Downstage Left

Ten for 2011

2012-01-02T09:08:00.000-08:00

Oh, hi there.

*Cough, cough* Excuse me. Just blowing the dust from this here blog of mine. I've been away for ever so long. And Blogger has made some changes in my absence! When I logged in, I was asked if I wanted to try the "updated Blogger interface." I'm unsure. Will there be new and exciting fonts for me to try? Will Blogger simultaneously post everything I write to Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest? If I update, will I be given the option to blog in 3D?

Perhaps I'll see to updating of my interfacing later. In the meantime, I thought I'd begin my re-entry into the blogging world by typing up one of those newfangled Top 10 lists all the kids are talking about these days. And so . . .

My Top 10 Happy Things of 2011

(not so much in chronological order)

#10 Steve graduates!

When we began our wedded life together eight years ago, Steve was none too happy with his career path. He was convinced, however, that he was too advanced in years to go back to school. Until four years later when we decided that was ridiculous and life's too short and you only live once and he should follow his dreams! (Well, one of his dreams. Most of Steve's dreams involve being a Formula 1 driver or a fighter pilot during the 1960's, and those dreams weren't quite as feasible as going back to school.)

And so, on an unseasonably hot and muggy day last June, family and friends gathered in the middle of a field to watch a little black dot later identified as my husband cross the stage and accept his diploma in aerospace engineering. And there was much rejoicing! Except for Viv, whose feelings about the experience are best summarized in this photo:

She was hot and tired and terrified by Steve's graduation cap.

Speaking of Viv . . .

#9 Viv's 1st birthday

Our daughter began her life as a teeny tiny preemie, but celebrated her first birthday in the 99th percentile for pretty much every measurement a pediatrician can measure. (Overachiever.) And though my attempt to create a butterfly birthday cake resulted in a trampeled-looking, frosting-speckled failure, the day was still a success. Viv was surrounded by adoring grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles. Lucky girl. And the replacement cake we bought last minute at Albertson's didn't taste half bad.

#8 The Importance of Being in a Play Every So Often

At the beginning of the year, I was invited to return to my MFA stomping grounds as a guest artist in their production of The Importance of Being Earnest. It was during this experience that I came to realize the following:

1) When I was in grad school, I was young.
2) Currently, I am old.
3) I really miss performing.
4) When I am performing, I miss Steve and Viv.

I'm not sure how to reconcile those four things, but I do know that I was so happy to have the experience. And I still don't like wearing a corset.

#7 Steve's new job

(Actual job not pictured)

It is an amazing thing to work hard toward a goal and see it realized. Steve's a real live aerospace engineer! He's earning money doing things he likes to do! He is among his people! (People who like to talk about airplanes and how to make fast things go faster.) I am so grateful for his gainful employment, and so incredibly proud of him.

#6 Sleeping through the night

We finally managed to convince Viv that she might like it if she tried it. And lo, the heavens parted, the angels rejoiced, and I was once again able to form complete, coherent sentences. For the most part. Sort of.

#5 Cup4Cup

On Christmas Day, Steve presented me with a new gluten free flour mix, and it may have changed my life. I can now make cookies that have the texture of actual cookies! Pancakes that don't resemble sawdust! It's a Christmas miracle. (It's also $20 a bag and only sold at Williams-Sonoma and possibly made of gold and dragon tears, but still! Cookies that taste like cookies!)

#4 Vivi speaks

Viv's first official words were the requisite "Dadda" and "Mama." (Dadda when she was happy, Mama when she was sad or angry...) She has since expanded her vocabulary to include "Go!" and "Outside!" and "Go, go, GO! OUTSIDE!"

Steve and I have never been particularly outdoorsy (let's be honest - we're hermits), but we're grateful we can satiate Viv's adventurous spirit with the parks and lake near our new home. Which brings us to...

#3 Our New Home

For the first time in our marriage, we are living in an actual house instead of a "luxury apartment home" (code for "cramped, overpriced place with noisy neighbors, a leak in the wall that will never be fixed in your lifetime, and a view of the parking lot.")

After 8 years in 850 square feet, our new place feels positively palatial. It even has a garage! And more than two windows! My favorite spot in the house is the living room. Viv's, too.

#2 Viv in general

Sometimes I see me traits or Steve traits in Viv, but mostly she's her own unique little person.

I've loved every stage, but these toddler months are the best yet (and not just because I'm sleeping through the night). I love watching her discover new things and develop new abilities.

Mostly, I just feel so lucky to be her mom.

And finally . . .

#1 Family and Friends

I had a miscarriage the day before Christmas Eve. I'd had a feeling for several days that something wasn't quite right, so when everything started happening, I wasn't completely surprised. It was early in the pregnancy, but I felt a sense of loss all the same. But as I sat curled up on the couch that weekend listening to Christmas music and watching Viv gleefully throw wrapping paper around the room, I had an overwhelming feeling of peace and gratitude. I thought of my family and friends; the amazing people who I'm privileged to know and love, each with their own struggles, losses, and trials. And I thought of our Savior, who came into the world to comfort and bring peace to us all. I knew that everything would be okay, that everything was okay. And in the midst of those thoughts, I felt a gentle admonition to be better, to try harder to do good, to forgive, to uplift, and to serve. So those are my resolutions for 2012.

And I'll also try to blog a bit more, too.

Vivi's Debut

2010-06-20T09:35:00.001-07:00

Up until the day my doctor told me it wasn't advisable, I'd been planning on a natural childbirth. The stack of books on my nightstand bore witness to this resolution - I was even reading Birthing from Within, despite a) its title and b) its instruction to "ask your cervix to open like a flower of love."

But surgery became necessary for several reasons, and the procedure ended up being much more extensive and complicated than originally anticipated. Vivienne was born quickly and was perfectly healthy, but I lost a lot of blood during the two hours of surgery that followed, and the anesthesia started to wear off before they were finished. This prompted me to ask what the surgeons were doing at that moment, and I think I can safely say that "Well, they're putting your uterus back in" is a sentence I hope never to hear again in my lifetime. Especially when the anesthesia is wearing off.

But throughout the entire experience and my recovery, we have been blessed beyond measure. Skilled surgeons, the love and generosity of family and friends, the power of the priesthood, the comfort and guidance of the Spirit; we have been watched over and cared for in all the best ways. And the end result is this:

Which makes it so much more than worth it.

And Only Three

2010-02-03T21:01:00.000-08:00

I’ve recently determined that there are only three things you should say to a pregnant woman:

1. You look fantastic!

2. Would you like to sit down?

3. Here’s a cookie.

See: Difference

2010-01-06T18:27:00.001-08:00

I bought my first pair of maternity pants this weekend, and I feel like a new woman. A new woman who wears unflattering pants.

Have I told you I work in a high-rise building? I've learned through sad experience that elevator travel inevitably leads to elevator small talk. For example, today's exchange with the man standing next to me as I rode to the 20th floor:

After traveling up 10 floors in silence,

Man: "Well, it's Wednesday."

Pause

Me: "Yes. Wednesday."

And we rode up the remaining 8 floors in silence.

Speaking of work, one of my co-workers says "discrepancy" when she means "discretion." As in, "Well, I'll just leave that up to your discrepancy." I'm left wondering to which discrepancy she might be referring. It's a mystery.

Perhaps she's referring to the discrepancy between regular pants and maternity pants.

12 Weeks, 3 Days

2009-12-07T19:47:00.000-08:00

Upon returning from my fourth bathroom trip in less than an hour, I looked over to see my boss staring at me through her open doorway. She motioned me over, cocked her head to one side, and looked me up and down.

"Are you pregnant?" she asked in a mildly exasperated tone.

There was a pause as I pondered whether honesty was indeed the best policy.

"I am." I said.

"How long have you known?"

"About 12 hours."

***

Although the faint plus sign the previous evening was definitive proof, I'd had my suspicions for a little more than 12 hours. Strange things had been afoot for several days. New sensations, food aversions, the inability to spell three letter words correctly. And when a certified, bonafide, ratified night owl can't keep her eyes open past 8:30 in the eve, she figures something must be up. (Not her, though. 'Cause she's asleep.)

***

When I was about 8 weeks along, I had a little cramping which caused me some concern. (Alliteration is awesome.) So I called my OB's office, and a nurse called me back. We had a 10 minute conversation, during which I was unable to determine if the person I was speaking to was, in fact, male or female. Here what he/she said once I (calmly) explained my symptoms:

"Well, it sounds like you have an ectopic pregnancy, which could result in death if you don't go to the hospital."

"So you're saying mild cramps are the sign of an ectopic pregnancy?"

"Well, yes. And it could result in death if you don't go to the hospital. Do you understand?"

"I do. Could you possibly fit me in for an ultrasound today so I don't have to go to the hospital?"

"We don't have any room in our schedule today. So you'll need to go to the emergency room."

"I just want to make sure I'm clear on this. You're telling me I need to go to the emergency room for mild cramps?"

At this point there was a lot of sighing and putting me on hold and more sighing, which ultimately resulted in her very reluctantly agreeing to fit me in despite their "extremely busy" schedule.

***

When I showed up at the clinic an hour later, there was one person in the waiting room.

I signed in and sat down, leafing through a well-worn (and slightly sticky) parenting magazine until I heard my name being called.

"Emmelyn?"

A weary-looking nurse was standing in front of me, brandishing a vaginal ultrasound wand in her hand. In the waiting room. Perhaps she just wanted me to have an extra minute to process the upcoming procedure?

Approximately 15 minutes later, I'd seen my baby's tiny little heartbeat, cried tears of relief and awe, and was walking out through the (empty) waiting room with the precious pictures tucked safely in my purse.

***

"Steve!" I exclaimed, bursting through our apartment door. "Come and look at our baby!"

He pondered over the photos.

"Isn't it amazing?" I was still a little teary.

"Yeah. Wow."

And then,

"It kind of looks like a hamster."

***

Last night I had 1/2 a can of jumbo olives for dinner. Because that's what the hamster wanted.

A Tragedy in Three Acts

2009-02-26T18:55:00.000-08:00

ACT I:

In Which Emmie Should Have Paid More Attention At The Store

Setting: An apartment kitchen. Cluttered. Possible post-expiration date yogurt in the fridge.

Emmie, a 30-something saucy redhead, has mixed together a delicious marinade for chicken. She places the raw chicken into a ziplock bag, and carefully pours the marinade in after it.

Suddenly, chicken-contaminated marinade begins to run all over her cluttery kitchen counter. She yelps.

Emmie: Yelp!

And grabs for another bag, her hands covered in chickeny lemon mustard goop. The new bag does nothing to help. She calls for her husband.

Emmie: Stu! There are holes in both of these ziplock bags!!

The handsome and fluffy-haired Stu comes bounding in, his ever trusty Dr. Pepper in hand. He quickly helps Emmie clean up the mess. As they try to figure out something new to eat for dinner, Emmie posits:

Emmie: What are the odds of two ziplocks both having holes? (She scrutinizes the ziplock box.) Wait a minute. What the . . . ? Ziplock Double Zipper with Moisture Vents? What are moisture vents?

She pulls out another bag. Then another. Each bag is dotted with tiny holes. She shows the box to Stu.

Stu: Why would anyone think it was a good idea to market bags with holes in them?

Emmie: I don't know. I just don't know.

ACT II:

In Which Emmie Shouldn't Have Hit Snooze That Second Time

Emmie stands in her bathroom, curling her saucy red hair in haste. She woke up late (well, technically she woke up on time, but then went back to sleep). Suddenly, the red hot curling iron slips from her grasp and lands on her lily white neck before hitting the ground with a crash. Emmie yelps.

Emmie: Yelp!

And looks in the mirror to see a ridiculously large red welt appear in a spot too high up for a turtleneck to disguise.

Emmie: Drat.

ACT III:

In Which Emmie Really Should Have Known Better

Late for work, our heroine quickly grabs some ice from the freezer and throws it into a ziplock bag before racing out the door and hopping into her car. Speeding down the freeway, she holds the frozen bag to the welt on her neck. Suddenly, she senses a river of ice water pooling at her collar and running down her sweater. Emmie yelps.

Emmie: Yelp!

And looks at the plastic bag in her hand. The bag with moisture vents.

-Epilogue-

Emmie sits at her desk. She attempts to holds a new ice pack to her neck in as discreet a manner as possible, while also trying to dry her sweater with a paper towel.

Emmie's Co-Worker: What happened to you this morning??

Emmie: A curling iron. And moisture vents.

-The Curtain Falls-

Equivocalogical

2009-01-18T19:23:00.000-08:00

My hilarious, brilliant mom has just started a blog, and you really should read it. This post about my spirit medium great-great-grandmother is especially delightful.

Creepy/Cratchit/Christmas Carol

2008-12-01T18:31:00.000-08:00

Greetings, Blogging World.

I have been long absent from you, and for that, I apologize. (Unless you don't really care that I've been absent, in which case I do NOT apologize.)

I'm enjoying a rare evening at home; an evening with no rehearsal to race to or lines to memorize (Christmas Carol is currently in previews, and opens this Saturday!), so I've been pondering what I could share with you on this first eve of December. And I've decided there really is no deciding, for it's fairly obvious that I must tell you about the Creepy Prop Baby.

Early in the rehearsal process last month, it was determined that a prop baby was needed for one of the scenes. In my prior prop baby experience, I've observed that most are merely bundles of fabric formed into a baby-like shape. Either that, or they are fairly cute, innocuous looking dolls such as this one, held by a rather anemic looking Mary Fielding on the set of the Joseph Smith film:

**Photo courtesy of the famous C Jane's Chup, who loses a stick-pulling contest to Joseph Smith in the film. (It was totally rigged.)
**Doll later replaced with actual live baby.

Anyway, because of my fairly pleasant past experience with prop babies, I was in no way prepared for what appeared on the prop table several weeks ago. This particular baby, with its wispy, toupée-like hair, meaty hands, one eye slightly larger than the other, and overall unpleasant demeanor; this baby we had no other choice but to dub the Creepy Prop Baby.

Soon, Creepy Prop Baby began to have a life all his own. Sometimes, when I wasn't looking, a cast member would perch it on the edge of the prop table with its legs crossed and hands outstretched, thus frightening the next unsuspecting passerby. (Me.) Sometimes a cigarette would mysteriously appear in its mouth. Other times, it would be wearing Tiny Tim's hat. And sometimes, it would be writing with Bob Cratchit's pen:

What's that you say? You don't really think it looks all that creepy? Maybe you just have to experience it in person. Either that, or see what it looks like backstage:

Want to know what else is creepy? The Ghost of Christmas Yet-To-Come hanging from a hook on the other side of the stage.

The side view:

The puppet is worn on the shoulders of an actor, and stands over 10 feet tall. It's delightfully creepy.

Things are decidedly less creepy downstairs, where all the actors get ready for the show. For instance, here are my wigs all lined up in a row (but is that pile of hair-filled bobby pins creepy?)

And here I am as Mrs. Cratchit; a photo snapped in haste as I was running upstairs after my fourth quick costume change of the evening:

And, finally, another photo I snapped before racing to the stage after my eighth and final costume change:

Okay, so maybe it's a little creepy that I'm such a bad photographer. But not nearly as creepy as Creepy Prop Baby.

Fallish

2008-10-15T19:54:00.000-07:00

I always seem to fall ill in the fall. Almost every autumn I can remember - from the glorious October I spent walking the tree-lined streets of Montreal, wading through maple leaves as big as dinner plates, to the brisk, windy Manhattan evenings in November, to the long days in Provo where the delicious scent of wood smoke fills the air and all seems right with the world - almost all of those autumns were accompanied by sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, and a big thermos of lemon tea with honey that accompanied me to many a play rehearsal. (Did I just write the longest sentence you've ever read in your life?)

I always seemed to find myself in a play in autumn, and I almost always managed to get sick during the run of the show. That is, until I entered grad school, where I stayed miraculously sniffle-free, despite the fact that I was more stressed out and sleep-deprived than I'd ever been in my whole livin' life. I remember congratulating myself on my non-sickly state one day as I drove to school, only to be rear-ended on the freeway. That night, I showed up for the performance with whiplash, and spent the next several hours walking around the stage like an attractively costumed robot. I couldn't turn my head without moving my whole body to follow it, but I did my best to incorporate the stiffness into my performance. I thought I'd done a pretty good job of it, too, until I found out a rep from one of the local newspapers had been in the audience, and the review came out the next day with this sentence:

"Emmelyn looks totally uncomfortable on stage."

At least it was an accurate assessment.

It's been several falls now since I've been in a play. The reasons for this are various, and could perhaps make up a blog entry of their own some day, or at least a sentence longer than the one above. However, I've just been cast once more, and I'm just getting over a case of the sniffles. I'm hoping that I've stored up some sort of good karma over these last few years that I haven't been in a show; these years of soul-searching and making tough-yet-for-the-best decisions, and that the cold and flu fairy will see fit to pass me by. But if not, I'm stocking up on Lemon Zinger and honey, and thanking my lately-quite-lucky stars that I get to participate in my favorite autumn pastime; that I get to do something I love to do at any time of year, but especially in the fall.

La Vida La Jolla

2008-09-08T20:27:00.001-07:00

As some of you may know, my husband and I moved to San Diego a few weeks ago. I love San Diego. I really do. But tonight I learned that it has seriously unrealistic expectations of my fitness level.

In an attempt to get into better shape, Steve and I have been taking nightly walks. On these walks, we noticed the entrance to what looked like a lovely walking path, and tonight we decided to try it out. We'd only gone a few steps when we noticed that there were signs posted every 100 feet or so. We soon discovered that this was no ordinary walking path, but rather a “Fit-Trail.” Each Fit-Trail sign asked us to do certain fitness-related things, and, being the amiable sort of people that we are, we decided to comply. The first one was no problem:

The second request from Fit-Trail required kicking my leg a little higher than I have in a while, but I gave it my best shot:

And this is the third sign we encountered:

Nie Nie

2008-08-23T17:47:00.000-07:00

Last week, I joined with people all over the world in launching balloons for Stephanie and Christian Nielson. If you don't already know about what happened to this beautiful couple, click here.

To find out what you can do to help, visit Stephanie's sister's blog here, visit this site to see the list of amazing items being auctioned (all proceeds will be donated to the Nielson's recovery fund) or click on the "Nie Recovery" button on my sidebar.

Five Years

2008-08-13T22:17:00.001-07:00

On the morning of my wedding day, I awoke at 3am and couldn't go back to sleep. After a futile attempt to read a book (who can read a book at 3am on their wedding day?), I threw on one of the comfy robes my mom always keeps stashed in the bedroom closet, and crept downstairs. I perused the pantry, finally settling on a big bowl of Rice Chex (who eats Rice Chex at 3am on their wedding day?), and took my early breakfast with me into the living room. As I loudly munched my cereal in the otherwise silent house, my mind ran over the events that had led to the wedding which was to take place in a little over six hours.

When my good friend called me during the summer of 2002 to tell me that there was a boy I "maybe should meet", I remember saying "No, thanks." I was the busiest I'd ever been, I explained. Grad school was taking up every second of my life, I explained, and I didn't even have time to think about dating. Except that I did. In fact, I was very much in like with a boy in my program, and he with me, and what little time I had that was not filled with the drama of theatre was filled with the drama of our relationship. (One of the first bits of advice the head of our grad program gave us was to "try not to get romantically involved with your fellow classmates." Want to hazard a guess as to how many of us actually followed that advice?) But my friend persisted. In one of her emails, she wrote, "I swear I have never done this and if it turns out terribly, you can . . . yell at me or something." And so I finally told her she could give him my number. And I promised not to yell at her if it didn't work out.

The first time Steve called, we talked for over an hour. I remember thinking that I really liked his voice. He asked a lot of questions, and really seemed interested in my answers. He drove 90 miles to meet me for our first date, during which we ate Thai food, experienced a few awkward lulls in the conversation, and he got a parking ticket.

People sometimes ask me if I knew right away that Steve was THE ONE. You seem so compatible, they say. It seems like you would have known right away. But I really didn't. And neither did he. I thought he was nice, and he thought I was nice, and that was about it, for a while. And then all that stuff started to happen - all the stuff that people always told me would happen when I found the right guy. All that stuff that always annoyed me when they said it: "It will happen when you least expect it!" and "It will feel so natural and easy!" and "He'll love you for who you are!" You know. That stuff. And because it happened when I least expected it, and felt so natural and easy, and he loved me for who I was, for a while I sort of couldn't believe it was actually happening.

(My Very Serious wedding face)

I remember feeling so profoundly grateful and peaceful as I sat in my parents' living room eating Rice Chex at 3am on the day of my wedding. And as I sit on my couch eating gluten-free toast at 12:15am five years later, those grateful and peaceful feelings have increased exponentially. Five years ago, I knew I was making the right decision. Five years later, I know it was the best decision of my life.

(To celebrate our anniversary, we'll spend most of the day packing for our move on Saturday. Then we'll go to our favorite Indian restaurant for dinner. Steve loves to watch the endless stream of Bollywood music videos that play on two giant flat-screen TVs mounted above the all-you-can-eat buffet, and I love their chicken korma. Nothing says romance like bubble wrap, Bollywood, and curry, wouldn't you agree?)

Like the award

2008-08-07T18:00:00.000-07:00

When my friend and I moved to Harlem in the winter of 2001, we quickly became local curiosities. The only white girls for miles, we were often approached by women, their protective hands reaching out to clasp our arms, and always with the same concerned question:

"Honey, are you lost?"

After climbing the five flights of stairs to our apartment, we enjoyed recounting our day's adventures:

"So I could tell some guys were walking behind me, and they were kind of snickering, and then I hear 'Yo, yo, this ain't no Sweet Valley High!'"

As I made my way up the hill to our apartment one glorious New York spring evening, I passed a man standing on the corner. He smiled as I passed, flipping a waist-length dreadlock over his shoulder.

"Yo!"

I turned around.

"Yo! You the new girl in the 'hood?"

"Yup, I'm the new girl."

"I'm Tyrone. What's your name, new girl?"

"Emmie."

"Emmy? Like the award?"

"Uh huh. Like the award."

A slow, sly grin.

"Well, Emmy, you'll always be a winna ta me!"

Grinning ear to ear, he bowed slightly, his gold chains swaying.

"Thanks, Tyrone!"

Ten minutes later, I was making dinner when someone knocked at our door. As I let in my roommate's friend, I introduced myself.

"Hi, I'm Emmie, I don't think we've met."

Pause.

"Wait - you're Emmie?"

"Uh huh, why?"

Laughing, she explained:

"I stopped at that little deli across the street right before I came here, and this guy with dreads just like, burst in and yelled 'I met her! I met the white girl!' And then someone said 'What's her name?' And he said 'Emmy! Like the award!'"

The next day, a Saturday, I was slowly making my way down the hill with my laundry when I heard a shout from the building ahead.

"Hey Emmy! Yo! Emmy!"

I looked up to see a man I'd never met leaning out of a window three stories up.

"Yo! You'll always be a winna, Emmy!"

Two guys across the street joined in:

"Yeah, Emmy! You're a winner! Yo! Emmy!"

"Thanks, guys!"

As I folded my clothes later that night to the strong beat of hip-hop from the apartment below, sudden applause erupted from the street where some guys were listening to a game.

Amidst my laundry, I took a little bow. Thank you, Harlem. You'll always be a winner to me.

I Flit, I Float, I Fleetly Flee, I Fly

2008-07-31T19:03:00.001-07:00

Hi there.

Remember me?

You've probably figured this out by now, but, for various reasons, I've decided to take an Official Blogging Break (trademark pending). I'll still be lurking about the blogosphere, but this will be my last post for awhile.

Don't give up on me completely. (Unless you want to.) I'll be back!

Five Things I Have Learned Over The Past Five Weeks

2008-06-10T19:17:00.000-07:00

1. Sometimes, a real estate agent will describe an apartment as "bright and airy." When you actually see the apartment, you will realize that "bright and airy" means "has a tiny window and oxygen."

2. Sometimes you will accidentally leave your debit card at the grocery store. And you will realize what you have done only after you arrive home, and you will race back to the store with your heart pounding, hoping against hope that your card is in the possession of someone who is presently giving it to the cashier for safekeeping, and not giving it to the cashier to purchase a year's supply of frozen pizza and cigarettes. When you arrive at the store, you will ask the cashier if she has seen your card. She will eye you suspiciously, and ask for your name. You will tell her your name, and she will open a drawer and glance down at the card resting therein. After a few moments, she will say, "Okay . . . but is the card a Visa, or a Mastercard?" You will say, "Uh . . . Visa?" She will nod, and then ask to see your driver's license. She will then take the card (a Visa) out of the drawer, and slowly hand it over to you. And as you tuck the card back into your wallet, you will wonder: if you had gotten the Visa or Mastercard question wrong, would she not have given you the card? Even though your name was on it?

3. Sometimes Del Taco will come out with a new limited-time-only shake, and sometimes it will be a Neopolitan shake. You will not understand this.

4. Sometimes you will decide to ride Splash Mountain on a cool Southern California evening. You will not remember how wet one can get on Splash Mountain, so you will ask your fellow Disney-goers how wet one gets. They will say, "Oh, not very wet at all." So you will go on Splash Mountain, and then you will spend the next two hours wringing tidal waves of water from every square inch of your clothing:

(The fear you see on Steve's face is real. Not fear for himself or for me, but fear of the water making contact with his precious Blackberry.)

5. Sometimes you will spend five million years looking for the right apartment in San Diego. It will be very frustrating and time-consuming, and you will become very annoyed during the whole process, and maybe even get into an argument with your husband in front of a leasing agent. But then, just as you are about to throw in the proverbial towel (or throw it at your husband), you will find your new apartment. And this will be the view from your new patio:

Sometimes, things work out.

Migration

2008-05-03T13:56:00.001-07:00

Hi there. Remember me? The girl who was going to post often and regularly? Did I mention that I'm really bad at consistency?

It's been a wonderful, crazy few weeks. Most of my family flew to Orange County for a mini family reunion, and it was one of the most delightful weeks of my life. Nephews and nieces experiencing Disneyland for the first time, long, lazy days at the beach, lunch at Ruby's Diner on Balboa Pier (complete with dolphin sightings and obnoxiously aggressive pigeons), and just generally hanging out with some of the people I love most in the world.

We also found out that Steve was accepted to his top choice engineering program, which means we're moving to San Diego! Like, soon. Like, next month. We've been hoping and planning for this since last August, so it was a huge relief and super duper exciting to finally get the official yes from the university. Now I can finally start to make plans, as opposed to sort of making plans that were contingent upon something which may or may not happen. Making plans is always more enjoyable than sort of making plans, wouldn't you agree?

Top it all off with the fact that I now have a cold which seems to have settled quite snugly into my lungs, and it is truly the best and the worst of times.

Anyway, that's me. How are things with you?

Warm (Or How To Be In A Movie Without Really Trying)

2008-04-13T19:28:00.000-07:00

It was 98 degrees in Orange County today. 98 degrees! In April! In Orange County! Isn't that against the law or something? Whatever it is, it's unacceptable. And our air conditioner is broken. Also unacceptable. It has cooled down a bit since the sun set, but not enough. Not enough! And I should be making my hungry husband some dinner, but I can't bring myself to turn on the oven, because the oven raises the temperature in the apartment by at least 10 degrees. What can I make for him that doesn't require the use of the oven? We are out of microwavable food, except for my organic dairy-free, gluten-free tofu enchiladas, and somehow I don't think he'll go for those. Steve doesn't believe in eating anything organic. Nor anything containing tofu. Maybe I could make him a peanut butter sandwich with a granola bar on the side? A bowl of yogurt and some raw broccoli? A loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of butter? Hmmm. Perhaps I'll eat a popsicle while I mull over the options.

P.S. There is nothing exciting going on in my life right now. Just in case you were wondering.*

*Actually, now that I think about it, there is something me-related going on right now that is interesting (at least, interesting to me). I've received several reports that I'm in the new Emma Smith film that is playing in movie theaters throughout Utah. I was surprised by these reports, as I'd never actually filmed anything for the movie. Inside sources tell me that the director used footage from the Joseph Smith film (including scenes that were left out of that film). So, I'm in a movie without even trying to be. I have many friends in it, terrific actors all, and I'm looking forward to seeing it. Alas, I'll have to wait until it comes to CA or is released on DVD. In the meantime, if you happen to catch the film, let me know what you think of it!

Music and a Chocolate Car. Also, Shoes.

2008-03-26T20:17:00.000-07:00

Can you spot me in this picture?

I’m one of the tiny little dots on the left, holding a teensy dot of a violin. I joined this orchestra a few months ago, and we played an Easter concert last week in glorious Segerstrom Hall at the Orange County Performing Arts Center. (That was a lot of capitalization for one sentence.) Words can't express how much I love being in an orchestra again.

However, words can express how much I enjoyed eating at Wahoo's Fish Taco during the dinner break between the dress rehearsal and performance. Across the street from the concert hall is a gigantic, upscale mall, and I decided to walk over to grab some dinner and do a little Easter basket shopping. (I ended up buying Steve a chocolate car. Two of his favorite things combined!) I spent an enjoyable half hour eating an embarrassingly large plate of rice and beans at a table outside, basking in the early evening sun and flirting with a very cute boy at the next table. (He was 18 months old. What can I say - I have a thing for younger men.)

After the food and flirtation, I discovered and purchased the chocolate car, and then went in search of the ladies room where I could wash the caramel residue from my fingers. (I ate the free sample they gave me at the candy store. Was this in keeping with my anti-inflammation diet? No. Do I care? No.)

As I was washing my hands, I became aware of a woman standing very quietly in the corner next to the door. She was staring intently at the bottom of the handicapped stall at the opposite end of the bathroom. I looked over at the stall, and could see nothing out of the ordinary. I looked back at her, and she just kept staring. Puzzled, I dried my hands, and she stared. As I reached the door to exit the bathroom, I glanced back once more to see if I could identify the reason for her staring, and her hand suddenly shot out and grabbed my arm. I stopped, startled, and she raised her finger to her lips to shush me. Then, pointing to the handicapped stall, she whispered:

"No shoes."

I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly.

"What?" I whispered back.

She put her finger to her lips again, and whispered with greater urgency:

"No shoes. NO. SHOES."

"Hmmmm." I said.

I stood there with her for about 30 seconds, her hand on my arm, both of us staring in silence at the handicapped stall. Finally, not knowing what else I could contribute to the conversation, I gently pulled my arm from her grasp, and exited the bathroom.

I was barely out the door when I heard a voice behind me.

"Sorry if I freaked you out."

I turned around. She came closer. In hushed tones, she said:

"It's just that - I think there is someone in that stall."

"Okay."

"But I couldn't see their FEET."

"Right."

"And I've been surprised in a bathroom before."

"Oh."

"So you should be careful."

"I will be."

"Always check for shoes."

"I'll do that. Thanks."

We both nodded solemnly at each other, and I departed, heading back to the candy store.

I decided it was time for another free sample.

When You Wish Upon A Star

2008-03-17T07:00:00.000-07:00

Last Friday night, Steve and I, armed with the yearly passes Steve's dad won in a raffle and subsequently gave to us out of the goodness of his heart, decided to brave Disneyland.

We might never do that again.

Oh, the humanity. Disneyland was packed tighter than the LA freeway at rush hour. In addition to the five billion teenagers roaming the park with their hormones a-blazin' (we always seem to get stuck in line behind two sixteen-year-olds who can't keep their hands off each other), there were a ridiculous amount of children being dragged around by their parents.

Dear Parents Who Keep Their Young Children at Disneyland Past 9:00pm,

Please stop yelling at your crying three-year-old. Of COURSE he is crying. He is exhausted. Take your poor kid home. Or I am going to start yelling at YOU.

Anyway, after shoving our way through the teeming masses to get to the Haunted Mansion, we decided to venture over to California Adventure, wishing upon a star that it would be less crowded there. Our wish was granted, and we were able to enjoy a few rides, including:

The Tower of Terror. Have you gone on this ride? It basically takes you to the top of a very tall building, and drops you. And then drops you again. And again. I love it. After the ride, Steve took his customary picture of the picture they take of you during the ride. Why purchase the pic when your husband can take a picture of it with his trusty Blackberry?

Can you spot us? I'm back row center, and Steve's face is pretty much obscured by an enthusiastic hand. Everyone looks like they're having a good time except for that woman clinging to her husband on the front right. (She was screaming before the ride even started.)

Next, we rode the roller coaster. I think it might be my favorite ride in the whole park. We always wait a few extra minutes so we can ride in the very front. It was pretty windy that night, as you can tell from my facial expression:

I like how the guy behind Steve is so blasé about the whole thing.

After California Adventure closed, we decided to head back into Disneyland to see if it had cleared out a bit. It hadn't, but I opted to stand in line for Autopia anyway because I have nephews visiting next month, and wanted to send them pictures of the cool cars they'll be able to drive when we all go to Disneyland together. As we drove around the track, Steve made some valiant photo attempts:

Look, nephews! When you come to Disneyland, it will be dark! And your aunt will have glowing red eyes! And you can do something vague and indistinguishable!

Having breathed in diesel fumes while clutching a sticky steering wheel (why was it sticky??), we decided to call it a night. On our way out of the park, Steve stopped at one of his favorite places:

He's trying not to eat sweets around me because of my present food restrictions, so he didn't get his usual giant ice cream cone filled with mint chocolate chip. I told him he should, but he valiantly refused. Obviously, as you can tell from the photo, the sacrifice was not a big deal at all.

On the way back to the car, we walked hand in hand through Downtown Disney, and stopped to watch a man who was playing the electric violin. He was dressed all in black, and had swoopy hair, and he was going to town on his interpretation of Music of the Night. I have never heard so many flourishes, unnecessary scales, and key changes in one piece of music. We tried to wait out the piece so that I could ask him about the instrument (I've never seen a real live electric violin), but Music of the Night turned into Think of Me, which turned into a version of All I Ask of You that was swoopier than his hair, and we couldn't really take it anymore, so we decided that I could ask Google about the electric violin when we got home, and we left the man to his schmaltziness.

All in all, and despite the teeming masses, it was an enjoyable Friday night, and I told my young women at church about it yesterday. When I got to the part about the swoopy violinist, the YW President said:

"I was in Downtown Disney with my dad on Friday night, and he bought that guy's CD! He loves that kind of stuff!"

I thought back to the song Jiminy Cricket was singing as we left the park that night. And I realized he was right: Anything your heart desires really will come to you.

Deprivation Dedication

2008-03-10T21:25:00.001-07:00

Would you like to hear about the anti-inflammation diet I started a week ago? I'm sure it will be FASCINATING to all of you, and you'd like pages and pages of details, but just in case you don't have a lot of time to read right now, I'll sum it up:

No wheat, oats, dairy, sugar, red meat, potatoes, or tomatoes.

Sounds like fun, doesn't it? Thankfully, I already have the no wheat part down. You should try my gluten-free brownies with fresh whipped cream! Oh, wait. I can't have dairy. Or sugar. But don't you worry about me! While you're trying my gluten-free brownies with fresh whipped cream, I'll just be over here enjoying a nice big bowl of brown rice topped with . . . rice. And lettuce. And celery.

Actually, all self-deprivation aside, I'm really excited about the results I'm seeing after only 7 days. I'm doing this to help my gimpy knee be less gimpy, and it's really working. So I'm committed to it. I am steadfast and immovable.

But tonight, after I made my husband a sun-dried tomato alfredo sauce with basil and pine nuts, and he poured it over his big bowl of penne pasta and sprinkled the whole thing with freshly grated parmesan cheese, I must admit that I shed a few gluten-free, sugar-free, dairy-free, red meat-free, potato-free, tomato-free tears.

Complete

2008-03-04T21:18:00.000-08:00

There is a woman in my ward who speaks fluent French. This makes sense, seeing as she’s from France and everything. However, she also speaks fluent German, which makes her a delightful Germanic conversation partner for my husband. (This makes sense, seeing as he served his mission in Germany and everything.) I enjoy listening to their foreign exchanges, and Steve enjoys the opportunity to practice a language he loves. And then she turns to me with a smile, and begins speaking French. And I feel a sense of panic. I smile and nod, understanding everything she says (well, almost everything), but I am hesitant to speak more than a few words. What will she think of my grammar? Which past tense should I use? How can I tell her that her skirt is cute if I can’t even remember the word for “skirt?”

And so I chicken out. I exchange only a few French sentences with her before reverting to my native tongue. She is very sweet about it; insisting my accent is “très bon” and attempting several times to encourage me to return to speaking Français. But I am too worried about sounding foolish; too worried about making a mistake. Eventually she gives up, and smiles a little reproachfully at me as she bids me adieu.

I think my perfectionism has served me well in many ways throughout my life. I’ve had many amazing experiences that most likely wouldn’t have occurred if I hadn’t held myself to a high standard; if I hadn’t demanded the very best of myself. But in situations such as speaking French with a native Francophone in a church foyer, my perfectionism is nothing but a hindrance. It keeps me from learning. It keeps me from progressing. And in that foyer, it kept me from interacting with someone in a meaningful way.

Over the past few years, it’s become apparent to me that my perfectionistic tendencies can be as much of a weakness as they are a strength. And wouldn’t you know it, situations have arisen that have forced me to directly confront the negative aspects of that personality trait. Some of these situations I’ve touched on in blogs past (my knee surgery, theatre auditions), and some are a little too personal (and lengthy) to discuss at present. But one that springs immediately to mind is my calling as substitute ward organist. I was given this calling a few months ago, despite the fact that I had never actually played the organ. Suffice it to say, I have made a lot of very loud mistakes, and once played a chord progression that was rather reminiscent of the opening strains of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” And so I sit at the organ, my face turning red, but when I turn to the congregation I find that the ward members are smiling up at me with only encouragement in their faces. I am learning, I am progressing. And, wouldn’t you know it, something I’m not very good at is turning out to be very good for me.

I don't think I'll ever be able to completely rid myself of perfectionism, and I don't think I should, necessarily. But I'm slowly learning to redefine my expectations, to be kinder to myself, and to stop letting it get in the way of my progression and growth. In the New Testament, we are commanded by Christ to be perfect. However, the Greek translation of that “perfect” is “complete, finished, fully developed.” I love that translation. It’s inspiring to me, and it brings me peace. Because, when it really comes down to it, I don’t even know how to begin to be perfect. And what is “perfect” anyway? (It's exhausting even to think about it.) But I think I can find great joy in striving to be “complete.”

Metaphors (Mixed Up)

2008-02-26T19:10:00.001-08:00

Today, at work, I spent far too much time on the phone with an extremely frustrating salesperson. The kind of salesperson who doesn't listen to you, who assumes they know what you're talking about (they don't), who is impatient (very) and snippy (extremely), and who can't spell your name correctly, even though you repeat the spelling several times (5, to be exact). After the 5th spelling of my name (by me), and the subsequent misspelling (by her), I had to work very hard to suppress the small scream that threatened to escape my lips. When the phone call finally (mercifully) ended, my co-worker (who had overheard the conversation), said:

"Wow, that sounded painful."

To which I replied:

"Yeah. She wasn't the shiniest knife in the drawer."

Then, breathing a huge sigh, I went back to my work. Until the voice of my co-worker broke my concentration:

"Uh, I think it's sharpest knife in the drawer."

"Wait - what?"

"Sharpest knife."

"What did I say?"

"You said shiniest."

"I did?"

"Yeah."

"Shiniest?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

I guess I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer, either.

(Or the shiniest.)

My Pal Jub

2008-02-13T21:51:00.000-08:00

My sister's 3-year-old son (with the nickname of Jub) is a very special friend of mine. Many is the hour we have spent together reading stories, singing songs, constructing block towers, and discussing the intricacies of sharks, dinosaurs, airplanes, and Bob the Builder. Unfortunately, he and his mom live several states away, and that distance often makes my heart hurt. To mitigate my heart pain, Jub and I often talk on the phone. He is a skilled conversationalist, and we typically have lengthy conversations covering a variety of topics. Unless, of course, he hasn't been very nice to his little sister that day. On those days, our conversation goes like this:

"Hi Jub! How are you?"

"I'm doing great, Emmie!"

"Are you being nice to your little sister?"

"Buh-BYE Emmie!"

It's always best to end a conversation quickly when an uncomfortable subject is brought up, don't you think?

Lately, my work schedule (combined with the difference in time zones) has prevented me from talking to Jub as often as my heart demands. Because of this, my sister fills me in on her conversations with him during the day, including this recent dinnertime exchange:

Jub: Momma! I want some dinner!

Sis: How do we ask for things?

Jub: Um, Can I have some dinner?

Sis: And . . .

Pause

Jub: Your Majesty?

Last Saturday, my conversation with Jub started in the usual fashion - he said he was doing great, asked if I was in California, and told me that he lives VERY far away. I then asked if he'd like to sing his favorite song ("How Much is that Doggy in the Window" - with the Jub-requested lyric change to "How Much is that Donkey in the Window"). This question is usually met with a positive response, but this time he said:

"No, I don't want to sing it. Can I talk to Uncle Stuvey?"

Steve is also a special friend of Jub's, so even though I was a little disappointed that Jub didn't want to sing about donkeys with me, I willingly handed the phone over to my husband, and listened to his end of the conversation:

Hi, Jub! How are you?

Oh, good. I'm glad to hear you're doing great.

Where's my car? It's out in the parking lot.

Well, I'm not driving it because I'm working right now.

Yes, it's a very fast car.

Yes, it's very fast.

It's a silver car.

Yes, I like my car very much.

Yes, it's a super fast car!

Yes, it goes VERY fast.

What's that? Do I like to wrestle?

The conversation continued in this manner for some time, until:

Do you want to talk to Emmie now?

No?

What's that? Yes, my car is a VERY fast car.

As they continued their car conversation, I suddenly realized something: My little Jub, my sweet little nephew who has always asked me to cuddle on the couch with him and sing him songs about Thumbelina and the Little White Duck, had officially turned into a BOY.

When this realization struck, my heart hurt just a bit. I wondered how much longer I had before he no longer wanted me to sing to him and cuddle him. I wondered if our bond would be as strong when he discovered I'm not very good at wrestling. (Or any kind of sport at all.) But then I took a deep breath, and decided that my heart would be okay. After all, I like boys. (I'm married to one, you know.)

And the next time he asked, I would be prepared. Jub doesn't know it yet, but my car can go VERY fast, too.

2008-02-10T21:59:00.000-08:00

Hello Friends,

I've decided to leave the previous post up for a few more days, just in case anyone else wants to share a dating horror story. Look for a new post from me on Wednesday, or thereabouts. In the meantime, and on a completely unrelated note, if you haven't seen this short video, I think you really should.

Making the Best of It

2008-02-03T22:49:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make. Today, when I should have been paying attention to the lesson in Sunday School, I was thinking instead of awkward first dates.

The impetus for my non-religious thoughts came from a brief conversation I'd had with Steve the night before while I was watching part of a reality show that chronicled a first date. I was really rooting for the couple; maybe they would find true love! But, alas, the date did NOT go well. There were long, uncomfortable pauses, jokes that fell flat, jokes that were misunderstood, more long pauses, an attempt to be impressive by speaking in a foreign language, and I was cringing at the painfulness of it all when Steve sat down beside me and asked why I was making faces at the TV.

"It's so painful!" I exclaimed, explaining what I was watching.

Then I rewound the date (I heart TiVo) so Steve could watch it from the beginning. We sat and cringed together until the commercial break, and then Steve said:

"You know, there are plenty of good reasons not to engage in polygamy, but having to go on awkward first dates again is foremost among them."

A good point.

So today I found myself thinking of the awkward first dates in my past. There was the guy whose mom called him on his cell in the middle of the date to ask how it was going. There was the guy who wore so much cologne that I was so completely nauseous by the time we arrived at the restaurant that I couldn't focus on anything he said the entire evening because I was putting all my effort into breathing through my mouth so that I wouldn't keel over from the fumes. And there was the guy who invited me to a party at his place, but all the other people he invited didn't show up (mysterious!), and so he had to "make the best of it" and have a candlelight dinner for just the two of us, followed by repeated offers of a backrub.

And then I started thinking of my blogger friends, and how much I would enjoy it if they shared their awkward dating stories, so that we could all cringe together.

Won't you please share?

Dusty Dreams

2008-01-27T21:49:00.000-08:00

"What would you think about living in Southern France?" My husband asks one Saturday afternoon.

"Sounds great!" I reply, barely glancing up from my book.

I am not at all surprised by his question. At least once a month, Steve asks how I would feel about living in some far away, non-English-speaking place. If we were being stereotypical, you'd think that I would be the one asking these day-dreamy questions, seeing as I'm the artsy type, and Steve is all logical and computery and stuff. But Steve is nothing if not non-stereotypical (what?), and when it comes to dreaming, Steve is quite industrious. Case in point: upon waking one morning, Steve told me he'd dreamt in great detail of building an airplane and flying it around the world. It was a thrilling dream, he said, and seemed to go on forever.

"And what did you dream about, Em?"

"Uh, I dreamt that I made you a steak for dinner. With potatoes."

So when Steve asked me yesterday how I'd feel about living in the Mojave desert, I automatically responded:

"Sure!"

And then, after a few moments of reflection,

"What did you say?"

"The Mojave desert! There's a company there I want to work for - it would be my dream job!"

"Are you serious?"

"Actually, I am."

"Don't they have offices somewhere else, too? Like maybe . . . Venice?"

"Nope. Just Mojave. We could get an awesome house there for super cheap."

"So I'd have more rooms in which to silently weep. And decorate with cacti."

Then he told me more about the company. It was pretty nifty, I had to admit.

"Not only could we get a huge, cheap house, but they give their employees every other Friday off!"

"Great! More free time to frolic about in the DESERT."

This dream was quickly becoming a realistic nightmare.

"Oh - And they also say that it's a real plus for job applicants if they've built their own plane."

"I see. Well, you should probably get right on that then."

And back to dreaming he went.

Totally

2008-01-20T16:44:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, as I was standing in line at a cafe during my lunch hour, I overheard the following exchange between the two women wearing tight business suits and spike heels who were standing in front of me:

Woman 1: I think it just made him feel totally emasticated, you know?

Woman 2: Yeah. Totally.

A Snider Friend

2008-01-15T22:11:00.000-08:00

I was wondering why my statcounter registered a gazillion hits today until I noticed that many of my blog's visitors were linking from the venerable Eric D. Snider's website. Eric and I have a unique and special relationship, for I believe I am the only person who has ever made him walk at least 40 more New York City blocks than he had to, all because I thought a restaurant was somewhere where it wasn't. Not only did Eric forgive me for making him walk those 40 unnecessary blocks (at least, I think he did), but his website has provided me with countless hours of entertainment, especially during interminable temp jobs where the only things standing between me and a slow death from boredom were his Snide Remarks and theater review archives.

So Eric, I salute you, and I'm truly flattered to be mentioned on your blog. And if you have a statcounter/tracker thingy, and ever wonder who in the world is browsing your really old theater reviews and angry letters, well, now you know that you are keeping that person from throwing herself out the window of her latest temp job, as well as keeping her from getting any actual work done. And I hope that makes you proud.

Ever your fan,

Emmie

Mahalo for your Kokua

2008-01-13T19:15:00.000-08:00

Have you ever been off-roading in a jeep on the isle of Kauai? I haven't, because I'm too much of a wimp. However, my husband, brothers-in-law, and sister-in-law are very much not wimps, and they now have fond memories of:

bouncing along this trail:

this incredible view:

And changing this blown-out tire:

(By all accounts, the tire was changed in a very professional, timely, and orderly manner.)

Although I was not brave enough to participate in the off-roading adventure, I did participate in many delightful activities, such as:

Making a trip to sample what is reputed to be the best shave ice on the island (it was quite delicious):

(Please take a moment to appreciate Steve's Giant Hawaii Hair™)

Reading lots of books while enjoying the view from our condo:

Watching amazing sunsets:

Dinner at Roy's (one of the best meals I've EVER had):

(That gleam in my eye is from contemplating filet mignon with truffle and leek sauce)

A muddy and very fun hike to see a beautiful river and waterfall:

Snorkeling in the clear water and saying hello to the brightly-colored friendly fish:

(Photo courtesy of my bro and sis-in-law's super cool underwater camera)

And playing on the beach with my adorable nieces (I was having too much fun to take pictures).

This trip was a perfect way to start 2008 - a year in which I hope to accomplish many things (so many, in fact, that it makes me tired just thinking about it)(but in an excited kind of way).

One of my New Year's resolutions is to post a new blog entry every Sunday night. Stay tuned to find out how amazingly consistent I can be! (Or not.)

Flibbity Flu (and Happy New Year To You)

2007-12-29T14:47:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends,

How was your Christmas? Ours was fantastic, until we came down with the flu. Last night, my husband - who is NEVER cold (and often wants to crank up the air conditioner when I'm already wearing multiple sweaters) - put on a turtleneck, fleece sweatpants, thick socks, and a winter coat, wrapped himself in a huge down comforter, and lay shivering on the couch. Periodically, I would hear a weak, muffled word coming from the couch mound:

"Warm . . . Warm . . ."

When we both realized last night that we'd had nothing to eat for 12 hours, the only thing that sounded remotely appealing to either of us was french fries. (Do I have to tell you that french fries turned out to be a bad idea?) So we dragged ourselves to the car, and drove to Del Taco at midnight. Steve managed to look presentable, but I, for the record, was wearing:

Pink pajama pants (with a snowflake pattern)
An old grey thermal underwear top
An old black coat
A huge, multi-colored scarf my friend made for me 6 years ago
Blue sneakers
No makeup
Glasses

Would it surprise you to hear that I was not the most strangely dressed person at Del Taco at midnight? And that Steve ordered a strawberry shake?

Anyway, in less than 24 hours we have to board a plane for a five-hour flight. Here's a little quiz for you:

Which is worse:

A. Chills, fever and headache on a 5-hour flight
B. Intestinal distress on a 5-hour flight
C. Both A and B
D. A poke in the eye with a sharp stick
E. D could never happen, because they don't allow sharp sticks on planes

I'm sure we'll survive (somehow), but it might not be pretty. However, at the end of the flight, we'll be in Hawaii, so the outcome will be great, even if the journey is not.

Anyway, I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas, and I promise to post more frequent blog entries in 2008! (But should I? Have you come to rely on my unreliableness? Do you find my flakiness to be quirky and somewhat endearing?)(Never mind - don't answer that.)

Happy New Year!

~Emmie

Shiny and Fine

2007-12-03T20:44:00.000-08:00

Several days ago, the following conversation occurred at my current place of employment:

Female Co-Worker: (Passing by my desk) Your hair is so pretty.

Me: Thanks!

FCW: It's such a pretty color.

Me: Thank you.

FCW: Is that your natural color?

Me: I wish!

FCW: It's not natural?

Me: Nope.

FCW: It looks really natural.

Me: Thanks!

FCW: It's really pretty.

Me: Thanks.

-Several hours later-

FCW: (Passing by my desk again) Your hair is just so pretty.

Me: Thank you.

FCW: It's so shiny.

Me: Oh, thanks.

FCW: Can I touch it?

Me: . . . I'm sorry?

FCW: Can I touch your hair?

Me: Um . . . sure . . .

FCW: (Stroking my hair) Wow, it's really soft.

Me: . . . . .

FCW: (Still stroking) It's very healthy.

Me: I take vitamins . . .

FCW: (Squeezing a handful of hair) Wow, it's not nearly as thick as it looks.

Me: . . . . Oh, yeah, well, my hair's actually pretty fine . . .

FCW: (A look of horror crossing her face) Oh, I didn't mean, I mean, I just meant that your hair looks thicker than it is . . . I didn't mean, I mean it's just so pretty!

Me: No, don't worry about it, I know what you meant . . .

FCW: I mean, feel my hair! MY hair is fine!

Me: No, that's really okay, I . . .

FCW: No, feel my hair! It's so thin!!

Me: (Gingerly touching her hair) No, your hair is . . . nice . . .

FCW: No, it's SO fine.

Me: . . . .

FCW: I'm so sorry I said that. That's not what I meant at all.

Me: Not a problem.

FCW: I just think your hair is really pretty.

Me: No, I know. Thank you.

FCW: Okay, well I guess I better get back to work.

Me: Okay then.

FCW: Okay. 'Bye.

Me: 'Bye.

The Blushing Brit

2007-11-25T17:57:00.000-08:00

As promised . . .

The Truth

2007-11-20T20:44:00.001-08:00

Thanks for all the guesses on my previous post! It was really fun to read your rationales. And now, the answers (drumroll, please):

1. Until I was 10, I thought "faucet" was spelled "flaucet." TRUE. And I have absolutely no explanation for it. How embarrassing for me.

2. I won't eat anything that's been touched by a banana. Boring, and TRUE. I really, really hate bananas. (Boring.)

3. I have never played a character younger than age 18. FALSE. This was true until grad school, where I played a 16-year-old British schoolgirl. In roller skates! It was fun, and about darn time. Then I went back to playing 45-year-olds.

4. I was 18 when I had my first (off-stage) kiss. TRUE. (Confidential to RebRob: there were no high school secrets that I did not disclose to you! The kiss happened after we graduated. It was December of my freshman year at BYU.) There was mistletoe involved. It was very brief, but very sweet.

Thanks for playing, friends! I am out of town for Thanksgiving, but when I get back I will post a picture of myself as the British schoolgirl. I wore A LOT of blush. Just to warn you.

Hope everyone has a very Happy Turkey Day!

Truths and Lie

2007-11-11T15:27:00.000-08:00

My friend Annette tagged me for the following meme:

Below are 3 true statements about me, and one false. Guess which is false (if you like), and I'll post the answer in a few days.

1. Until I was 10, I thought "faucet" was spelled "flaucet."

2. I won't eat anything that's been touched by a banana.

3. I have never played a character younger than age 18 (even though I started acting when I was 10).

4. I was 18 when I had my first (off-stage) kiss.

That Was Halloween

2007-11-04T22:33:00.000-08:00

Steve and I threw a little Halloween party at our apartment last Wednesday. Even though we invited only 4 guests, I still took an entire day to prepare for it. (I'm kind of an overachiever.) (Also, I'm kind of crazy.)

On the menu: Cream of Broccoli and Chicken Tortilla soup (two separate soups, not one combined soup), homemade caramel (into which we dipped green apple slices), and this chocolate cake (with Mint Milano headstones):

And, although I'm not really one for fake blood and the other, grosser elements of Halloween, I decided that I couldn't resist making this cream cheese and salsa appetizer:

Isn't it gross? The fingernails are slivered almonds. My guests were actually kind of put off by it (I think it was the fingernails), but it was truly quite delicious.

Other activities included eating lots of tootsie rolls and mini peppermint patties (we didn't have a single trick-or-treater, so somebody had to eat all the candy I bought), and watching The Corpse Bride.

It was a really fun party, if I do say so myself. (And I do.)

And if you lived nearby, I totally would have invited you. (Would you have eaten the cream cheese hand?)

The Dangers of the Delicious Cake

2007-10-28T22:33:00.000-07:00

Recently, I had an email correspondence with my friend Blondie. At some point during our message exchange, one of us must have mentioned something about cake, because I received this from her yesterday:

"You know how gmail gives you links on the right side of the page that correspond with the content of the email?

Well, after the last one you sent me, the question 'Like Cake?' showed up on the side of the screen. I admit my interest was captured (who doesn't like cake!) and I clicked on it. The website contained a link that would send you to a quiz to determine if you were a 'fatty', as well as the following extremely informative paragraphs:

Cake! It's good in all it's varieties. It's not good for you and it's likely to make you fat, but darn, Cake is so good! Some of the best flavors of Cake are chocolate, strawberry, caramel and angel food cake.

Cakes are good for all occasions, including birthday Cake, wedding Cake, baby shower Cake and many other Cake events.

There are several different types of Cake too. Angel food Cake, bundt Cake, flour Cake, cupcakes, ice cream Cake, pound Cake and so many other Cake types.

So, if you choose to eat Cake on a regular basis you will likely be a fat Cake eater. Be warned of the dangers of the delicious Cake! Found out if Cake is making you fat.

Are You Fat?"

As Blondie so aptly put it:

Um . . . what?

Smoky (and Cookie)

2007-10-23T20:44:00.000-07:00

Well, as you've probably heard by now, California is on fire. I, personally, am not on fire, and it's looking like the flames will steer quite clear of us. However, ash is falling from the sky, the air is smoke-filled and eye-stinging, and everything smells like a campfire (including me, after walking from my car to the apartment). As a local friend of mine put it: "I feel like I've been eating toast all day." We are counting our blessings, though, and praying for the people who've had to evacuate, and for the firefighters.

In other news, I'm temping this week. I'm subbing for a woman named Cookie. It's on her business cards and everything! Cookie is on vacation. Yesterday, I answered the phone, and a woman asked to speak with someone in the office. I asked who was calling, and she replied, "Cookie!" So I said, "Oh, hi, Cookie. I'm sitting at your desk." And she said, "Okay, great!" Then I paged the call recipient, and told her Cookie was holding for her. A few minutes later, the woman who had answered the call came to my desk. She said, "You really need to ask for last names. When you said 'Cookie' was on the line, I assumed you meant the Cookie who works in the office, so I started talking to her like she was that Cookie. But she wasn't that Cookie. She was a different Cookie."

Questions:

1. If she wasn't that Cookie, then why, when I told her I was sitting at her desk, did she reply, "Okay, great!"

2. What are the odds?

Let me know if you come up with any answers. In the meantime, I'll be hoping for rain. And avoiding toast.

Boris

2007-10-11T23:14:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking for a while now that I'd love to have some kind of exercise machine in my apartment. Although it wouldn't really go with the decor (it's unfortunate that IKEA doesn't manufacture treadmills), I would feel ever so much more productive if I could, say, go for a walk whilst watching AMC's Mad Men. I do love to multi-task. (And I do love Mad Men.) And I've really come to dislike my gym: it's kind of smelly and dimly lit, and it's full of creepy old men (in speedos).

Because our budget can't quite stretch to afford a brand spankin' new piece of exercise equipment, I turned to my good friend Craigslist. (Have you met Craigslist? If you haven't, you really should.) Within minutes, I'd found a stationary recumbent bike (perfect for my gimpy knee) for $99. Amazing! I emailed the seller right away, asking if the bike was still available, several questions about its condition, and when I could come take a look at it. About an hour later, I received a response. The response was as follows:

Yes.

Best regards,

Boris

Now, I really do appreciate best regards, and it was very nice of Boris to email them to me. But I did ask him several questions, and, try as I might, I can't quite make "yes" the answer to any of them. Plus, I have a mild fear of people named Boris. I'm afraid that, assuming I'm able to find out where he lives, I will be met at the door by a large, burly man who will shout at me in Russian. Either that, or he will have bolts coming out of either side of his neck. I am seriously Boris phobic! And, while I'm sure that there are some perfectly nice, neck-boltless men named Boris out there, that is really of little help to me when I receive a monosyllabic response to detailed questionings. Do you see what I'm saying?

Although he did send me his best regards . . .

Ripped From The Headlines

2007-09-22T00:28:00.000-07:00

As I was settling into my seat on a JetBlue flight a few weeks ago, I noticed the man sitting in front of me pull a stack of newspapers from a bag, and set the stack on his lap. I found the size of the stack rather intriguing, as he appeared to be preparing to read somewhere in the vicinity of 25 to 50 newspapers during the flight. Seriously, the stack was huge. Not long after takeoff, he opened the first paper. A few minutes later, a ripping sound caused me to look up from the True Crime program I was enjoying (LOVE the JetBlue personal televisions). The newspaper man was slowly and methodically tearing the center page from his newspaper. I watched as he finished the ripping, and as he (equally slowly and methodically) folded the separated page, and carefully placed it under his seat. Then he picked up the next newspaper in his stack, and I went back to True Crime. Two minutes later, I heard ripping again, and sure enough, Newspaper Man was doing the same thing to his second newspaper. This piece, too, he lovingly folded, and placed under his seat. As he picked up the third newspaper, he totally had my attention. Forget True Crime! This was much more fascinating. This third paper met the same fate as the first. By the sixth paper, I began to feel a little annoyance in addition to my curiosity. I mean, the ripping wasn't bothering me enough that I felt I could justifiably say something, but I did want to lead forward and ask:

"Big paper maché project coming up?"

I looked at the people in the aisle across from me to see if they were equally riveted. The lady in the aisle seat caught my eye, shook her head, shrugged, and went back to watching Dr. Phil. The man next to me was asleep. I couldn't see how Newspaper Man's seat mates were responding, so I got up and pretended to get something out of my bag in the overhead bin, which afforded me a nice view of Newspaper Row. Alas, there was nothing telling in either seat mate's facial expression. From the chatting that happened before the newspapers came out, I'd gathered they were all related to each other, so perhaps the ripping and folding was nothing new? An endearing quirk? Some kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder? A way to keep his hands busy so he wouldn't be tempted to strangle someone? (I think the True Crime was getting to me.)

The methodical ripping, folding and stowing lasted the entire flight, with the exception of a slight reprieve while he drank his apple juice. He took the folded pages with him when he left, placing them carefully in a bag while he chatted with his wife (?) and her sister (?) (In conversation, he seemed perfectly normal.) Just as I had decided to ask him about the newspapers, someone asked me to help get their bag from the overhead bin, and by the time I'd extracted it, Newspaper Man was gone. And I am left wondering . . . What exactly does one do with 25 to 50 perfectly folded pieces of newspaper?

Understanding Steve

2007-08-31T22:22:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, I really don't understand my husband.

Last night, for instance, I listened to his end of a phone conversation with his brother. Said brother had called to ask for help with computer problems. This is a regular occurrence in Steve's life, as everyone he knows calls him for help with computer problems. Last night he told his brother to click on a link to download a program he wrote that will allow him to see his brother's computer screen, and take control of the mouse. Then he talked about command line compressors and said things like "Dude, I haven't used REM since I was 13" and "The next step is the SSH, dawg" and a bunch of other stuff that I had no understanding of whatsoever. (Except for "dude" and "dawg" - those are regular nouns in his tech support vocabulary.)

Though I often don't understand what he's talking about, I think the Powers-That-Be knew that I, who wept over my high school geometry homework, needed to marry a self-described computer and math geek. It's that whole "one spouse's strengths complement the other spouse's weaknesses" thing. (You know that thing?) It's so true in our case! Steve helps me with installing software on my laptop and adding up monthly expenses, and I help him with his ability to perform believable Shakespearean monologues. (He's really improving.)

For all that I don't understand about him, there's a lot that I do. I completely understand his adoration of classical music (he has an amazing collection), and his love of documentaries, Woody Allen films, The Sopranos, Cops, and really bad made-for-tv movies on the Lifetime channel. I also totally get his fondness for cute things, be they kittens, bunnies, baby nieces and nephews, puppies, or Anne Hathaway.

The thing that I understand best, however, is that he's the most wonderful husband an Emmie could ever ask for, and I wanted to publicly tell him so as we embark upon our 5th year of marriage.

So Steve, if you're reading this: Happy Anniversary! I love you. Oh, and I think there's something wrong with my computer . . .

Disco!

2007-08-27T22:16:00.001-07:00

My sister-in-law sent me an email tonight that contained something surprising: a video of me dressed in a Carmen Miranda outfit, doing a sassy flamenco dance. Thing is, I've never worn a Carmen Miranda outfit, and I've never danced the flamenco.

Once I found out how she made the impossible possible, I decided that Steve and I should disco.

Steve's a natural.

Ahead at 5

2007-08-25T19:51:00.000-07:00

Have you ever taken a picture of something that's on TV? I hadn't until yesterday, but thanks to my trusty TiVo I was able to pause this news ad and snap a shot:

What exactly is Ms. Laura Diaz wearing? Did she just come from the beach and not have enough time to change?

I love Orange County.

Hooligan

2007-08-20T17:56:00.000-07:00

Greetings, everyone! I have returned, and I believe the carpal tunnel crisis of 2007 has been averted. It is ever so nice to be back! Due to my long absence, I have a lot to blog about, so let's get started, shall we?

First things first: Last week, my dad's latest work was published. I'm a big fan of my dad's writing, so I'd like to tell you about the book, entitled Hooligan: A Mormon Boyhood.

From the back cover:

"In the days before sunscreen, soccer practice, MTV, and Amber Alerts, boys roamed freely in the American West - fishing, hunting, hiking, pausing to skinny-dip in river or pond. Douglas Thayer was such a boy, and in this poignant, often humorous memoir, he depicts his Utah Valley boyhood during the Great Depression and World War II.

Known in some circles as a Mormon Hemingway, Thayer has created a richly detailed work that shares cultural DNA with Frank McCourt's Angela's Ashes, Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and William Golding's Lord of the Flies. His narrative at once prosaic and poetic, Thayer captures nostalgia for a simpler time, along with boyhood's universal yearnings, pleasures, and mysteries."

From Orson Scott Card:

"One of the finest writers the LDS Church has yet produced has now turned his talent to his own growing-up years. Entertaining, wise - and it's even true."

It's really fascinating to read about what Provo was like for a young boy during the Great Depression, and especially delightful that the story is told with my dad's dry sense of humor.

Here are a few excerpts from some early chapters:

"The postman, iceman, coalman, and milkman were a part of Sixth Ward daily life, a chip of ice out of the horse-drawn ice wagon a boy's free summer treat, that and the soft sun-heated tar we dug up from the cracks in the road for gum, the embedded gravel keeping our teeth sharp. The pie lady pushed her converted baby buggy loaded with fresh homemade pies down the sidewalk calling, 'Pies! Pies! Pies for supper!' A herd of milk cows came up Second West every morning on their way to pasture north of town by the brickyard and returned every evening, each cow turning voluntarily down its own lane. Twice daily the Heber Creeper, a small steam engine pulling its few cars, traveled the Denver and Rio Grande spur line up Second West to Provo Canyon and Heber Valley beyond."

Writing about his grandmother:

"English and stubborn, she and my grandpa would sometimes not talk to each other for three or four months and occasionally a year, but they would talk through the ten children. Yet they slept in the same bed and eventually reconciled their differences. Grandpa would bring home a small bag of candy, which he called a little sweetening for the bird, and put it on the kitchen counter. If Grandma didn't throw it out the door, he knew the coast was clear."

If you're interested in purchasing the book, click on its cover above.

Congratulations, Professor Thayer!

Ella

2007-07-27T13:32:00.000-07:00

Many thanks for the sympathetic and delightful comments on my last post! I apologize for not responding to each commenter individually. (Cotton, your comment was particularly fantastic, and you pose a very good question: why can't it ever be Hugh Jackman in a speedo? Why must it always be strange hotel-dwelling men in g-strings? And Emily - getting hit on at a ward pool function? Yipes!)

The reason for my up until now non-responsiveness is thus: I believe I may be on the brink of carpal tunnel. Or tendonitis. Or some kind of overuse injury of the arm, wrist, and hand variety. As many of you know, this is nothing new: I had all sorts of problems with these ailments as a young lass, but have been blessed with a reprieve for a few years now. I don't think there's any cause for alarm, but I have decided to play it safe and back off the whole typing thing for a bit. I'm already suffering withdrawal (which may be why I'm still typing . . .)

Before I take what I hope will only be a few weeks' leave, I'd like to share one last special thing with you. Whilst aimlessly flipping through channels a few days ago, I came upon a music video for a song called Under My Umbrella. This song is sung by someone named Rihanna. I didn't know anything about Rihanna before I saw the video, but I learned a lot in the few minutes I spent with her. I now know that Rihanna is a singer with asymmetric hair who likes to wear fingerless leather gloves and dance around in various extremely skimpy outfits singing songs with lyrics such as:

"You're part of my entity

Here for infinity"

and

"When the war has took its part

When the world has dealt its cards

If the hand is hard

Together we'll mend your heart."

And a chorus that goes like this:

"When the sun shines, we'll shine together

Told you I'll be here forever

Said I'll always be a friend

Took an oath I'ma stick it out till the end

Now that it's raining more than ever

Know that we'll still have each other

You can stand under my umbrella

Under my umbrella

(Ella ella)

Under my umbrella

(Ella ella)

Under my umbrella

(Ella ella)"

Once this chorus got stuck in my head, I couldn't get it out. For DAYS. And so, of course, I did the only logical thing: I found the video on youtube and made my husband listen to it so that the chorus would be stuck in his head, too.

And so it was that, for a while, we both wandered around the apartment singing "Under my umbrella, ella, ella, ella . . ." Then, yesterday, as Steve and I were doing the dishes together, I heard him quietly sing the following lyrics:

"And I hope you don't catch rubella

Under my umbrella."

"Um, babe, did you just sing something about rubella?"

Since then, we've come up with some other alternate chorus lyrics, such as:

"And I hope I never poison you with salmonella

If I do I'll give you sasparilla

Under my umbrella"

Okay, I really have to stop now. Did I just tell you I have carpal tunnel, and then proceed to write the longest, most random post ever, even though my fingers are going numb? I believe I did. And so, if you'll excuse me, I have to go ice my wrists. And sing a cappella. And watch a movie starring Frank Langella.

(Under my umbrella.)

Close Encounters of the Chlorine Kind

2007-07-18T20:13:00.000-07:00

When you look at my gym's pool through the windows that surround it, it looks fairly unobjectionable. The tiles are a little worn, perhaps, but I'm fairly certain that's because the gym was built in the year 1827. Although advertised as a 24 Hour Fitness "Sport" (with the fees to prove it), the interior is dimly lit and musty, and the only special amenities it boasts are 3 televisions with poorly-spelled closed captioning. If you want to hear the sound, you have to tune in to a specific AM radio station. You know, with that transistor radio you're always carrying around.

Anyway, I wouldn't have really considered exploring my gym's aquatics were it not for the fact that, as soon as summer hits, half the population of Orange County converges at my apartment complex pool. And they don't leave until after midnight.

I briefly considered giving up swimming for the summer, but there are only so many knee-friendly, low-impact exercises one can do. (The other two being yoga, and sitting on the couch watching So You Think You Can Dance.)

So I went. And as I walked across the faded tile and slipped into the tepid water, I was pleased with myself for having made the effort. Preparing for my first lap, I looked over to find an older man in a teensy tiny speedo settling himself onto the bench next to my lane. Smiling, he said:

"Well, hello there!"

"Hello."

As I completed my first lap, I had the feeling that I was being watched. Sure enough, Mr. Speedo was still sitting on the bench, looking down at me. At the end of Lap 2, there he was. Still staring. Lap 3? Still staring. Lap 4? Staring and grinning. Lap 5? Yup. Still staring.

It was at this point that I decided to get out. I briefly thought of calling it a night, but I was not about to let an old man in a tight speedo spoil my swimming plans! So I walked over to the hot tub. Surely he won't follow me over here, I thought. That would be too creepy!

As soon as I sat down, there he was.

"Do you want me to turn on the bubbles?"

"No, not really, I . . ."

He disappeared around the corner, and the bubbles appeared. Reappearing, he hopped down into the water.

"So, what brings you here?"

What brings me here? Did he really just say that?

In my head, I responded:

"Well, I was hoping to meet an old, creepy man in a tiny speedo, so I guess today's my lucky day!"

Instead, I told him that it was time for me to go. And I haven't been back since.

I guess it's time to buy myself a transistor radio.

Lost In Space, Perhaps?

2007-07-06T14:06:00.000-07:00

For the past three years, my husband and I have celebrated our August wedding anniversary at a Snowbird ski resort lodge. The first year, Steve surprised me with the trip (with a little guidance from my mom). I would never have thought to go to a ski resort in the summer, but it was absolutely gorgeous up there. Each room has a little balcony that faces the mountain, and every evening a storm would come sweeping over the peaks, bringing with it booming thunder and the delicious smell of mountain rain. Am I sounding too much like a Snowbird brochure?

This year, however, I want to do something different. Something special. Something new! And I think I've found just the place: the Anniversary Inn in Logan, Utah. Problem is, I'm having trouble choosing a theme. I've narrowed it down to six, but I'm hoping you can help me make my final decision. You know, weigh the pros and cons; the potential benefits and detriments. Stalactites versus, say . . . an Egyptian tomb. Or an octopus. Below is my list. Click on the name, and you'll get a tour of the room.

Just so you know, I'm leaning toward Lost In Space.

Arctic Journey
**Penguin

Mysteries of Egypt
**Giant Snake in Bathroom (click on the tub photo)

Sultan's Palace
**Partial Elephants

Dodge City
**Checkers

Neptune's Cave
**Octopus

Lost In Space
**Bathroom Space Pod

** Benefits

Beauty Finale

2007-06-19T06:00:00.000-07:00

Four weeks ago today, I started my Month of Beauty. I can't believe how quickly the time has gone by! Thank you all so much for your visits and your comments. They've meant a lot to me, and it's been lovely to share the past four weeks with you.

For my final Beauty, two things:

1. I gave my two weeks notice two weeks ago today. (You do the math.)

2. Every passing hour today brings me one hour closer to 8am tomorrow when I will board a plane so that I can spend the weekend with my sister, her husband, their daughter (she of the curly eyelashes), and their just-turned-three son.

When he heard I was coming to visit, my nephew said, very matter-of-factly:

"Emmie is bringing me a car."

He also said:

"Emmie is coming to care of me!"

He's absolutely right on both counts: There's a Tonka truck in my suitcase . . .

And "caring of him" is one of my favorite things in the whole wide world.

Referred Beauty

2007-06-18T19:30:00.000-07:00

For today's Beauty, I must refer you to the lovely C Jane's blog. A gathering of friends, a long-awaited pregnancy, a pink buttercream-frosted chocolate cake topped with sugared roses, and a raspberry (I think it's raspberry) fruit tart. Quite an abundance of beauty, I'd say.

Sunset Beauty

2007-06-15T21:18:00.000-07:00

Today I saw one of those sunsets that you always see on generic California postcards. You know, the ones over the ocean with the big sun framed by few wispy clouds? You know, like this one that I found when I googled "California sunset":

I forgot to take my camera with me, but this will do.

Happy Weekend, everyone!

Showtune Beauty

2007-06-13T23:53:00.000-07:00

I received a lovely invitation today. One of my friends asked if I'd like to sing a Broadway show tune for a benefit concert in San Diego next month. The theme is love songs, and she's left it up to the participants to choose their own song(s). I'm going to sing "Someone Else's Story" from Chess. (I love that song!), and I'll probably play a little somethin' on my violin as well. (From Fiddler on the Roof, of course. What else?)

I must admit that I'm a little nervous. Not about the violin part, but about the singing part. There are sure to be some powerhouse-voiced participants, and I do not have a powerhouse voice. I have a nice voice. I love to sing, and I've been in musicals; one was even reviewed by the illustrious Eric D. Snider. (And he's totally right. I Do! I Do! is one of the cheesiest musicals of all time. One exclamation point wasn't enough for the title: it had to have TWO!!) My voice is sufficient unto the day thereof, but a powerhouse it ain't.

There are few things I enjoy more than listening to a powerhouse voice. Especially when it's in my living room, and it's coming from a good friend. For example, my lovely friend Dianna (hi, lovely!) has one of the most gorgeous voices I've ever heard in person (or anywhere, for that matter). I also have a lovely memory of sitting in a make-up trailer with Dallyn Bayles and singing parts with him to help him prepare for his then upcoming (now past) role in The Secret Garden. (I love that musical!) Have you heard Dallyn sing? I recommend clicking on his name if you haven't. And the friend who invited me to sing has a beautiful voice as well. These singers are also amazing people, and there's something about an amazing voice coming from an amazing person that's just, well, amazing.

So I'm looking forward to doing my part in July. And then sitting back and enjoying all the beauty that's sure to be.

Fishing Beauty

2007-06-12T23:40:00.000-07:00

The following exchange occurred several minutes ago as I was telling my husband about my dad's upcoming fishing trip:

"He's going on a fishing excavation."

"A fishing excavation?"

"Wait, did I say excavation? I meant exhibition."

"A fishing exhibition?"

"No, wait, I don't mean exhibition. I mean . . . what's the word . . . Ex . . ."

"Pedition? Expedition?"

"Expedition! Yes! A fishing expedition!"

I officially need more sleep. And perhaps a thesaurus.

Anyway, in honor of that expedition, here's my favorite fishing photo:

I snapped this last summer - my brother and his sons.

I love seeing my brothers as dads. They are amazing fathers. (Just like mine.)

Parking Beauty

2007-06-11T19:41:00.001-07:00

Remember the Bougainvillea? They are now sprouting through the gate above our parking space:

A lovely sight first thing in the morning.

The Beauty of Chocolate, Kind Husbands, and Weekends

2007-06-09T00:15:00.000-07:00

I've been working on a post about my soon-to-be-former job for the past hour; trying to couch the past few months' experiences in purely hypothetical terms should my soon-to-be-former boss somehow magically find my blog. (Highly doubtful, but as I am the Queen of Worrying About Things That Will Probably Never Happen, I have to prepare for every eventuality.) However, all the hypotheticals started to give me a non-hypothetical headache, so I will say this:

Basically, my job was impossible. I was hired part-time to take over my boss's email correspondence, and everything else internet-related, because he is "too old to learn how to deal with technology." Unfortunately, much of the work he does is internet-related, and the job quickly became a full-time nightmare. I could get into all the [hypothetical] reasons it was a nightmare, but this blog entry will probably be too long even without a detailed job description, so just trust me on the nightmare thing. However, for a variety of reasons, I didn't feel that I could quit. But a few weeks ago, when my boss started talking raises and a 401k in exchange for my long-term, full-time commitment, I knew the time to quit had come. I told him (very nicely) that I'd been hired with the understanding that it would be part-time and short-term, and I wasn't looking for anything else. I then offered to stay on for several months to help him find and train a replacement.

Everything changed this week, however, when my boss wrote something very unkind, unfair, and untrue about me in an email. An email that I wasn't supposed to see, but that I saw because it is MY JOB TO READ HIS EMAIL. He wrote it, the person he wrote to responded to it, and I read it.

I sat staring at the unkind, unfair, and untrue email in disbelief. Then I called the one person who I knew would understand how I felt. That would be the person who had my job before me. That would be the person who, a few months ago, read an unkind, unfair, and untrue email my boss sent about her because it was HER JOB TO READ HIS EMAIL. She couldn't believe he'd done it again. I couldn't believe he'd done it again.

As I was reading the email to her, it disappeared. I Iater learned that my boss was checking his email from home, saw the offending message, panicked, and deleted it. (He didn't, however, delete it from his sent mail, and since I also go through that folder every day as part of MY JOB, I was able to read it to my husband over the phone later that day.)

His prior employee told me I should quit immediately. Just walk out of the office and never come back. I didn't know what to do. I knew that my husband would be supportive (as would pretty much anyone who read the email), but I also knew that my boss would be left in a terrible bind.

So, I confronted him. It wasn't pretty. He tried to explain it away, telling me he wished I hadn't seen it because he knew I would "misinterpret" it; that it was a question of "semantics" and "poor word choice" and that he shouldn't be judged for something he wrote "late at night."

Riiiiight.

He also said a bunch of other things I didn't buy, and then asked (rather forcefully) if I accepted his apology. I didn't know what to say. I told him I'd have to think about it, and I left.

(Two things I hate: Confrontation, and when people can't just admit they were wrong and offer a sincere apology.)

(Did I mention I hate confrontation?)

In the end, I decided to take the high road and give my boss two weeks notice, instead of doing what I wanted to do which was to take the low road and tell my boss to take a hike.

To cheer me up this weekend, my hubby drove me to the Cheesecake Factory, and insisted on buying me a piece of Flourless Chocolate Godiva Cheesecake. We drove to the restaurant and back with the top down (my hubby has a sporty, impractical car). It was a gorgeous, early summer California night. We held hands and ate cake and he said very nice things to me. The stress and frustration of the week subsided, and I realized that everything was going to be okay.

And that kindness, weekends, and chocolate are a beautiful combination.

Desktop Beauty

2007-06-07T22:50:00.001-07:00

This photo greets me every time I open my laptop:

(Provence, France. I've never been there, but someday . . .)

Sky Beauty

2007-06-06T22:09:00.000-07:00

My hubby took this. Who knew the sky over Reno could be so lovely?

Kid Beauty

2007-06-05T22:49:00.001-07:00

I was given a report today regarding my 3-year-old nephew. It seems that he is currently completely obsessed with all things Star Wars. After church last Sunday, he presented his father with a picture he had drawn in his Primary class. It was, of course, a picture of light sabers. On it, his teacher had written what my nephew had said about the picture:

"I am thankful that Heavenly Father gave me ears so that I could hear the sound of light sabers."

Now that is beautiful.

The Beauty of Saying No

2007-06-04T22:12:00.000-07:00

Want to know the most beautiful thing about today? I QUIT MY JOB!

I have to stay until the end of the month, and maybe through July as well (to train the new guy or gal), but I already feel at least 10.5 million times happier.

(I really, really hate my job.)

To celebrate, I ran outside and took a picture of these flowers by the pool:

And now I'm going to eat some chocolate and think about not having my job. Quitting can be such a beautiful thing.

Globe Beauty

2007-06-02T21:06:00.000-07:00

I apologize for the lack of Beauty over the past two days. On Friday, I took off for San Diego right after work, and didn't get back until 4:00 this morning. I made the drive down to see one of my good friends. She and I went to grad school together, and she has returned to the Old Globe to do a show. She is brilliant in it. Truly. I was beaming proud of her. I hadn't seen her in 3 years, so it was wonderful to see her face and sit together late into the night catching up and laughing about crazy stuff that happened during our MFA years together.

While I was waiting for her after the show, I stood looking up at the bell tower in the courtyard outside the theatre. I remembered the feeling of performing on the outdoor stage at night, the cool dampness in the air as the dew settled into the park, looking up past the audience to the illuminated tower and the tiled dome of the Museum of Man, both framed by giant trees.

The Spanish architecture in Balboa Park is amazing by day, and other-worldly at night. I stood under the bell tower, breathed in the dew, and felt overwhelmingly grateful for the opportunity I had to be an actor surrounded by all that Beauty.

Museum of Man Dome and Bell Tower

Me in Pericles, Outdoor Festival Stage, 2002

Night Beauty

2007-05-31T20:16:00.000-07:00

On the path leading up to my apartment door. I think the petals look like pulled taffy.

Beach Beauty

2007-05-30T19:56:00.000-07:00

Early evening near the Balboa Pier.

Home Beauty

2007-05-29T21:43:00.001-07:00

If we hadn't been home when the pipe burst in our ceiling this past weekend, most of our stuff would now be ruined, including this quilt my mom gave me 5 years ago. This quilt has matching pillow shams. I love this quilt. I'm glad we were home.

Memorial Day Beauty

2007-05-28T17:50:00.000-07:00

2007-05-26T20:55:00.001-07:00

WE INTERRUPT THIS DAY OF BEAUTY TO BRING YOU THE FOLLOWING ANNOUNCEMENT:

At approximately 11:27am, a pipe burst in the ceiling of the apartment of Emmie. As a result, the following has occurred:

1) An entire section of ceiling was soaked through, and will have to be replaced.
2) Half the carpet had to be ripped up, baseboards removed, and holes drilled through the bottoms of the walls to prevent mold.
3) Two giant fans and two dehumidifiers must run 24 hours a day for the next three days in order to prevent moisture and eventual mold damage. The fans are blowing underneath the carpet, so it's sort of like walking in a funhouse. Except without the fun.
4) The fans and dehumidifiers are very loud.
5) We are going to stay at my husband's parents' house.

His parents are in Italy right now, which brings me to today's Beauty:

I didn't take the picture above, but I was there once, and I definitely wish I was there now.

On days like today, you have to remember beauty.

La Bella Friday

2007-05-25T20:55:00.000-07:00

The trees that line both sides of the street my office building is on have blossomed overnight, and the air smells like lilac. The same flowers are also growing in bushes near the trees.

La Beauté de Jeudi

2007-05-24T21:01:00.000-07:00

Today, a long and frustrating and super stressful day at work culminated in a phone call during which I was yelled at repeatedly by a VERY angry man. My boss (to whom I usually give the very angry calls) is out of town, and had turned off his cell phone, but not before stating that he had "complete confidence" in my "ability" to "handle anything" that's "thrown" at me. I don't "really care" if he "does or not", and would "really prefer" that he just "keep his cell phone on" so that I don't "throw myself out the window."

Just as I was about to hit send on an email that would (I hope) address most of the angry man's concerns, my internet went down. For two hours. Needless to say, the angry man only got more angry.

It was during this time that I noticed I had a voicemail on my cell phone. My sister had called, and I could hear my 3-year-old nephew in the background, demanding:

"Want to talk to Emmie NOW please!"

So I did the only logical thing. I called back the angry man, told him that being angry wasn't going to get him his answers any faster, and that I was tired of being yelled at, and I was doing the best I could, and I would talk to him tomorrow. And then I went home, and called my sister on iChat so that I could play Peek-A-Boo with my nephew. (I cover the camera lens and he counts, and then I take my hand away quick and say "Boo!" and he thinks it's the funniest thing on earth.)

I also sang him his favorite songs, and I got to see his little sister, which brings me to today's Beauty:

Behold the naturally curly eyelashes of my 6-month-old niece:

A few blinks of those lashes were all it took to make the angry man a distant memory.

Wednesday Beauty

2007-05-23T20:13:00.000-07:00

Before we get to today's beauty, I want to tell you that I had a dream last night during which I told Jessica Simpson that, while I like her new brunette look, she really needs to ease up on the spray-on tan.

I think I need to stop reading msn.com.

After work today, I decided to drive down to Inspiration Point. I've only been there a few times since we moved here almost four years ago, and that's a cryin', cryin' shame.

Here's a little house. It's pretty:

But just look at that view!

There Is Beauty All Around

2007-05-22T22:35:00.000-07:00

I've been making several big changes in my life as of late. I won't get into them (they'd probably be fairly boring to anyone but me), but I will share that I've been feeling the need to experience more beauty.

I am therefore instituting a Month of Beauty here in my little corner of the web. Every day I will try to find something beautiful, and share it with you. I don't really have any Rules of Beauty - I think I'll make them up as I go along. I also reserve the right to post regular ol' blog entries if a non-beauty-related topic strikes my fancy.

I hope you'll tell me about the beautiful things that you find, too.

P.S. As May is almost over, I guess it would be more accurate to say that I am instituting Four Weeks of Beauty. Month of Beauty just sounded more catchy.

Today's Beauty:

Each day when I drive out of my apartment complex, I see this:

I'd never taken a closer look, until today:

Proofed

2007-04-23T22:33:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, I had a callback for the play Proof. Mary Louise Parker played the lead on Broadway (and I saw her in it, and she was brilliant), and Gwyneth Paltrow played the lead in the movie (and I saw her in it, and she was . . .meh.)

I wasn't up for the lead; I was up for the sister. So were 8 other girls. This is our story.

I'd like to start off by saying that it's ever so strange to be sitting with a group of people who are your "type." An entire row of alto-voiced blondes in business suits, all poring over the same part of the same script. Three of us left our chairs and made strange warm-up noises in various corners of the theatre. Two of us flirted with the "Handsome Math Geek" types sitting opposite us. One of us sat swaying to her Ipod, one of us applied lipgloss at regular intervals, and I chewed gum and sent text messages to my husband:

"I'm sitting in a row of girls who all look like me."

Steve texts back:

"Make sure you get their phone numbers, just in case you decide to leave me."

The lipgloss me stands up and walks over to get some coffee. "I'm freezing!" she whispers, settling back down. She's wearing one of the tightest skirts I've ever seen, and an equally tight shirt with a plunging back. Definitely not me.

"Yeah, it's pretty cold."

She looks over to one of our type: the one in the corner making low moaning noises with her eyes closed. She turns her head to me, pointing discreetly at the moaner:

"I could never be one of those. You?"

"Nope."

We talk a little more. I find out she just finished playing a lead in the national touring company of Grease.

"How cool!" I say. "What did you think of that Grease reality show?"

She rolls her eyes.

"Stupid."

"Yeah."

One by one, we're called in to read. The moaner returns from the audition room, looking subdued.

"Fun while it lasted, kids." Exeunt Moaner.

The minutes pass. Then the hours. The slow exodus continues: Goodbye, Preppy Handsome Math Geek! So long, Spiky-Haired Me!

I'm called in several more times to read; each time with a different "sister." My tight-skirted friend remains, but most of the others depart. I watch as one of us downs her 4th cup of coffee.

One of the remaining Handsome Geeks (the one with the soulful eyes), mumbles:

"Do I even want to be in this play?"

We all laugh; a welcome break from the tension. The stage manager glares at us.

"SHHHH!"

My seatmate returns from her latest visit to the audition room.

"Well, I'm outta here. He's 'decided to go in a different direction.' Gotta love it!" She grins. "It was nice to meet you."

"You, too."

I watch the remaining Handsome Geeks check her out as she departs.

Almost three hours later, I've read with one particular "sister" several times. I think we could pass for family - we're both tall. I look up from texting Steve to see the taller of the two remaining dads exit the theatre. I size up the only dad left. He can't be any taller than 5' 6".

I nudge my tall sister, pointing to the Last Dad Standing:

"This isn't good."

She looks him up and down.

"Not good."

We're called in. We know what's coming, but we're hoping it's not.

"Hi, ladies." The director smiles up at us.

"I absolutely love both of you, and I would love to cast you."

Pause.

"But the fact is, you're just too f'in tall."

He thanks us for our time, and we thank him for his. We walk out of the room together, passing the Short Me and the Short Her on our way out.

"Congratulations!" I whisper.

"Thanks!" They beam.

I walk to the parking lot with my tall sister. As she hops in her car, she says, wearily:

"I'm going straight to In 'n Out Burger."

She drives away. I call Steve on the drive home:

"Well, I didn't get it. I'm too tall."

"I'm sorry, baby."

"Yeah."

"Did you get those other girls' phone numbers?"

"You won't need them. I'm sticking with you."

"Good. 'Cause I like tall."

I already know this. 'Cause 3 1/2 years ago, I totally aced that audition.

The Easter Bunny Cometh

2007-04-14T16:03:00.000-07:00

I apologize for my extended absence from the blogosphere. I was out of town for a while, and ever since I returned I've been feeling singularly uninspired, and didn't want to bore you with my ennui. Now I'm back (as evidenced by this blog entry), and I hope to return with a bang by sharing with you this short video my brother made. He is also the star, and his co-star is a beloved stuffed animal from our childhood. Thanks to this video, I will never again feel safe when it's in the room.

That's The Way The Toothie Crumbles

2007-03-21T23:41:00.000-07:00

I had a root canal on Tuesday. Have you ever had dreams about your teeth falling out? I have. And after Tuesday, I really wish I could choose which of my dreams become realities. Oddly enough, there was no falling-out warning. No pain - not even a twinge! And, technically, it didn't really "fall out." It was more of a "crumble" situation. A situation in which I was chewing on piece of candy Saturday afternoon, and suddenly, half my molar imploded. Evidently (or should I say, "evidentally") (sorry), sometimes 15-year-old fillings don't last more than 15 years. And sometimes, when those fillings decide it's time to go, they take half your tooth with them. The implosion was so impressive, my husband took pictures. But I won't post them. 'Cause they're really gross.

After I'd spent some time freaking out, I called 1-800-DENTIST. It really works! A very nice lady found an office in my area that was open on Saturdays. That office was in a run-down strip mall next to a lingerie shop. I know this because I called that office from the parking lot just outside the lingerie shop to tell them I couldn't make it.

On Tuesday, I went to my husband's dentist in Newport Beach. (It wasn't next to a lingerie shop.) They gave me 3 shots, and waited for my mouth to get numb. They started drilling, and I could feel it. Oh my stars and garters, could I feel it. They gave me 3 more shots, hit a nerve (NOT GOOD) and waited. Drilled again, and I could still feel it. They determined I have a "high tolerance" for pain medication. 4 more shots, and the drilling recommenced. Two hours after I arrived, they decided I needed a root canal, and sent me over to an endodontist in the same complex. While he was giving me the first of 5 more shots, his secretary came in to talk to me.

"Hun, just so you know, we're going to need a payment of $1088 before you leave the office today, 'mkay?"

'Mkay.

After an hour of drilling and scraping, the endodontist informed me that my root canal was half finished, but because it was infected I'd have to wait a week for the antibiotic to take effect, and come back next week to complete it. With my face half paralyzed, I wandered back across the complex to the original dentist's office, where they told me that I needed to come back a week after my root canal was finished to get a crown put on. Did you know that a crown is a two-part process? That it takes two separate trips to the dentist to get it put on? 'Mkay.

I drove back to work, and stayed there until the numbness started to wear off. Then I went home, and was grumpy. Very, very grumpy. After attempting to watch some mindless television, I was convinced by my husband that I'd be better off asleep. He gently tucked me into bed, fluffing the pillows around me, and as he turned out the light, he said, sweetly:

"Goodnight, my poor little rotty mouth."

Just so you know, I'm still grumpy. 'Mkay?

Knots

2007-03-12T23:29:00.000-07:00

This morning, my shoulders felt as though they'd been pummeled repeatedly with a large mallet. When I put on my socks, I discovered small bruises on my calves, and my jaw was tender to the touch. Yesterday, I got a massage from a tiny Asian woman with fingers of steel.

The massage therapist I met several weeks ago, the one who worked absolute miracles with my insanely knotty muscles, wasn't available when I called to schedule an appointment last week. Not only unavailable, she was away from the spa "indefinitely." This did not surprise me. Rather, it confirmed my suspicion that both my husband and I are cursed.

Before I relate the particulars of our curse, I'd like to tell you that I have a testimony of massage therapy. I have spent many years and vast sums of money building that testimony, and lo, it is strong and unshakeable, like unto my knotty muscles. The little day spa I discovered a few miles away may have a cheap knock-off of Boticelli's Birth of Venus hanging in the lobby (complete with brush strokes - do you think it could be the real thing??), but the prices are reasonable, and the rooms are clean and serene. I've never had a bad massage there, but I've never found a therapist who totally knew what to do with the mess my knee surgery left behind. Until a few weeks ago, when I found my miracle therapist. My miracle therapist who promptly disappeared "indefinitely."

It's all part of the curse that started with my husband's hair last year. You see, Steve had been getting haircuts from the same stylist for several years, but when she moved to a salon 20 minutes away and raised her prices, he decided to be shorn elsewhere. His first trip to Supercuts seemed a success at first, but as the haircut grew out it became apparent that I was married to my very own Chia Pet. Then his brother gave him a hot tip on a specific Supercuts stylist. His name was Wee (it really was!), and he was a very short Vietnamese man with the loud, braying laugh and the meanest pair of scissors in the West. Wee was delightful, Steve was delighted, and my Chia pet departed. And then Wee just . . . disappeared. One day he was sculpting hair into works of art, and the next day - poof. No more Wee. And no one knew whither Wee went. So, Steve, despondent and decidedly shaggy, was forced to try his luck with a different stylist. And his next choice, Kwok, though a nice enough fellow, was definitely no Wee.

And so, last week, when I was told my perfect massage therapist had disappeared, I wasn't surprised. I knew that it was bound to happen to me, too. I knew I had to pick myself up and move on, just as my husband did when his hair became too poofy to be ignored. There was no weeping for Wee, and there would be no weeping for me. So I called the tacky-art day spa and booked an appointment with a tiny and preternaturally strong Japanese woman. And, as she pummeled me into a gumby-like state while her CD player softly played what can only be described as Asian Reggae, I wondered if I'd ever see my miracle massage therapist again.

I'll let you know if she turns up, but in the meantime, keep an eye out for Wee, would you?

And That . . . Is Acting

2007-02-24T17:17:00.000-08:00

Flourless Feasts

2007-02-21T23:27:00.000-08:00

Have any of you experienced the feast or famine phenomenon? You know, when nothing is really happening, not much is going on, and then suddenly everything is happening, everything is going on (and then some)?

After nearly a year on the couch (and the knee to show for it), I've suddenly become insanely busy. Auditions, a new church calling, helping out with a film project, a new part-time job, and writing and directing the ward roadshow (which I could write a novel about. I really could. And I really want to. But I won't.).

I've felt like a useless lump of a thing this past year on the couch, so it's wonderful to be busy once more. However, the training for my new job occurred in a different state than the one in which I currently reside, and as a result I missed celebrating both my birthday and Valentine's Day with my husband. (We're going out tomorrow night to commemorate both occasions. Have you ever had the Godiva chocolate cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory? It has layers of flourless chocolate cake, chocolate cheesecake, and chocolate mousse. Did I mention the chocolate cake is flourless? I may have wept the first time I tried it, and I am not ashamed of that.)

So, in honor of my birthday, I admonish you to try the Godiva chocolate cheesecake. For your own good.

And, in honor of last week's Valentine's Day, I present to you the engagement photo we ultimately decided against:

Call Me Letisha

2007-02-11T19:40:00.000-08:00

Last week I received a voicemail from a person whose voice and telephone number I didn't recognize. He sounded a little like Barry White. This is what he said:

"Hey, baby. Been thinkin' about you. Wish would call me. You know I would treat you right, Letisha. Call me, baby."

Hmmm, I thought. Too bad my name's not Letisha. If it were, I know he would treat me right.

A few nights later, I got another message from the same man:

"It's me, Letisha. And your phone is off the hook or somethin'. So call me, baby. I'm still up."

Hmmm, I thought. Too bad my name's not Letisha. If it were, I totally would have called him, 'cause I was still up, too.

This morning, while I was getting ready for church, my cell phone rang. I recognized the number. It was him. I answered:

"Hi, this is Emmelyn."

"Letisha?"

"No, this is Emmelyn. You've been dialing the wrong number."

"This isn't Letisha?"

Pause.

"No. This is not Letisha. This is Emmelyn. On my voicemail, it says Emmelyn. Please stop calling this number."

"Oh. I was looking for Letisha. Sorry."

He hasn't called back. So Letisha, if you're out there: Call him. He's probably still up. And he will treat you right.

Of Oak, Pine, and Particle Board

2007-02-01T23:39:00.000-08:00

Ever since my marriage in August of 2003, I have been searching. Searching for something that seemed unattainable. Searching for something I feared I would never find. Searching . . . for a reasonably priced, not-made-out-of-plywood bedroom set.

My quest began with hope (as most quests do). That hope was quickly dashed, however, when I walked through the doors of a store that claimed to be part of the largest, most reasonably priced furniture chain in Southern California, and was immediately confronted with this:

This bedroom set, the furniture chain employee cheerily informed me, is called the Palm Court. My apologies if anyone reading this actually owns this bedroom set. I don't mean to question your taste. But seriously, what are you thinking? And also: we can never be friends. (And also: do you live on a Jamaican plantation?)

After the Palm Court fiasco of 2004, my bedroom set search went from bad to worse. Browsing Crate and Barrel one day, I thought I'd found my salvation, but, when I looked at the pricetag and realized that my salvation would cost an entire month's salary, my hopes were dashed. I mean, please. I wasn't about to pay an entire month's salary for my salvation, of all things.

(But just so you know, if I had a million dollars, I would waltz right into Crate and Barrel, and purchase one of their beautiful bedroom sets. With CASH.)

Some of you, knowing my affinity for a certain Swedish warehouse, might wonder why I didn't just drive a truck on over to Ikea. Surely they must have a reasonably priced bedroom set, you might say. And you would be right. And I was just about to purchase such a bedroom set when I happened to read the fine print and realized with dismay that their bed frames fit a European king mattress, and we have a California king. Stupid Europeans and their more uniformly shaped mattresses.

After Ikea, I gave up for a while. Sometimes my strength would return for a fleeting moment, and I'd be drawn to a 40% OFF! sign in a store window, only to be disappointed when I worked up the courage to venture inside. One night, my fevered brain even considered ordering furniture from Target, but, much as I love the place, I couldn't bring myself to purchase a headboard that looked, from the picture on the website, like it might turn out to be more than slightly orange.

And so, my husband and I lived without the objects of my desire. And my husband, being a typical male in some respects, stated that he didn't care. He didn't need a nightstand, he informed me; the plastic box full of clothes he hadn't worn in years (some with price tags still attached) would do just fine. And our dresser was fine, too: the dresser I'd purchased in grad school; the one my then-boyfriend helped me carry up the stairs and put together (he put the top on backwards, but I never told him, 'cause he was being all manly and Mr. Fix-It and stuff). Once in a while, the bottom would fall out of one of the drawers, or the entire front panel would come off, but my husband always re-attached it with remarkable efficiency (he's pretty manly, too, you know).

And then, in January of 2007, just when it seemed all hope was lost, a miracle occured. While searching Craigs List (love it) with furniture-related despair in my heart, I found an ad for a (dare I say it?) very reasonably-priced, very lovely bedroom set. It seemed too good to be true, but it wasn't. The ad was for a store nearby that had just opened - a little store in a strip mall where one could order one of five different styles of furniture, in one of eight different colors. And so we ordered. And so it arrived. And there was an agonizing moment when I thought it wasn't going to fit through our bedroom door. But it did. And when we put the bed together, the very heavy, real wood frame only fell on Steve's toe once. (He was very manly about it.) And, when we woke up the next morning, I felt like I was in a hotel. A beautiful, non-Jamaican hotel. And my husband? He loves it. And he doesn't miss his plastic box full of clothes he never wears. Not even the littlest bit. (It's a good thing, too, because that plastic box and all it contained is now resting peacefully in the back room of Salvation Army.)

I'm not going to show you the bedroom set yet, because I still need to hang curtains and do a few other non-manly, decorative things. But, before I head off to dreamland in my antique-stain sleighbed, I will tell you this:

Sometimes, dear readers, if you hope long enough, and never, EVER give up, wishes really do come true.

A lot of times I'll wear a hat to accent an outfit

2007-01-24T19:08:00.000-08:00

For those of you who would like to know more about diet, fashion, and exercise, this video is for you.

I've Been Tagged . . .

2007-01-17T23:16:00.000-08:00

. . . by a best-selling LDS author, no less!

So, five things about me that most people don't know:

I was born with black hair.

I loved the Monkees when I was in grade school (Mickey was my favorite), and I can still sing every single one of their songs. Verbatim.

One of my favorite smells in the world is coffee, but I don’t really like coffee-flavored things.

A friend recently asked me how many men I’ve kissed in plays, so I tallied it up, and I think it's around 16. Ask me how many of those actors I enjoyed kissing, and the number goes down quite a bit (though not completely . . .)

When I was 5, my babysitter was giving me a ride on her shoulders when I fell off and broke my wrist. My mom was at the hospital giving birth to my sister at the time, and one of my earliest memories is riding home from the hospital next to my brand new sister with my wrist in a cast.

(I think pretty much everyone who reads my blog has already been tagged by someone, so all you lurkers out there: You're it!)

The Initiation of Sarahs

2007-01-15T11:46:00.000-08:00

This past weekend, two Sarahs came to visit me.

I met Sarah and Sarah in high school, and we've been bestest friends ever since. The official reason they flew from Utah to California was to see my play, but the real reason they came was so that we could eat lots of food and stay up late to giggle about things (like my hair in the early '90s). Also, they really needed some chocolate covered almonds from Trader Joes.

Two days before they arrived, it was 80 degrees, but the weekend forecast predicted 60 degrees and possible showers. When one of the Sarahs (let's call her Blondie) called to ask if she should pack a coat, I gave her the bad news:

"Blondie, it's probably going to be cold this weekend. Like, 60 degrees."

"Um, Em? Do you have any idea how cold it is in Utah right now? 60 degrees sounds positively tropical."

I then realized that living in Southern California for 5 years has turned me into a weather wimp. This fact was further confirmed when, after dropping their luggage off at my apartment, we drove down to the beach for lunch, and while Blondie and the other Sarah (let's call her Brownie) continually exclaimed over how lovely the weather was, I sat shivering in my coat like the SoCal sissy I've become.

After lunch, we headed to Ikea. I had a sneaking suspicion that Blondie and Brownie would share my adoration of the giant Swedish warehouse, and all the oddly-named bounty it contains. My suspicions were heartily confirmed, and, as we wandered up and down the aisles, they joined me in exclaiming:

"I need this! But where would I put it?"
"I need this! But what would I put in it?"
"I need this! But what is it?"

That last exclamation was especially applicable in the stuffed animal aisle:

Over the next few days, we had many adventures, including (but not limited to) the following:

A meal at a Korean restaurant, where Blondie put her mission language skills to extremely impressive use, prompting several waitresses to come by our table and tell her (in Korean) how well she spoke their language. Later she told us (in English) that, when she lived in Korea, native speakers would sometimes tell her they couldn't understand her. "But I'm speaking Korean!" she would say (in excellent Korean). And they would reply: "I don't understand you because you are blonde."

A trip to Trader Joes to purchase Milk and Dark Chocolate Almonds, Organic Truffles, English Toffee (with Milk Chocolate), Cocoa Almonds, Pecan Pralines, Cinnamon Almonds, and Challah Bread. Due to Brownie's generosity, I have it on good authority that at least one of the packages of English Toffee did not make it back to Utah.

Closing night of my play, which prompted the following comment from Blondie: "I was totally into it until the last five minutes, and then I was like, huh?" (Which is actually a very apt summary of the production.)

Massages at a local day spa, where Brownie had a super chatty therapist, I had a mildly chatty one, and Blondie had a "deep breather."

A viewing of one of my all-time favorite films: The Initiation of Sarah. It's a 1979 made-for-tv movie in which a sorority girl has psychic powers, Morgan Fairchild has extremely fluffy hair, and Shelly Winters is so difficult to understand at times that the only possible explanation is that, during filming, she was drunk and quite possibly on several different kinds of hallucinogenic drugs.

Brownie's attempt to stuff her new Ikea-purchased queen-sized duvet into a very small duffel bag.

A trip to the beach on a gloriously sunny day, where I managed to snap this photo just as the first wave hit their bare feet:

We also had many delightful and deep conversations, during which we came to the following conclusions:

My pre-mission boyfriend was "creepy."

We can still remember almost all the lyrics to songs from the musical Chess, though the harmonies are a little iffy.

The gluten-free brownies I made "tasted like brownies."

10-day cleanses that involve fasting and taking herbs can lead to extremely unfortunate events.

I'm a much better driver than I used to be.

15 years later, we still love spending time together just as much as we did when we were in high school.

1993

2007

New Post Within 24 Hours. Please Stand By . . .

2007-01-15T01:46:00.000-08:00

I'm Guessing They Were Disappointed

2006-12-30T21:35:00.000-08:00

Once in a while, I like to look at my StatCounter to see what search terms have brought people to my blog. For my final blog entry of 2006,
I would like to share with you my top three favorites:

Helen Keller Nightmares
Ladies in swimcaps
Anne Hathaway Mormon?

And on that random note, a very Happy New Year to you all!!

Ma Vie en Rose

2006-12-27T21:13:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I wore my rose-colored glasses. I bought them a few weeks ago at Target. It's taken me a while to succumb to the giant sunglasses trend: when I first began to notice them, I thought they looked silly; especially when worn by tiny Orange County teenagers - each lens engulfing an entire cheekbone. And my much-smaller lenses (purchased for $5.00 in 2002) were entirely functional, if not fashionable. But a few weeks ago, while shopping for Christmas presents at Target, I suddenly became aware that my eyes were tired and teary from driving around in the blindingly bright Southern California December sun (because I always forget my functional-not-fashionable sunglasses), and I decided the time for gigantic lenses was finally at hand. It took me less than 30 seconds to pick out the rose-colored beauties; I don't think I even came to a complete stop at the spinning sunglasses rack. There they were, directly in front of me, for $9.99. I placed them in my basket with nary a second glance - impulse purchasing at its quickest. When I got to my car, I put them on, and you know something? The world really does look better through rose-colored glasses. The trees were lightly tinged with pink, and the brown and beige terra cotta buildings took on a warm glow. I watched an airplane shimmer through a rose petal sky, and the clouds were pale cotton candy. When I got home, I didn't want to take my glasses off.

Sometimes a trip to Target and $9.99 can help you see the world in an entirely different light.

Ho, Ho, Whoa!

2006-12-06T11:55:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went to a hair salon in the mall to get my roots done. My salon has the word "International" in its name, but I doubt it is actually international. Kind of like when people put extra consonants and/or vowels at the end of words to make them seem more ritzy. Like "shoppe" and "towne." Just so you all know, I live in an apartmentte complexe.

Anyway, I'm not here to talk about my hair or my ritzy apartmentte.
No, my friends. I'm here to talk about the LARGEST CHRISTMAS DECORATION I HAVE EVER SEEN.

After exiting my international hair salon on the third floor of the mall,
I turned the corner and came upon this:

Big deal, you say. It's just a slightly fuzzy picture of a Christmas tree, you say. But you haven't looked over the railing yet.

Look at the people down there! They're so little! I had to go down to the ground floor to get a closer look:

As I was taking this picture, a little boy in a stroller was squealing with delight at the train weaving in and out of the roots of the tree (it even has train sound effects). Then he looked up at the giant Santa looming over him, and screamed in terror.

Let's go up to the second floor and get a closer look at that Santa:

If my apartment had a chimney, I would not want this man anywhere near it.

And the other Santa?

It kind of looks like he's winding up to hit someone over the head with that Christmas tree.

Let's go up to the third floor again.

The globe on the top has snow inside it that blows around.

Where do you think they store this thing? Some airplane hanger somewhere? I'm sure it comes apart, but still. And how do they put it up? Ladders? Cranes? Mountain climbing equipment?

I decided that I needed to film a documentary about it.

But first I needed to go to Borders to get some hot chocolate.

Tutorial

2006-11-26T23:58:00.000-08:00

I'm sick. I think it's only a mild cold, but I didn't get my flu shot this year, so I'm a bit worried. (If there were awards for worrying, I'd have an entire wall devoted to the displaying of such awards, and then I'd worry about the manner in which the awards were displayed.) Luckily, my show opened the day before I got sick, so at least I can be grateful I wasn't sniffling and coughing on stage, and I now have several days to get over whatever is plaguing me before my next performance.

Anyway, because of my affliction, I've spent the day drinking orange juice (with extra pulp), and watching mindless television. Well, not completely mindless, as this evening I have learned the following facts:

1. Anthony Hopkins was in a movie with Chris Rock. Although it's difficult to imagine why anyone thought this was a good idea, the fact remains that it is so.

2. Soleil Moon Frye (of "Punky Brewster" fame) is now starring in movies on the Lifetime Movie Network.

3. For only 2 payments of $19.95 (plus $7.95 shipping and handling) I can own GeMagic. Owning GeMagic would mean that I could put rhinestones and other sparkly "assorted studs" on practically anything. Cathy Mitchell, a "Home Products Expert", told me all about it. (How exactly does one become a Home Products Expert, I wonder. Are there online classes I can take?)

4. The McRib is back.

5. Fitness Made Simple is made for real people.

6. In 1973, Sean Connery made a movie called Zardoz. It is set in the year 2293. Apparently, this is how people will be dressing in the 23rd century:

And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to take some Nyquil. But not before I pull out a credit card and call a certain toll-free number.

I won't tell you exactly what my friends and family are getting for Christmas this year, but I will say that rhinestones are definitely involved.

Death By Brownie, Anyone?

2006-11-14T23:48:00.000-08:00

I went to London on a seven-week study abroad when I was 19. I could tell you about the full-male nudity I saw whilst I was there (Angels In America, anyone?), and that I was so shocked and stunned that I turned to the girl sitting next to me and whispered, "Um - is he, uh, naked?" and the girl (also a young, innocent BYU student) whispered back, "Um - I, uh, I think so." (And now I'm going to get a bunch of people visiting this blog who did a google search for "full-male nudity" and "naked BYU student" and oh they are going to be so disappointed!) Instead, I will tell you about how, after a week in London, my friends and I observed that there were an inordinate amount of men in England named either Barry or Nigel. We were discussing this fact one day as we walked past a phone booth, and, just as my friend paused for breath, we heard the man in the booth say:

"'Allo, Barry? This is Nigel."

I wrote home to tell one of my bestest friends about it, and it has come to pass (for at least the past 10 years), that whenever we call each other, whoever is doing the calling will say: "'Allo, Barry? This is Nigel." in a Cockney accent.

Anyway, today I received an email from Barry ('Allo, Barry!), informing me that my brownie recipe was in the Daily Herald. She told me that Annette Lyon, one of the founders of the Utah Chocolate Show (also a friend)(Annette, not the Chocolate Show)(Although I'm sure that, were I to attend, the Chocolate Show would become a friend as well), shared the recipe as part of an article about the show, and chocolate in general.

In high school, we would eat giant pans of the aforementioned brownies until we were pretty much sick, and then we'd eat some more. If you decide to make THEM, I recommend 3/4 cup cocoa (instead of one cup), and 3-4 Tbs. chocolate drink mix or hot cocoa powder. Eat them for me, my friends, for I now have a wheat allergy, and can no longer indulge as I did during the carefree, gluten-filled days of my youth.

2006-11-03T07:01:00.000-08:00

Recently, I had the following conversation with a bank teller:

Teller (reading my name): "Emmelyn. Hmmm. That's an interesting name. Did your mom just like, make it up or something?"

Me: "Um-"

Teller: "Or is it a combination of Emily and Emma?"

Me: "Well-"

Teller: "Or Evelyn and Emmaline?"

Me: "It's-"

Teller: "Or are you named after someone or something?"

Me: "I-"

Teller: "Huh. Emmelyn. What an interesting name."

Now, before I go any further, I'd like to take this opportunity to state that I understand that it's probably part of Teller Training (TT) to chat up customers while processing their requests. And I'm cool with that. I'm down with that. I don't mind bank personnel asking me how my day's going, what the weather's like outside, or if I've just requested $10 in quarters because it's laundry day. (Although sometimes, when they ask the quarters question, I want to stare at them and say: "No, the quarters aren't for laundry. I just like to pay for everything in quarters." or "It is absolutely none of your business why I need these quarters.")

But seriously, folks, is the name Emmelyn really that interesting? Interesting enough to warrant four inquiries as to its origin? Seriously? Surely there are many names out there that are far more deserving of such interest.

That said, I enjoy having a unique name. I'm glad that it's just unique enough, and not a "what were your parents thinking" kind of unique. When I'm introduced to people for the first time, I usually have to a) repeat my name several times and then spell it per their request, or b) correct them after they've called me Emily, Emmaline, Emmalou, Evelyn, or AmyLyn (or, in one memorable instance: Bemmalyn). If I don't feel like doing either of those things, I just tell them my name is Emmie, like the award. (Although Emmie, while simpler, is no hassle-free guarantee: After giving my name to a restaurant host on two separate occasions, I've looked down to discover they've written "Bemmie" and "Memaie", respectively. So perhaps the fault lies not in various restaurant hosts, but within myself. Am I inadvertently putting a "b" sound before my "eh" sounds? Next time you talk to me, please let me know. You'll be doing me and restaurant personnel a great service.)

Anyway, because I know what it's like when people mangle one's name, I try to pay very close attention when someone tells me their name, so that I can make sure I don't mispronounce it. Of course, the fact that I forget that person's name mere minutes (and sometimes seconds) later is the topic for a whole 'nother blog; a blog entitled: "Why I Can Remember Entire Monologues From Plays I Did In High School But Not My Relief Society President's Name: One Woman's Personal Journey." (And since that blog title has a colon in it, there's hope that it might some day be made into a Lifetime original movie.)

One more thing I'll tell you about my name: my pre-marriage initials were ET. That meant that when I was in the sixth grade, and Steven Spielberg made a movie about a glowy-fingered alien of the same name, my classmates thought my initials were HILARIOUS. I remember one particular time in grade school when I had gone to the office to call my mom, and two boys from my class saw me on the phone and yelled "ET Phone Home!" and then ran away laughing hysterically and high-fiving each other.

Sixth graders are so interesting.

What Might Have Been

2006-10-23T01:57:00.000-07:00

I was going to blog about a rather appalling talk I heard in Sacrament meeting last Sunday (the general gist of it being that men need to lie to their wives), but then I decided that I need to just let it go.

Then I was going to blog about how I can't wait to meet my newest niece, and how I sent her a teensy tiny fleece jacket and a little shirt with a lamb on it (and how suddenly Old Navy has super cute baby clothes), but then I realized the person who'd be most interested in that information already knows about it, having given birth to said niece.

Then I was going to blog about how my husband took me to a Massive Attack concert, and how the people behind us passed a joint up and down the row, and how my brother-in-law asked me what I thought of the concert, and the best description I could come up with was "loud." But then I realized that there might be some Massive Attack fans out there whom I don't want to offend, and I didn't want them to get the wrong idea, because I actually did like some of the songs, even though they were really, really loud.

Then I was going to blog about how, in return for going to the Massive Attack concert, my husband offered to listen without prejudice to some of my favorite music, and how I started to compose a cd for him until I realized that there is absolutely no way on this earth he's ever going to like Paul Simon, The Indigo Girls, Irish folk music, or songs from Sweeney Todd, and so I decided to just be grateful that we both like classical music, Moby, and selected hits from the '80s, and not to blog about what a musical geek I am.

Then I was going to blog about how I was doing yoga in the corner of the 24 Hour Fitness exercise room when two girls in tight spandex came in and started dancing, and one of them said "Watch this!" and went leaping into the air, landed awkwardly, and started screaming that she'd torn her ACL, she just knew it, and while her friend ran for some ice, she called her boyfriend on her cell phone and said, sobbing, "I guess being a Laker Girl just wasn't meant to be."

But then I realized that it was 1:57 am, so I decided to go to bed instead of blogging.

Fright Night

2006-10-16T01:38:00.000-07:00

Six years ago, on a beautiful autumn evening in Manhattan, my friend persuaded me to do something that would come back to haunt me:

She took me to see The Exorcist.

"It'll be fun!" she insisted, practically dragging me toward the giant doors of the AMC Theatres in Times Square. "I've heard that it's not even scary! It was made in the 70s! It's totally dated!"

Sitting in my seat with a bag of popcorn that cost approximately half my paycheck, I was already regretting my decision by the time the lights dimmed. I'm not a complete wimp when it comes to scary movies, but in order for me to have a frightfully good time, two guidelines must be followed:

1. I must have control over my surroundings. This is why I hardly ever watch scary movies in the theater. If I get too scared, I need to be able to get up, turn on a light, walk around, throw a blanket over my head, mute the sound, or, in extreme cases, run screaming from the room.

2. Gore is right out. Wait Until Dark? Love it. Hitchcock? He's a genius. The Others? Bring it on, spooky Nicole Kidman and your creepy kids. Texas Chainsaw Massacre? Not in a million, trillion years.

I have learned through sad experience that if I break one of my rules, tragedy is almost certain to follow. For example:

When I was in junior high, I was at a sleepover when everyone (but me) decided it would be a great idea to watch Poltergeist at midnight. I didn't want anyone to think I was a scaredy-pants; especially my friend's super cute older brother who was inexplicably hanging out with a bunch of 13-year-olds. I managed to make it until the beginning of the clown-under-the-bed scene, and then, threatened with an impending heart attack, whispered to my friend that I had to go to the bathroom. In my haste to escape the room before that clown did what I sincerely hoped he was NOT GOING TO DO, and being slightly disoriented by the dark room, I ran straight into a heretofore unclosed sliding glass door with such force that I was knocked backwards and directly into the lap of the super cute inexplicable older brother.

(Long after the bruise on my face healed, the bruise of early adolescent mortification remained.)

And so, on that October night six years ago, I really should have known better than to let my friend talk me into seeing a film about demonic possession in a darkened theater. While everyone around me was laughing at the cheesy special effects and hokey dialogue, I was absolutely terrified. Around the time when the possessed girl spider-crawls backwards down the stairs (someone please hold me), I turned to my friend and whispered:

"I have to go to the bathroom."

Standing in the lobby, I munched on my pricey popcorn and considered my options. I didn't want to desert my friend, but I knew that if I went back into the theater I wouldn't be able to sleep that night. So I sat down on a bench, pulled my lunchbreak book out of my purse, and prepared to enjoy my autumn evening in a non-terrifying way.

As I opened my book, a super cute boy walked by, and smiled at me.
I smiled back, and you know what's spooky?

He looked a little like my junior high friend's inexplicable older brother.

Hooray! Hooray!

2006-10-09T03:06:00.000-07:00

I'm in a play!

This is the play:

This is an official description of the play:

"In the last decade of the twentieth century, a beautiful young woman in nineteenth century clothing is found floating on an iceberg in the middle of the North Atlantic. When rescued, she says only one word: Titanic. The characters and their interactions, which both deepen and unravel the mystery, reveal that few people are what they seem."

I am not the beautiful young woman. According to the audition notice, this is who I am:

Halbrech: Attractive, very intelligent, doctor of an undisclosed specialty.

This, according to the script, is what I will be wearing:

(The script does not say anything about posing or having hair like this person.)

This is how many people are in the play:

4

This is one of my lines:

"OPEN THIS DOOR!"

And this is all I can say, because my husband reads this blog, and he doesn't want to know anything else about the plot before he sees the show. (He is one of those people who loves surprises.)

This is how excited I am to be in a play after my 3-year hiatus:

VERY!

They Seek Him Here, They Seek Him There

2006-10-06T02:15:00.000-07:00

The other night, I caught the last half of a movie I hadn't seen in a long time. A movie that I've probably seen at least 15 times since it was produced in 1982. A movie starring, strangely enough, Jane Seymour. (I'm not a huge fan; especially when she tries to do a Southern or American accent. I mean, why couldn't they have just changed it to Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman From England? That would have made it easier on all of us. Not that I ever really watched Dr Quinn: Medicine Woman, but I'm just sayin'.)

Anyway, this film also stars Anthony Andrews, and a very young (and already quite quirky) Sir Ian McKellen. Have you guessed what it is yet? Here's your next hint:

"Sink me, the lady's a poet!"

If you remember that line, we need to talk.

After I first saw The Scarlet Pimpernel in high school, it quickly became my all-time favorite romantic movie. (Followed closely by "Somewhere In Time." Hum the theme song with me now . . .) Anthony Andrews was soooo dreamy, with that whole "I'm pretending to be an effeminate fop but secretly I'm a very masculine manly intelligent man" thing he had going on. And Jane Seymour didn't know! And he couldn't tell her! But she married him anyway! (And why was that, again?) And then he thought she betrayed him (which I HATED - stuff like that in movies always makes me SO uncomfortable. I can't stand it when characters are kept apart by misunderstandings and/or lack of information. Except in the A&E Pride and Prejudice, but that's mostly because I have Jennifer Ehle's performance to enjoy, and Colin Firth to look at.) What was I saying? Colin Firth . . .

So I asked my husband, the trusty Steve, if he'd ever seen The Scarlet Pimpernel.

"The one with Jane Seymour and Gandalf?" he asked. "My sisters loved that movie."

I told him that I and all of my friends had loved it, too, and we thought Anthony Andrews was to die for.

"Yeah. My sisters did, too. I never understood that. Wasn't he, uh, really effeminate?"

Yes, I explained. But that was his personna, you see. He had to pretend to be a fop. It was a matter of life and death!

"Okay, but even when he wasn't using his personna, wasn't he still, pretty much, really effeminate?"

My teenage heart wanted to cry out "No!", but having just seen part of the film, I had to agree. Yes, Steve. Yes, he was. But we loved him anyway. He fought for truth and justice and he wore a cape and hid in a tree and rescued Jane Seymour. And that was enough for us.

And so my question, dear readers, is this: Did you, too, love this movie? Did you fall victim to Anthony Andrews' girlish charm, and long to sail away with him into the poorly-filmed fake sunset?

If not, who were the movie men who made your teenage heart swoon?

A New Chapter

2006-10-01T22:30:00.000-07:00

As you may have noticed from several recent blog entries, acting has been on my mind as of late. Oddly enough, by the time I marched down the aisle to get my diploma, my MFA program had so completely exhausted me that I wasn't sure I ever wanted to act again, or at least not for a very long time. (Very dramatic of me.) So, I took a year off to recover, enjoy my new marriage, and pay off some student loan debt. And then, I started to miss the whole theatre thing. Quite a bit. It was around that time that I was cast in the Joseph Smith film; an experience I feel very fortunate to have had. After filming ended, I decided it was time to tackle the acting world once more. Unfortunately, my knee then decided that it was time to have surgery and take FOREVER to recover. And that was really lame. (Pun intended.)

It's been eight months since the surgery and, though I'm still not able to leap tall buildings with a single bound, I'm going to try to be an actress again. To tell you the truth, I'm a little scared. But it's now or never. (Well, not really. That was kind of dramatic.)

To aid in my artistic pursuits, my truly amazing and fabulous sister has created a website for me. (Did I mention she is amazing? And beautiful!) I feel a little bashful sharing it, which is silly; I mean, actresses are supposed to be all "Look at me!" and "Hey! Over here with that spotlight!", but I've never really been a fan of the whole self-promotion part of showbiz. However, since it's mostly family, friends, friends I haven't met yet, and the occasional lurker who read this blog, and as one of the first steps in my journey back to doing what I love:

www.emmelynthayer.com

I'm going to turn off comments for this one, but there's an email address on the website, if you feel commentarily inclined. I'd be happy to hear from you!

(Unless you send me spam.)

Steven Wright Saturday

2006-09-30T04:47:00.000-07:00

I went to a restaurant that serves "breakfast at any time." So I ordered French toast during the Renaissance.

All those who believe in psychokinesis raise my hand.

A conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking.

I almost had a psychic girlfriend, but she left me before we met.

Change is inevitable....except from vending machines.

Shin: a device for finding furniture in the dark.

42.7 percent of all statistics are made up on the spot.

On the other hand, you have different fingers.

A Small Part

2006-09-21T18:10:00.000-07:00

I recently subscribed to Backstage West, a news magazine for actors on the west coast. In today's issue, amongst the 5 bazillion advertisements for headshot photographers and acting coaches (Learn what it takes to be a STAR!), I came upon this ad, which I shall share with you verbatim:

Calling All Angels

RECEIVE $10,000 FOR A SMALL PART

Help someone else's dream come true
while you pursue yours.

THE EGG DONOR PROGRAM

We'll treat you like a star:
chocolates, massage, flowers,
and beautiful headshots.

The Perfect Dance

2006-09-18T02:23:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when my perfectionism rears its ugly head, I remember the lesson I learned when I was asked to be a Sri Lankan dancer.

One of my many tasks as an MFA student was to understudy the plays performed in three separate theatres. Almost always, my classmates and I had a full day of classes (and were in a play already), so learning the lines of a different play, and finding the time to see that play so we could learn the staging, were rather challenging endeavors. The situation was further complicated by the fact that, because there were only 14 students in the program, we were often assigned multiple roles to understudy. One summer, the 14 of us were understudying over 60 roles, which made for some frenetic, confusing, and often hilarious understudy rehearsals. During a run-through of Julius Caesar, for instance, my classmate was understudying a man who is being chased across the stage, the man who chases, catches, and kills him, and the person who berates the killer. Watching my friend attempt to portray all of these characters simultaneously was one of the most entertaining moments of theatre I have ever experienced.

Being the perfectionist that I am, I drove myself crazy over my understudy assignments. I resolved that if I ever had to go on, I wouldn't miss a line. I wouldn't miss a word! This resolution came in handy when I got the call late one afternoon that an actress had lost her voice, and I better get myself down to the theatre and into costume. With little time to rehearse, and having met the other two cast members only briefly, I stood behind the curtains that night feeling very grateful for my obsessive, perfectionistic tendencies. And went on to have a wonderful time.

During my second year of school, I attended a rehearsal of a play I wasn't understudying, and got there just in time to see a beautiful scene in which a Sri Lankan woman performs an intricate dance, narrating it in her native language. Rumor had it that no one would be asked to understudy the role because of its difficulty. That night, I got a call. Rumor had it wrong.

After crying for a while, I resolved to be the most perfect Sri Lankan dancer a 5'9" white girl with minimal dance experience could be. My first step was to ask the actress for help with learning the dance. Miss Sri Lanka seemed very nice, but she was kinda busy, she said. And she was sure she'd never get sick, so I didn't have anything to worry about. Good luck, she said.

Next, I asked for a videotape of the dance, so that I could pause and rewind it while trying to learn it. Sorry, they said. Copyright laws. I then tried standing in the back of the theatre, looking over my shoulder at the actress so that I could mirror her movements, tripping over myself and kicking my own shins numerous times in the process. At night, after rehearsals for the other play I was in, I listened to a tape of a Sri Lankan man speaking the pages of dialogue, sounding out each word phonetically.

I began to have nightmares involving dancing naked in Sri Lanka (at least I think it was Sri Lanka), while a man yelled phonetics at me from the audience. I cried. I prayed. Failure was not an option. I was going to be perfect.

And then, one day, when I was near despair, a classmate sat me down and said:

"Listen. I know you don't want to let anyone down, but face it. You are never going to be a Sri Lankan dancer."

And, as much as my perfectionism hated to admit it, I realized he was right. No matter how many hours I spent listening to that strange man's voice on tape, or tripping over myself in the back of the theatre, it just wasn't going to happen. And I didn't even want it to happen. I was going to let people down, and that was okay. What they'd asked me to do was completely insane. And I was driving myself insane because of it.

Since my Sri Lankan epiphany, I've tried to redefine perfection for myself. I've realized that I'll always feel driven to do things perfectly, but I've decided to focus on the gospel definition of perfection. In the footnote for Matthew 5:48, perfect is defined as "complete, finished, fully developed." I love that definition. Because, as delightful as they are, eternity would be really boring if we were all Sri Lankan dancers.

2006-09-13T03:37:00.000-07:00

I'm in need of a little inspiration.

Therefore, I hereby proclaim today (September 13, 2006),

Inspirational Quotes Day.

Or, if you prefer,

Words Worth Pondering Day.

Here are a few to start with.

"Apparent failure may hold in its rough shell the germs of a success that will blossom in time, and bear fruit throughout eternity."

-Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

"One can never consent to creep when one feels the impulse to soar."

-Helen Keller

"And it struck me that the most difficult thing had been the decision to act, the rest had been mere tenacity - and the fears were paper tigers."

-Robyn Davidson

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage."

-Anais Nin

"Do not think of today's failures, but of the success that may come tomorrow. Remember, no effort that we make to attain something beautiful is ever lost. Sometime, somewhere, somehow, we shall find what we seek."

-Helen Keller

"Industry is the handmaid of good fortune."

-Martha Wilson

"The detour of course became the actual path."

-Gretel Ehrlich

Additions?

The Drive Thru

2006-09-04T01:12:00.000-07:00

So I have a new boyfriend.

It's only fair, seeing as how, for several years now, my husband's had a girlfriend:

No, not Julie Andrews. Anne Hathaway! And can you blame him?
You can't, can you? I mean, have you seen The Princess Diaries?
She's adorable!

Anyway, back to my boyfriend. One Friday evening a few months ago, I had a hankering for a Del Taco Ultimate Taco with no tomatoes. When I handed my money up to the drive thru window, a smiling man looked down at me and said:

"Hi, I'm Juan."

I gave Juan my $1.53, and turned to adjust the radio volume. When I looked back up at the window, Juan was still standing there, smiling at me. Then he disappeared, and returned with my bag. It felt a little too heavy for one taco (even an Ultimate Taco), so before I drove away, I checked inside. Resting next to my taco was an order of fries.

"Juan? I've got fries in here, and I didn't order them."

Juan's smile got even wider.

"I know. For you, they're free!"

Still smiling, he closed the window, and I drove away with 500 more delicious calories than I'd signed up for.

Before I go any further, I feel that I should mention two things. First, Juan couldn't have been more than 18. Second, if we'd been standing next to each other, I could probably stare down at the top of Juan's head.

About a week later, I drove through Del Taco again, and whose smiling face should appear at the window?

"My friend!" He said. "How are you?"

"Hi, Juan! I'm great!"

When he handed me my bag, it felt even heavier than before. Sure enough, I opened it to discover the largest order of fries that Del Taco offers. The largest order of fries that I had ever seen. More fries than I could shake a stick at.

"Juan. You can't just give me all these fries for free!"

"But I want to!"

"Juan, this is a lot of fries."

"I know!"

When I got back to my apartment, the french fry smell was so powerful that I knew I had to come clean to Steve about Juan. I confessed everything, and showed him the fries.

"Wow, Em. That is a lot of fries."

"I know!"

A few days later, Steve expressed a hankering for Del Taco. Let's go, I said.

"Well, maybe you should go by yourself."

"Why?"

"Well, because maybe your boyfriend will be there."

"So?"

"Well, because maybe he won't give you free stuff if I'm with you."

A good point. But I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable about young Juan's french fry overtures. I mean, what exactly did he expect in return for the french fries? Where exactly was our relationship going? So Steve came with me. And Juan wasn't there.

A few weeks later, I drove through Del Taco for lunch. Surely Juan won't be there, I thought. I've only seen him at night.

I drove up to a familiar smile.

"Hello, my friend!"

"Hi, Juan! Are you working days now?"

"Nah, I'm just covering for someone."

"Oh."

There was an awkward pause. This was unfamiliar territory. We'd never seen each other in the daylight! I wondered what would happen.

When he handed me my bag, it didn't feel too heavy. There was a breathless moment of anticipation as I opened it. The smell of french fries filled my car.

"Juan, you really shouldn't keep doing this."

"I know!"

And, smiling, he closed the window.

A Love Letter

2006-08-19T11:40:00.000-07:00

Dear Provo,

It's been a while since I last saw you. It's okay if you didn't notice I was gone - you've had a lot going on these past few months. I'm sorry I missed the June blossoms, the July parades, and the August thunderstorms. I hope you know that I never want to be away from you for long.

Sometimes, you make my heart ache a little. At night, when I read books in my room in the house where I grew up, listening to the train whistle and the crickets and the wind in the trees and the silence, I think about everything we've experienced together. Remember the summer night games of hide-and-go-seek with the neighbor kids? Remember sun-warmed apricots, canyon marshmallow roasts, late-night conversations with best friends, snow on Christmas Eve, and my first kiss? (I know, I know, I should never have dated him, everyone told me he was bad news, but he was SO cute! Remember?)

One of the things I haven't thanked you for lately is your consistency. Every time I go to the grocery store, I see a friend from high school (or their mom), and get an update on their life. I get to see babies I never knew existed! I love that. Thank you.

Thank you, too, for reminding me that 80 degrees is not hot. When it's 80 degrees in California, I get cranky. I shouldn't. I know.

There are a few things I've been meaning to ask you about. For all your consistency, I've noticed you've recently made some changes, and I have to admit they take a little getting used to. I don't know how to feel about the new all-white temple. And what's up with the missionaries? Why do they all look like babies? I used to drive by the MTC and think they were cute. Now I want to protect them and give them motherly advice. And don't tell me I was that young when I went into the MTC. I so was not.

Well, this letter is getting long, and I know you don't have a lot of spare time, so I'll wrap it up. I love you, Provo. Please don't get too busy or change too much. Oh, one thing: do you think you could look into being just a little less dry? I love what you do for my hair, and I know you're a desert and everything, but I've used about a gallon of lotion today, and my skin is still itchy. If it's too much trouble, don't worry about it.

Thank you for everything!

Love,
Emmie

1,095 Days

2006-08-14T13:28:00.000-07:00

This morning, to celebrate our three-year anniversary, Steve and I drove to Orem, and went to Village Inn. Steve had the blueberry blintzes, and the pancakes that came with my omelet. Wilson Phillips sang about holding on for one more day. The ladies in the neighboring booth talked about how Village Inn pie compares to other pie, and about that time that woman they know broke both her ankles.

A little over three years ago, Steve met my family for the first time. After the introductions, my youngest brother interviewed him, asking him every question he could think of while the rest of my family sat around and watched. Steve loved it, and they loved him. After the interview, Steve was understandably very hungry. I took him to the only place I knew was open - the destination of choice for post-play actors and late-night truckers.

At Village Inn, a little over three years ago, this is what Steve ate:

Large bowl of clam chowder
French dip sandwich
French fries
Chocolate shake
Belgian waffle
Half of my salad
Rootbeer

Afterwards, he "slept like a baby."

Earlier this week, we celebrated our anniversary in style with a lovely dinner and a fancy hotel, but I'm glad we went to Village Inn today. It wouldn't have felt right if we hadn't commemorated the actual day with sticky menus, eavesdropping, maple syrup, and Wilson Phillips.

Television for Women

2006-08-06T01:18:00.000-07:00

Late last night, there was a movie on Lifetime called "The People Next Door" (starring Faye Dunaway and Nicollette Sheridan).

The TV Guide description:

"The childless couple next door seem like nice people to a single mother, until they kidnap her three kids."

I guess after the kidnapping, they didn't seem so nice.

Farewell, Avonlea

2006-07-30T22:47:00.000-07:00

Before heading to the salon Friday morning to get my hair blonded, I made a list of post-blonde activities: Put gas in the gar, practice the organ for Sunday, go to the gym, and do some grocery shopping.

By Friday evening, my gas gauge was panic-level low, I was almost home before I realized I'd forgotten to turn the lights off at the church, I arrived at the gym without my water bottle, towel, or ipod, and returned from the store without the one thing I'd gone for in the first place.

Coincidence? Or blonde-related?

I do love my new hair - even if it cost a small fortune. I had no idea! My first professionally-aided highlights occurred one year ago in the makeup room of the LDS Motion Picture Studio, when it was decided that the Pioneer I was portraying should look like she'd actually spent some time in the sun. Up until then, the price of a box of Natural Reddish Blonde was about all I was willing to pay to give my hair a little boost. That, and the occasional $14 splurge at Supercuts.

With a little help from Clairol, I was a redhead for most of my 20s, although I have one friend who refused to refer to me as such. (Hi, Sam!) When I met her in high school, I was a natural blonde, and she was a natural Anne of Green Gables devotee. Later, no matter how red I went, she insisted that I wasn't really a redhead. Not like Anne!

(Love you, Sam!)

I have friends who, being sassy blondes themselves (Hi, Skanky Chris!), tried to convince her otherwise. To no avail.

(Love you, Skanky!)

Never content with my status quo, I've been vacillating between red and blonde for some time now. It's a waste of time and vacillation, really. I mean, have you seen my husband's hair?

We've been told by more than one person that we look like brother and sister. I really had no choice.

Also, the way we met: Stu asked a friend of mine (Hi, Jannah!) if she knew any tall, single blondes. Thank goodness I was blonde at the time! (And tall.)(And single.)

I've gone natural ever since the Pioneer highlights, and my hair's been getting more and more non-descript. And so, after accosting several women in the grocery store these past few months to find out where they went blonde (and insulting at least one of them, I'm sure, for not assuming their color was au naturale), I finally decided on the place of blonding.

And here I blondely sit.

I think it was worth the depleted bank account.

And I'll let you know if I start having more fun.

In the meantime:

(Hi, Carina! This one's for you.)

Rumination

2006-07-25T02:01:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about guilt, regret, and retrospect lately.

I've also been thinking about helping versus enabling, but perhaps this all might be a little too much to cover in one blog entry.

So I'll focus on guilt.

A few weeks ago, I asked the bishop to release me from my calling in the Primary. In retrospect, I should have asked to be released much sooner, or not accepted the calling to begin with.

When the bishop first asked me to be the Sunbeam teacher, I was delighted. I was also scheduled for knee surgery the following week, but told him I was sure I'd be ready to teach a few weeks after the operation. Those few weeks came and went, and though my spirit was willing, my flesh - not so much. But I did it anyway. It was my calling! My kids tripped over and climbed on my crutches for a few months, and when I stopped using crutches, my kids tripped over and climbed on me. My friends in the ward were happy for me.

"Looks like you’re all better now!”

Thing was, I wasn't. But I thought I should be, and I couldn't ask to be released. I'd never done that.

Well, except on my mission.

When I first hurt my knee in Montreal, I thought I just needed to have more faith. This hypothesis was backed up by many fellow (mostly male) missionaries.

“Just have faith, and you will be healed!”

I did, but I wasn't. Instead, I was paired with an amazing girl who also had debilitating health problems, and we spent several incredibly difficult and wonderful months together, lying on our beds, telling each other stories about our lives. Rarely well enough to proselytize, and only able to read scriptures and Ensigns for so many hours a day, we soon learned almost everything about each other. I'm sure if you asked her, she could tell you the names of all my friends' boyfriends. And I could tell you the plots of all of Stephen King's novels, even though I'd never read any.

(She was a big fan.)

I don't regret one minute of our time together, but I do regret the guilt I felt for not getting well. (That, and the guilt I felt for talking about boys and Pet Sematary.) Guilt kept me on my mission far longer than I should have been, and pushing myself because of that guilt is the main reason surgery was recently required.

My husband and family members told me from my first Sunday with the Sunbeams that I should ask to be released. But I couldn't ask. I looked healthy - everybody said so! When I went home, my knee spent the rest of Sunday (and sometimes Monday) on ice and painkillers, but there were people with far worse handicaps! Some people with missing limbs run marathons!

In retrospect, I was being ridiculous. Especially since I had (and have) two other callings. TWO.

A friend of mine once said:

“Faith is not the power of positive thinking. It's submission to the will of God."

I often find it difficult to decipher God's will, but I don't think he wanted me messing up my knee - either in California or Montreal. When I finally prayed and asked if it was okay to leave my mission early, I felt an overwhelming sense of love and peace. I hadn't expected that.

So, I no longer teach in the Primary. I don't regret asking to be released.

And I only feel the slightest bit guilty.