my brother, the baby's daddy. I just call him Scooter if I feel nick-namey. When we get crazy, singing him Snoop Dogg songs and saying "What up, little homie?" to him, baby's mama just smiles and wishes we would shut up. She did a great job birthing him, so we oblige. He is most definitely hers, anyway.

As excited as Megan is about having her uterus to herself, she's absolutely radiant with her son. I don't think anyone is as giddy with the babe in her arms than his Nonnie, the first-time grandmother herself. How beautiful and excited are these women? How cute is this freaking child?

It's amazing how much you can love something so immediately and instinctively. I have only an inkling of an idea of how much this kid's parents must love him, but holding his little body in my arms makes me feel very maternal. Men of Mormondom: take me to the temple! I will gestate!

So Saturday was my birthday, and obvs I got some sweet stuff in the mail. My mom sent me some birthday $$$, my two sets of grandparents sent me the same card from two different states, and one of my little sisters sent me a sweet package with a card and a letter in it, among other things (like melted fun-sized chocolate, probably leftover from Halloween.) I know that she gets embarrassed sometimes when I blog about her, so I'm going to let you guess which one of my three sisters sent me this amazing letter. By transcribing it into a blog post, it loses some of its charm; she wrote it in three different colored pens. The punctuation is all in orange, the body of the letter is green, and the salutations are blue. This girl is amazing, as you're about to find out. I'm transcribing it exactly how it is, spelling, punctuation, etc. ENJOY! (P.S., it's necessary to know that this little lady isn't even in High School yet. That adds to the wow-factor of the letter.)

"Dear Lauren-
Happy Birthday!! I hope you are doing well in Boston and are making many friends (I have no doubt in my mind that you are alread immensly popular.) You always have had the funny gift of making such remarks and speaking so indirectly that it feels direct and pierce's one's being in to initial shock, which then is replaced with a quick assuredly to positive liking, and wanting of friendships. You pierce and treat them in such a way that they walk away feeling as though they've known you all their lives and you are a very close friend.
Anyway, as our dull, unfathumness lives continue, devoid of much drama right now (much to my weary relief) I will recount to you things you may or may not have heard. I will be focusing more on the little things because you most likely have heard of the big. To start from the back and move up, I will start that I was slightly pleased and shocked that you were indeed correct about me (I don't mean that offensively). During the last two days of school, which were dull without purpose and should have been cut out altogether in my opinion, we had an award cerimony. The award in which I had the pleasure of recieving was the "Writers with Style" award: which means that I am one of the top 7 best creative writers out of my whole grade. When you commented on my writing as, how you put it "eloquent", I did not believe you, but as it is, my teacher loved my writing. In fact, they even quoted a passage in one of my essay's! The essay was about how in the future the world will come to an end and bla bla bla I'm sure you don't care much about that. The Merill's are here, although unfourtunatly John is coming on Thursday, and Dad's leaving on Thursday! Oh well, I can be patient, and I must.
So, enough with the dull entrieties of our quiet (but it can't be quiet, because we live in California) life. Mother never tells me a whit about you, even when I ask earnestly and tenderly!! So tell me everything that's happened, spare no dirty detail pos favor. I'm longing to see my dear brother, sisters, and soon to be nephew along with the sweet air, and green of Boston!! Oh how I long for it!! But not this year anyway.
Now, in regards of framing the piece I sent you. It would be best if you consulted with Sister Gaz on a proper a good framing store. She told me once of one that does a superb job, but it has slipped my mind, and I fear that I did not soak, absorb, and ponder her ways as I should have, I had just always assumed that she would be there, a quite short car ride away. Please send my regards to her and everyone else. The page lines are against me and I do not want to go onto another page so I will end her, with the small demand that you HAVE to answer my questions somehow, if by email, phone, or letter! I care not.
Everyone sends their love!!"

This girl is fantastic. Don't you love all of the big words she's using, and spells them all wrong? You can't blame her, she's part of the spell-check dependent generation. Love her! No wonder she received the "Writers with Style" award! She even uses the Oxford comma, just like me! Happy My Birthday!

People, we have a problem. The problem that we speak of regards one of my sisters, and her egregious lack of historical knowledge despite a public education. I'm still nauseous from this conversation:

Both of us- Blah blah blah gasoline crisis in history, blah blah blah.
Her- "they happened during Nixon"
Me- "oh, I thought there were rationings during WWII. maybe there were gas rations during WWII and then a gas crisis during Nixon" (I don't know much about gas crises, so since she was telling me the story, I gave her the benefit of the doubt)
Her- "yeah, they're the same thing Lauren... while Nixon was pulling the troops out of WWII"
Me- "WWII was during the 40's, sis"
Her- "Yeah, and Nixon pulled out the troops from WWII"
Me- "No, Nixon was like the 60's and 70's"
Her- "Oh, uh..."
Me- "Are you thinking Vietnam war? Because Vietnam isn't WWII. Please tell me you weren't thinking Vietnam was WWII (!)"
Her (cautiously backpedaling)- "No, because WWII is Korea..."
Me- "Holy Crap"

ATOM BOMB DROPS ONTO MY HEART

Me- "No honey, WWII is Hitler and Germany, and the 40's. Holy Crap, are you serious?"
Her- "ehhhhhh they don't teach me anything"
Me- "I don't care what they do or don't teach you in school, there's no excuse for you not to know that WWII = Hitler and Europe and the Holocaust. Oh. My. Gosh. H-o-l-y C-r-a-p"
Her- More whining
Me- "NO FREAKING EXCUSE. NO SYMPATHY"
Her- Slams doors.


This really just happened to me. In America. In an affluent suburb. Please someone, if you can foresee more of this in the future, please come to my home and shoot me. In fact, I'll have Rosie the Riveter over, and she'll want to be shot too. WHAT HAPPENED TO AMERICA?

"The time has come," the walrus said, "to talk of many things."

That line from a Lewis Carroll poem just popped into my head, but it's strangely applicable to what I've been thinking about lately. First and foremost, it's set at the sea. Even though I live in a place that most people associate with the beach, I don't. I've only hit the beach a handful of times since I've been here... as far as that goes, I associate Los Angeles with highways and chaparral-covered hills. I am more apt to associate Massachusetts with the ocean, and I've had it on my mind a lot, because... I'm moving back to Boston!

I don't think that it's a secret that I haven't been a fan of Los Angeles. To avoid offending the few Angelenos that I'm friends with, I'll just say that it's not my scene. That tends to satisfy inquiring minds. I'm an East-coast girl through-and-through, and while I've only ever lived for extended periods of time in London, Utah, Boston, and California, I know for a surety that SoCal is not the place for me. A few more stanzas from the poem mirror my sentiments quite well:
--
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
--
There are a lot of great things about Los Angeles, some of which I don't appreciate. Some of the things that I hate the most about LA are other peoples' favorite aspects of the place. Like the Walrus and the Carpenter, I would love to sweep away those parts of LA life, but they're what gives LA its flavor, and are so intrinsic that they couldn't be removed anyway. I'll just say that Los Angeles will forever be a fun vacation spot, but I will never move back.
I am absolutely thrilled to move back to Boston! I gave my two-weeks notice today at work, so I'm done with all of my commitments here by May 1st, then I make the trek across country before starting my new job on May 11th. It's going to be a hectic two weeks, trying to get everything I own packed up and across country in a time- and cost-efficient manner, saying good bye to family and friends, etc., but it's worth it! I have dozens of friends in the Boston area that I'm still in touch with, my brother Christopher and his wife Megan live in Cambridge, and my Uncle Stan just moved to Cape Cod this week. It's meant to be! I'm going to continue working with children diagnosed with autism and other developmental disabilities at a school in Natick (with 7 weeks of paid vacation,) and hopefully my campaign for admission to graduate school in the area is successful. It's the start of a new, exciting chapter in my life, and I can't wait!

In case you happen to be curious about what kinds of things I have on my extensive "To Do" list, here's a taste:
-Finish up the quarterly progress reports for my clients
-Return the 10+ binders and manuals to work
-Pack up my entire life
-Ship items that won't fit in my car, probably on Amtrak
-Find someone to drive across country with me
-Find housing in Boston
-Make a budget (I have to pay for rent and food now, yikes!)
-Get tickets to Red Sox games
-Be nice to my family for the next two weeks (Caroline told me today in a fit of rage that she couldn't wait for me to leave.)

Let me know if you have any helpful suggestions for how to accomplish these daunting tasks, or if you want to help!

We all know people who are amazing at EVERYTHING they do. You may even be one of those people, but might not openly admit it because you've also mastered the art of humility. I've been 'blessed' to be surrounded by a lot of truly awe-inspiring people, though maybe sometimes it feels more like a curse, and I know how it feels to not measure up. To be seemingly eclipsed by that grandeur. I'll offer an anonymous example: a student accepted to the Ivy League, but decided to go to BYU for financial and religious reasons (quality #1: level-head.) Quality #2: good artist, #3: good musician and in one of BYU's more advanced orchestras, #4: straight-A student in a difficult major, #5: phenomenal athlete, etc. I could probably think of even more intimidating 'Jacks,' but there's no point. We all know them. Maybe we call them by a different name, 'Domestic Goddess,' 'Renaissance Man,' even 'Mormon Diva.' But today, I'm focusing on a different breed of 'Jacks,' those of us whose lives are defined by mediocrity.
Being surrounded by amazing people, I've often looked at myself and seen how I don't compare. I'm pretty good at several things, but I'm not amazing at anything. The fate of being a 'Jack of all trades, master of none' seemed to loom around every corner. I felt like Jack and Jill, who made it up the hill, but didn't have much to show for it. That is, of course, until the Elephant came along. Here's the story of Elephant-butt:
My sister-in-law is pregnant. In the quest to be the favorite aunt (I'm getting a head start,) I've started nesting. I have all of these plans, and one of them was to make a stuffed animal for the fetus. I was a little intimidated by the project, because I haven't done nearly the amount of sewing and such as some of my family members. But I tucked my inadequacies in and shlepped over to Joann. I asked timidly, "do you guys have patterns to make, uh, stuffed animals?" I probably looked pretty dumb, but hey, I got the pattern, I bought some sweet fabric, and I got to work. I wanted to make at least one practice elephant before I made the fetus' to ensure a high-quality product, so that's why this one is pretty feminine-looking. Caroline has announced that she wants it, so I just have to sew on some eye-balls and it's good to go! It came to be named Elephant-butt, don't ask...

So, I could pretend that I shared this experience to give hope to those who feel like they're 'Jacks of all trades, masters of none.' I could pretend that the point is to motivate, to let you all know that if you keep trying, someday you might find something to be proud of. But no, I'm just bragging about my success. So who needs an elephant?

...as does the list of celebrities that I am personally acquainted with. This just in from the Newsroom: "The Mormon Tabernacle Choir announced today that Ryan T. Murphy has been named associate music director. Murphy will assume the associate music director position formerly occupied by Mack J. Wilberg, who was appointed music director in March 2008." (You can find the full article here) Ryan "T-bone" Murphy was my piano teacher for a brief stint in 2003-2004, when I decided to take lessons back up after a brief hiatus. Piano is a love-hate relationship in our family... my previous teacher had required an hour and a half a day of practicing. Do the math? That's over 10 hours a week. Add to that puberty and an active social life, and there were blow-ups all the time at my house over the clavier. My mom had a rule that when we started High School we could choose to quit piano, and I did it without blinking an eye. By senior year, however, I missed lessons which forced me to practice and improve, so we asked the new guy in town to be my teacher (and Caroline's too... I think our old teacher may have been pregnant?)
Ryan was an awesome piano teacher. He was really good natured, and very relaxed. I didn't work as hard for him as I had for Cara, probably because I wasn't afraid of him, but I really enjoyed taking lessons from him. Ryan's also incredibly talented at the piano and the organ. My dad and I had the privilege of a daddy-daughter date to see him play the organ with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. That's dope.
Back to Ryan being good-natured: my sister Caroline is "full of life" and "a spitfire." At least that's how adults describe her vivacity. So Caroline also took piano lessons from Ryan, and she would have been 8 at the time. Well, as many piano teachers do, we had these notebooks that would have all of our assignments for the week written in them. Caroline, for some reason, decided to make her notebook a correspondence log, and would write Ryan little notes that he would find before her lessons began the next week. Here's the first (and probably funniest) of the serious of hate-mail Caroline wrote to Ryan:

Basically, Caroline had the same love-hate relationship with piano that the rest of us did, and tried to enlist Ryan's help in getting out of it. "I want you to tell my mom that I should stop playing peano!" After some increasingly violent scribbles in the book, (including Caroline actually writing "I hate you" over and over again in circles on one page) my mom let Caroline off the hook. She just couldn't take it anymore... she was so embarrassed when Ryan showed her the notes in the book! But the rest of us loved it, including our good-natured teacher. Congratulations, Mormon Tabernacle Choir... you've picked a winner! Good luck Ryan!

Happy St. Patrick's day everyone! In honor of the rowdiest holiday on the calendar, I thought I'd share some of my Irish roots. This, on the name "Carmack" (my mother's maiden name):

The original Gaelic form of the name Carmack is Mac Cormaic, derived from the forename Cormac.

The scribes who created documents long before either the Gaelic or English language resembled their standardized versions of today recorded words as they sounded. Consequently, in the Middle Ages the names of many people were recorded under different spellings each time they were written down. Research on the Carmack family name revealed numerous spelling variations, including Cormack, MacCormack, McCormack, McCormick, MacCormick, Cormac, Cormick, Cormyck, Kormack, Kormick, Cormach, Cormich, Cormiche and many more.

First found in Munster where they held a family seat from very ancient times.

Suffering from poverty and racial discrimination, thousands of Irish families left the island in the 19th century for North America aboard cramped passenger ships. The early migrants became settlers of small tracts of land, and those that came later were often employed in the new cities or transitional work camps. The largest influx of Irish settlers occurred with Great Potato Famine during the late 1840s. Although the immigrants from this period were often maligned when they arrived in the United States, they provided the cheap labor that was necessary for the development of that country as an industrial power. Early immigration and passenger lists have revealed many immigrants bearing the name Carmack: Daniell Cormack who settled in Virginia in 1643; Christopher Cormack settled in Annapolis Md. in 1731; Patrick Cormack settled in New York State in 1804.

I found another family crest similar to this one, but it had a motto on it: Sine Timore, which, being translated, means "Without fear." Pretty legit.

In closing, this week's episode of 30 Rock had one on the best quotes about St. Patrick's day I've ever heard: "Passing out and cursing on St. Patrick's day? Is nothing sacred?"

So, some of you might know that my mom likes Beyoncé. In fact, a few months ago she said "Lauren, I need to know more about this Jay-Z. I'm tight with Beyoncé, but I just don't know much about Jay-Z!" It upset her that she wasn't on a first-name basis with her BFF Beyoncé's new hubby. She's the one who informed me for the first time that they had tied the knot.
To back-track a bit: when I was a teenager, I used to think that my mom was like the most un-hip person on the planet. She knew nothing about 311, or the Spice Girls, and she hated my Everlast poster. She tried to make me take it down! But ever since Beyoncé hit the scene, things have been different. I sort of consider Beyoncé the family's ambassador to Pop Culture, and here's an anecdote or two describing why.
I'm not sure why, either just randomly or when she has some secret prerogative, my mom will out with "Single Ladies (Put a Ring on it)" by Beyoncé. If you haven't heard it you must live in a cave. It's all over the place. So anyway, she'll just out with it. But she never gets the lyrics right, no matter how much we try to coach her! Correctly sung, it would sound like "if you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it, if you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it, oh oh ohoohohohohohohoh" (I didn't count out how many "oh"s I would need, I just threw them in there). Instead, she sings "if you like it then why don't you put a ring on, put a ring on it." It's funny in and of itself, but then she'll get my dad involved. "Brian, come do this with me" and they'll stick out their ring fingers with their wedding rings, and do this creepy little hip-shakin' dance while my mom sings her version of the lyrics and my dad beams with pride at being part of a spectacle that makes us laugh. A veritable freak-show.
So today we were in the car, and my dad doesn't like the conversation. So he says "aw, put a ring on it!"
When I got home, I had a text message from Tracie that says "now every time I hear Beyoncé, I think of your mom!"
Freak show.

No matter how far away you roam...
My sister Alexandra is coming home from the Middle East tomorrow for Christmas break (we're all basically peeing our pants in excitement) and my brother and his wife are coming in a little over a week from Boston, so I've been thinking about my most exciting journey home. It's too good a story not to tell.
In 2005 I spent 2 months in Senegal, West Africa on a BYU Study Abroad with the French department. I could write a book about the experience, like how to turn down marriage proposals politely (especially when they're asking you to be the second or third wife...) but one of the most adventurous parts of the whole trip was trying to get home. After the 2 months, a lot of my fellow students and I planned a 3-day stopover in Morocco, kind of a last hoorah before leaving the motherland for the good old USA. We flew from Dakar, Senegal to Casablanca, and then took a 3-hour train ride to Marrakech. Marrakech, by the way, is a very fun place to visit for a few days. We spent lazy hours by the pool of our hotel in the nice weather, walked to some cool mosques and other buildings, and spent a good chunk of our time in the souq (marketplace commonly found in Arab countries) drowning ourselves in the most delicious fresh-squeezed orange juice known to man, narrowly escaping death by crazed henna artist, and even being assaulted by domesticated monkeys (that's a whole new story for another day.) Well, after our pleasant sojourn to transition from third-world conditions in the villages of Senegal to iPods and malls, we had to get from Marrakech to Casablanca to catch our flight home. No problem. Our plane left some time in the mid-morning... maybe 9 or 10:00 am? so we took the earliest train out of Marrakech (around 4 or 5:00 am) to make it to the airport with enough time to check in and board. With a 3 hour train ride and then the hour minimum for international flights, we were cutting in close, and there was no room for egregious errors. But we had no choice, the trains didn't run all night.
So... we got our butts on the train with our 2 months worth of Africa-smelling laundry and souvenirs. No problem there. We had to switch to another train line in the middle of Casablanca to get to the airport, so the train stops, and we all start getting off the train. Here's where the fun starts: half of our group is off the train, half is still on. We're trying to negotiate baggage. The train starts moving, leaving the station. Panic. Our connecting train comes into view, further panic. After the last of us jump off of a moving train, we realize that we have to go down a flight of stairs, under the track, and up another flight of stairs to get to the other platform. Our connecting train is already at the station... we have seconds to make these trips, which would have been a feat with ourselves alone, forget about our baggage! Luckily, Africa is full of friendly, helpful people that contradict our inherently chaotic way of looking at things. A bunch of guys just jumped off the train, looked both ways before crossing the tracks, picked up our bags and walked across the tracks (totally illegal, I'm sure) and got us on the train. Thanks guys! You saved us!
(this says never get on or off the train until it's made a complete stop...)
For some of the travelers, the excitement ends there. Chrissie Tsaturyan can tell you the story of being detained in Salt Lake with a sword herself... as for me, I got to JFK and split from the group continuing West to Mecca (aka SLC) and I just had a short hop to Boston. Funny thing was, it was raining. My flight was canceled. So here I am in JFK, smelling like mother Africa (sweat, dirt, body odor, fruit...) and completely out of money in anything but obscure African "francs CFA" with no cell phone and no way to get home. Hilarious. So, I eavesdrop into what the other passengers are doing. Before I continue, I should note that I'm the person who gets really really stressed out about little things, but things that should worry me don't bother me a bit. So I walk straight up to a group of young professionals, and say "hi, I couldn't help but overhear that you're going to rent a car. Do you think you could drive me to Boston too? You could drop me off anywhere, if I can just use someone's cell phone I'll arrange a pick up." I'm sure I looked like hell, all haggard and unkempt. Luckily for me, someone who looked even more like hell also wanted to solicit a ride (the guy was freaky, I'm telling you) so they took me as the lesser of two creepy evils. Yay! I heard "Holla-back girl" for the first time on that car ride--these accountants on a business trip were amazed at how culturally behind I was. Bah. They dropped me off at the car rental place at Logan, daddy picked me up, (I saw his Jag for the first time) and I got home and took a serious shower.

Mucking around in a spice stall in Marrakech

Like:
1.) Are you texting the same person that you're sending a facebook message to right now?

This one's dedicated to Miss Clare Palmer, beloved cousin and new member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints! Saturday we shlepped out to Agoura Hills (a 45-minute drive in average traffic... a journey I had made earlier that day for a client!) to celebrate Clare's baptism. To summarize, it was a fabulous time, and if you weren't there... yikes for you! Now let me break it down for you. When we arrived at the chapel where the shindig was going down, Clare caught a glimpse of me and, as daintily and reverently as ever, yelled "LAUREN!!" and gave me a running tackle-hug in the middle of a crowd of well-wishers. The girl's a rockstar. So after the running tackle-hug, we sat our little tushies in the room with the font, but the crowd was so big (double baptism!) that we had to move into the chapel. From our family, we had Lance and Jen's crew, our crew, Grandmas and Grandpas Palmer and Browning, Mike and crew, and Liz with her little tyke Nathan. Triple that for total attendance...
Anyhow, it was a typical mormon baptism... a talk about the ordinance (by Auntie Liz) and then the dunking. After Lance had said the prayer and submerged an excited little gal, Clare gave him the same tackle-hug RIGHT DOWN IN THE FONT. If he didn't have such giant feet and legs, she probably would have re-baptized him right then and there! Then the other little lady was baptized, and we went back into the chapel. There was a talk on the Holy Ghost and the confirmations, after which Clare tackle-hugged everyone in the circle: grandpas, uncles... but I guess the Bishop and First Counselor didn't feel secure enough on their feet and held her off at an arm's distance. That was another hilarious sight.
A little 9 year-old boy who belonged the entourage of the other baptisee sang a primary song about baptism that I'm not familiar with, and it just about put me in cardiac arrest. My heart popped out of my chest at that little soprano and melted into a puddle on the floor. If he were a little older, I probably would have sponged it up and offered it to him. Take me I'm yours! After the baptism was over, we headed over to a park nearby and had food and chit-chatted and fawned over Miss Clare-bear. Her enthusiasm over her baptism was not only contagious, but utterly inspiring. Why can't I be so psyched to go to church every Sunday? Well, I'm working on it.


PS: Little girls love me.
PPS: Notice the amazing BCBG dress I'm wearing: I got it at TJ Maxx for 90% off the MSRP!!!
PPPS: Notice my hotness. Yes, I've lost 30 pounds. No, it isn't easy to be this ridiculously good-looking.

Lately I've been reading three newspapers everyday -- we've been getting the Los Angeles Times since we moved here, but I find it ridiculously superficial. On one of the early days of the economic crisis, the front page headline was about the Emmy's. So I decided to scan those headlines, but really invest myself in that wonderful source of news, the New York Times. So, I read the Times electronically in the morning, and scan the (subordinate) Times over cereal. That was working for a while, until... Dad decided he had also had enough of the LA Times, and subscribed to the Wall Street Journal. Thus, I read 3 newspapers. Needless to say, though I'll say it anyway, I get a lot of news.
One would never expect the two to go together, but last week I stumbled across the unlikely synthesis of Metallica and the Wall Street Journal. On the bottom of the front page was an article entitled something like "Metallica too loud even for heavy metal fans." I enjoy a dose of Metallica here and there, and I saw them in concert in 2004, so I read on. (AWESOME concert, by the way.) The article explained how lately bands have made their recordings "louder" so that they stick out more on the radio and on iPods. I can't say I had noticed. The article goes to on say that producers increase certain layers of the track at the expense of minute musical details and expression to give the illusion of a louder song, and that the new Metallica album "Death Magnetic" falls prey to this folly.
Well, I was curious, so I determined that when I got home from work I would investigate these vicious felonies -- WHOA! Law and Order SVU took over for a second... that I would investigate these claims myself by comparing "The Day That Never Comes" with an older song, say, "For Whom the Bell Tolls" from the album "Ride the Lightning." Well, being busy, that never happened.
Luckily, my burning curiosity was assuaged today as I sat in my car and the radio so lovingly played what I needed to hear. Though I am by no means a Metallica connoisseur like, say, Ian Ward, I could definitely hear a lack of musicality in the new song. Metallica, whether you like them or not, is a group of pretty fabulous musicians. It's impossible to deny that. And though the song is extremely well written and really fun to listen to, I did hear a lack of depth in dynamics and the balance seemed off... like the bass and the cymbals were too loud. Great album, guys, but I'm guessing your more loyal listeners aren't going to appreciate the cheap tricks...

Saturday was quite a busy day for me! I was all over the place seeing all sorts of people, and it was a blast.
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In the morning, I had a session with my client in Agoura Hills. Her house is always fun for me to be in, because there are 8 kids (3 with autism) and the place is tingling with excitement. Her mom is also really cool, so during down time I love to chat with her. All of the kids want to play when the tutors come over... apparently my client cries if her brother and sister have sessions and she doesn't. It's funny to me, because sometimes she wants me to leave her alone once I'm there. But other times, like on a previous Saturday, she BEGGED me to sleep over, "please please please please!"
Anyway, Saturday we were sitting at the breakfast table, and my client's little sister was demanding that her breakfast show up miraculously on her plate NOW. When mom explained that it was still in the oven, she said "When I grow up, I'm not going to buy an oven!!!!" She's 6 and still can't say her 'R's, which made it that much funnier. We laughed pretty hard.
Then we did some fall-inspired Arts & Crafts, and the same sister made this lovely rendition of me. I'm happy, and I have lips! I'd say it's a pretty good likeness.

It's amazing how kids learn to draw, and what they incorporate to make their own style. By age 6, they've picked up on what their images are supposed to look like -- hair, hands with 5 fingers, flowers are pink and leaves are green. But my client's older sister, one of the other autistic children in the family, has a style all her own. She's much more severe than my client -- she's 4 years older, but has to be coaxed to make any intelligible words; otherwise she shrieks like a bird of prey when she's excited or mad. Like many people diagnosed with autism, however, she has an uncanny ability.
It's almost impossible to see in this picture because of the sun shining on the concrete, but this little gal can draw like nobody's business. I had the girls using sidewalk chalk to encourage interactive play, fine motor skills, colors, drawing, etc., and of course big sister was invited. Well, I did not expect what I saw! She just busted out with these amazing drawings around the poolside. They're very modern in style, women with understated facial features and overstated arms and torsos. I was so taken aback -- I couldn't believe what I was seeing! Honestly, done in watercolors in vivid colors, I would buy these in a gallery. Wow.
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After work I popped into the Palmer's house in Agoura Hills to visit my Uncle Lance and his 3 little munchkins, who I've blogged about in the past. They all had neon-colored hair from Hudson's soccer game, and they were getting ready for the beach, so I didn't stay long. Nonetheless, I managed to get a little video of Hudson's showing off his newest tat -- a Boston Red Sox strip I brought over that his dad so deftly applied. What a guy.

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After an uplifting and non-controversial Relief Society Broadcast, I hopped over to Whitney Low's in Simi for her 23rd Birthday Party! I reminisced in the car about my funniest birthday present in June... $50 in singles in a gift bag from my Grandma Palmer. And the only person who thought it was funnier than me: her. Thanks Marilyn, for being in my life :) Anyway, at Whitney's party -- where Whitney was the belle of the ball in a lovely coral anthropologie dress that made me green with envy -- I met lots of new people who I'll probably never see again, and I saw my old friend Gustavo Soares! I met Goose through Whitney at BYU several years ago, and I quickly learned to associate him with good humor and good times. There have been drag races down 9th east, spur of the moment water polo games, and of course the notorious butt shaving incidents. Goose, however, being a young gentlemen, left us to serve a mission in BOSTON! He's Brazilian, so he was called Portuguese speaking and spent time getting to know lots of my old friends. Well, Goose is back from those 2 years of spreading the good word, and it was so good to see him! Whitney's parents made a killer dinner for the party, and it was an evening well spent. Happy Birthday Whitney!

Imagine 4 or 5 quarters stacked on top of each other. Better yet, STACK 4 or 5 quarters on top of each other. See that? Feel that? A bunch of stones bigger than that came out of my doggy's bladder a few days ago. She came home from the vet today after her surgery, so I actually held one of the things in my hands. I wasn't going to, since it was IN HER BLADDER, but my sister Caroline held the stones out to show me and I was so shocked that I had to touch it and hold it in my hand. It feels just like a smooth rock that you would get on the shores of a lake; the perfect skipping rock. It's sick. Can you believe that? No wonder she kept peeing on the couch!

Today at work a few funny things happened. 7 year-olds are great, maybe my favorite age for kids. They're old enough not to be as obnoxious as they once were or throw temper tantrums, and they're young enough to still be soo soo cute and innocent. To preface my first story, you should know that I call all little girls either "girlfriend" or "mademoiselle." Last summer my little cousin told her mom "Lauren's my girlfriend." It was maybe the happiest moment in my life. So anyway, I kept calling my client "mademoiselle" today, and eventually she said, in utter confusion, "I'm not Mademoiselle! I'm Aminah!!!!" It was really cute. I didn't bother explaining that one today. Later on, she showed me her sense of humor when we were doing receptive animal noises. She knows them all and gets them all right (she's 7 for Pete's sake) so the second time I said what "kind of animal makes this noise?" (ROOOAR like a Lion) she said "YOU DO!!!" I'm such a party animal. For that, I made her get up and do a silly dance with me.

Randomly changing gears, my little sis had her wisdom teeth out today. She lucked out in that she only had 3, and one of the missing one was a bottom one (which are much worse.) She's physically fine. When I had mine out, I started the adventure with outrageous, Valium-induced laughter, went on to vomit my blood, gauze, and guts out, then sat on the couch subdued as my cheeks swelled beyond recognition. I was a little sad from a recent breakup, but I'd say I dealt with my pain pretty graciously. Well Alexandra, who can eat and drive and walk around, is the grumpiest little pissant you've ever seen. My mom said "it's like she's angry at the pain." It's hard to be around. But, I'm so glad she doesn't have to go through what my brother and I did! He cried for two days straight and accused the entire family, in a very passive-aggressive note on the counter, that we were on crack.

After a fantastic, rather quiet weekend of antique shopping and old-French-movie-watching alone with my mom, my joy was brought crashing down around me as I made a sad realization: I'm pretty sure one of my sisters doesn't love me. We'll call her "X" for anonymity's sake: well I was with X driving to downtown LA to pick up a different sister, and before we were even pulled out of the parking spot X started berating me that I didn't have my cell phone with me. Now, never mind the fact that she didn't have her cell phone with her either, but she was practically crucifying me for not obliging to what she thought was a necessary nicety: how dare I leave the house without my cell phone? She was really honestly upset. So, as an attempt to protect our already rocky relationship, I told her that I wanted her to stop talking about it, that she was being too aggressive and I didn't want to yell at her or say something mean. I thought "wow, pat on the back self. You're being mature in the way you handle this situation." Well, she clammed up for the rest of the ride (1.5 hours) and didn't say a word. Now imagine a flashback from a TV show with all of the squiggly lines:
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When we were little kids, I admittedly treated X like crap. My older brother used to kick me around a whole lot, and we get along really well now, so I kind of took that example on how to treat my other sisters. Turns out, it didn't work. She would tell her friends how incredibly awful and terrible I was to her, and they would in turn tell their older sisters (my friends) about it. Then my friends would tell me I was a total jerk and they couldn't understand how I could be so awful. I was ashamed and humiliated when that started happening, so I decided to be a better big sister. Well, that didn't work because she still hates me.
When I went off to college I had high hopes that absence would help to cure our problems. The first summer I came home went okay, but by the second summer she was telling me that I was a "fat, lazy, cow" and that was 30 pounds ago!! She started having this pattern of not wanting "share" people: if we had mutual people in our lives, she would either lose interest in them all together or become incredibly (and quite vocally) exclusive of them, and tell me how they were hers (in many more words.) Basically, she wanted nothing in common with me. And her personality went from sweet and shy to loud and in-your-face. And we haven't really ever learned to get along.
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Back to the present, I have tried for a long time to improve my relationship with her. I buy her stuff, I try to talk to her, I try to spend quality time together, etc. etc., but she still is pretty aloof and cold towards me. And after dinner, after 5 or so hours where she hasn't looked at me or said a word to me, I'm pretty sure that she doesn't love me. I think that she likes me 10% of the time and can tolerate me about 50% of the time, and other than that, we're doomed. Why else would she persist to verbally abuse me every time we meet new people? It makes me look like a giant loser.



Caution: don't let the "happy mormon family" look deceive you.

If had to lose any one sense, what would it be? Touch, sight, smell, sound, taste? It wouldn't be touch, because I love the feeling of my dog's fur, or the way water feels as it rushes past you in the ocean. It wouldn't be sight or sound, I love those sensations too much and the art that often accompanies them. It sure wouldn't be taste, because I'm kind of obsessed with food. I mean, imagine not tasting British White Stilton cheese anymore? Or Gouda with apples? It would definitely be smell. I could do without smell, especially gasoline, bananas, and Hadley's breath. I'm thinking about senses because of a few things: 1, I'm in pain. I cut a bunch of the nerves in my right pointer finger over a year ago with a notoriously stupid blender accident, and against my greatest wishes from my magic genie that I keep under my bed, they still afflict me. And my back has been hurting from the indentured servitude that began when I moved home. Would I be willing to sacrifice touch in order to never feel pain again? Or do I appreciate pain, because it makes me realize how great not being in pain is? That's sure a sunny outlook... sounds like something an African would say.

Reason 2, my mom just bought tickets to a Stevie Wonder concert! It's pretty awesome, because Stevie Wonder is pretty freaking awesome! For anyone that doesn't know her, my mom is this super classy, proper lady who was raised by strict Mormon parents in Bel Air. She went to Law School, always uses impeccable grammar, is embarrassed to use the word "fart," and won't allow thongs in the house. But somehow, thrown in the mix, my mom LOVES R&B. Stevie Wonder, Earth Wind & Fire, Michael Jackson, The Commodores, you name the 70's black music and she's all over it. I'm not suggesting that this music is unclassy, just that it's an awesome, slightly unexpected facet of her deep personality. Stevie Wonder has been able to work through blindness at a time when it sucked to be a blind man, not to mention blackness in a time when it sucked to be a black man, to be a prolific, versatile, and extremely talented musician/singer/songwriter/long-braids-with-beads-wearer. Our family tends to love his albums "Songs in the Key of Life" 1 and 2, tending more to funky-fresh, less to the sappy old-school stuff of the 50's and 60's. In fact, the ring tone on my cellphone for family calls is his song "Superstition". And now I have tickets. Pretty freaking sweet.
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Recommended songs:
Superstition, Past-time Paradise, Isn't She Lovely, Have a Talk with God, Sir Duke, I Wish, and Ebony and Ivory. Enjoy!!!

So watching that AT&T commercial, where the teenage disaster is texting up the yinyang, I always just laughed and thought it was pretty funny. Like oh, haha, that's funny. Well, that was until I moved home. Now, that isn't funny. It's sadly realistic... My little sisters Samantha and ESPECIALLY Caroline are texting freaks. They text all day! It's gotten to the point that my parents had to officially ban texting from the dinner table. Really, where has common courtesy gone? If my Grandma Carmack, the etiquette queen, lived with us, she'd drop dead. And you know what my sisters do? They sneak texts like little kids dropping their veggies to the dog!
Disgraceful.

So today Samantha was opening her birthday presents (Happy Sweet 16!!!!) and a phone buzzed. She dropped the fresh new clothes from H&M, very concerned that she might have a TEXT MESSAGE, the holy grail of all teenage communication. But "no," my mom said "Caroline's phone farted." Meaning, she got a text message. Which, to the rest of us in such a profuse quantity and while everyone is trying to enjoy togetherness and cake, is just as distasteful.
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Luckily the evening wasn't a total waste... my mom made the connection between her favorite new adjective, "gangsta," and the Steve Miller Band classic "some call me the gangster of love." She sang it beautifully while folding her unmentionables.