tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87221067581269539012024-03-01T18:06:28.700-07:00Casper Blog, TheWe are Steven, Tammy, Cordelia, and Sorella Casper (in order of age, not importance, intelligence, or adorableness).
This is our blog, where we promise to never forget to post what we think we ought to when we remember.Steve and Tammyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04751756049996426651noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-57458620519425431542012-09-22T22:49:00.000-06:002012-09-22T22:52:34.049-06:00Breakfast CerealsSo I opened a box of Lucky Charms (they were on sale, I guess, so Tammy couldn't pass them up) today, and Cordelia got super excited about the rainbow on the back. So we looked at the pictures of the various fake-marshmallow <i>charms</i>. They've added 2 more since the last time I paid attention: The Hourglass, and The Rainbow. At this point I told Cordelia about how when I was about her age we only had Pink Hearts, Orange Stars, Green Clovers, and Blue Moons, and how I remembered when they first introduced Purple Horseshoes! and not long after that, Red Balloons.<br />
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Anyway, that got me thinking back to a conundrum I had as a kid - something my cousin Todd and I probably talked about while spending the summer on the farm in Idaho. I want to just dive into the conundrum, but I really want to set it up right... If you're young, you may not know all the commercials that I grew up with (and since I don't watch TV with commercials anymore, I have no idea if the format is the same today). But if you're in your 30s or older, you'll remember these.<br />
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<ul>
<li>Lucky Charms - The kids were always in relentless pursuit of Lucky so they could steal his Lucky Charms cereal. He was good-natured about it when they caught him, but did that make it <i>not</i> stealing?</li>
<li>Cocoa Puffs - Sonny, the Cuckoo Bird, went Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs... they made him <i>explode</i> with energy, insanity, and frankly this idea terrified him. He <i>hated</i> it. He did all in his power to avoid eating Cocoa Puffs. But the sadistic kids would chase him down and <b>force-feed</b> this cereal to him - all for a laugh. Charming.</li>
<li>Trix - The Trix Rabbit <i>wanted</i> to eat Trix. He didn't try to prevent kids from eating Trix, but he wanted some, too. The kids refused absolutely to share: "Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids." Excuse me, but <i>Trix</i> are for kids? The cereal has the Trix Rabbit's name on it. How did the cereal get his name, if not because they are his? I have some recent theories on this one:</li>
<ul>
<li>He's allergic. Something in them will make him sick, or possibly kill him - so the kids are just looking out for his best interests (view the behaviors of the kids from the above examples, and you'll likely join me in doubting it - in fact, if he were allergic, they'd probably force him to eat the cereal as a sick experiment).</li>
<li>Trix is made out of other Trix Rabbits, so for him to eat the cereal would make him a cannibal. Of course, if this were the case, I'd half-expect the kids to take a bite out of him, just to see if "fresh Trix" is better than processed.</li>
<li>Finally, we get to the one that I suppose is most-likely: Trix Cereal is actually made up of Trix Rabbit pellets. Yes, that's right, rabbit poop. They are pellet-shaped, and it would be really upsetting for him to eat them. Of course, this doesn't answer the question: Why do the <i>kids</i> want to eat them???</li>
</ul>
</ul>
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Tony the Tiger and the Honey Nut Cheerios Honey Bee were both a lot better at getting kids to share the cereal without being total douches about it. Tony, as you may have noticed, was a tiger. He would have mauled up-start children and had himself a greeeaaaat! breakfast of his own. And the Honey Bee - well, he is a bee. They sting you if you tick them off. Seriously. </div>
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And this brought me to another thought: What's with all the cartoons pitching cereal? Is it because these are kids cereals? Their tastes haven't matured enough to realize how unappetizing most of these cereals are, yet... or maybe they have, but kids will eat anything if a cartoon character tells them to? Adults have choices, many better choices than sugary-sweet, low-to-no-nutritional value breakfast cereals. </div>
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<ul>
<li>Raisin Bran </li>
<ul>
<li>If you don't like raisins, the following are essentially Raisin-free alternatives</li>
<li>Wheaties </li>
<li>Special K</li>
<li>Total </li>
</ul>
<li>Fruit & Fiber</li>
<li>Grapenuts</li>
<li>Cracklin' Oat Bran</li>
<li>Oh!s</li>
<li>Shredded Wheat (mini's are all I see these days)</li>
</ul>
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None of these cereals need cartoon characters to pitch them. They're good, they're healthful, and frankly the health-conscious real-human actors pitching them seem to have good BMs, so that's encouraging.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">For my closing remarks, I want to make special mention of Toucan Sam, who always shared his findings with the kids - and he never seemed coerced. Snap, Crackle, and Pop, also. I don't recall them trying to withhold their Rice Crispies, and were never prevented from eating or forced to eat them. Sugar Bear was genial (again, he was a bear, so the kids were probably a little terrified of him). Don't want to forget the Cookie Crisp Cookie Crook, or... you know... the Flintstones... and of course: Count Chocula, Franken Berry, and Boo Berry.</span></div>
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And finally, Cap'n Crunch. This guy had no problem lying to kids - right to their faces. He gave them his cereal as a brain-booster. And he also said that the cereal stayed crunchy in milk. This was only true if you ate them quickly - a feat I could never do, as (1) I couldn't stand them and (2) they were so hard with sharp edges, they chewed the roof of my mouth to shreds if I didn't let them soak in my bowl for 5 minutes or so.</div>
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Thanks for strolling down memory lane with me, and thinking about the messages commercials are trying to make our children think about, you know, when they get older and have time to reflect on them - or just can't sleep.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-47825880765202510522012-08-28T04:56:00.001-06:002012-08-28T04:56:33.926-06:00Reflections on AgingWhy do we have children? Is there any yardstick more terrifying, in terms of getting older? I have friends whose children are now driving, some whose children are starting middle school. My own oldest is starting Kindergarten today.<br />
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You know what I realized? I feel younger than my friends with older children appear to be.<br />
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That's right. People who are younger than me, people I went to high school with who were 1 to 3 years behind me, have children as much as 12 years older than my oldest child and I see myself as younger than these old friends.<br />
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And my thoughts?<br />
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Yikes! Having children gives one too much perspective! A point of reference too solid to ignore! And what's worse: There's no going back, no undoing this marker.<br />
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Obviously, not having children wouldn't prevent the aging process, and living in a bubble of ignorance wouldn't change the fact that as time passes, our bodies begin breaking down and betraying us. And yet there is something to be said about such a blissful blindness.<br />
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Another thought I had: Television shows that we consider ourselves contemporary to work against us in a similar way.<br />
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I was either on my mission or about to leave on my mission when the first episode of Friends aired in 1994. Children who were born that day will be leaving on their missions next year.<br />
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Kids born when The X-Files first aired are leaving on their missions this year.<br />
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I heard some "adults" at work talking about Pokémon last year... not derisively as I might, but with childhood fondness, the way I could (still) talk about Voltron, the Muppet Show, or any number of programs I could call up from my childhood.<br />
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World Politics give perspective, too... I'm curious about the <i>Red Dawn</i> remake... what fear does today's generation have of waking up to a world where the Soviets have invaded? In fact, I have to wonder if today's generation really even knows what a "Soviet" is? If they paid attention in History class, they'll be able to tell you about the USSR, I suppose... And yet, even for me, somebody whose childhood was flavored by fears of the Soviet Union, movies about Soviet aggression, that acronym, U.S.S.R. appears foreign to my eyes - and it's only been about 20 years since the Soviet government collapsed - how can I expect today's generation to appreciate movies like <i>Firefox </i>(Clint Eastwood, 1982), <i>WarGames</i> (Broderick, 1983), <i>Night Crossing</i> (Bridges, Hurt, 1982).<br />
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Plenty of other things give perspective as well. Neil Armstrong passed away on Saturday. He walked on the moon 6 years before I was born. No man has walked on the moon in my lifetime at all... but at least Neil was still alive.<br />
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But all of these things are non-essentials to me. I can ignore them, I can forget about them, I can pretend that Friends/X-Files/Seinfeld/etc. are still airing thanks to Netflix, DVD, etc. I can pretend that Neil is still alive (since I won't really talk to him any less often than I did before). I can pretend John Stockton and Karl Malone still play for the Jazz (since I didn't watch all that much basketball to begin with). I can still think of Russia as the Soviet Union (since the Soviets didn't want to be called Russians when I was a child, I feel weird referring to Russians as Russians as an adult, anyway).<br />
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My friends' children are likewise non-entities as far as my self-delusion is concerned. Most of these friends are <i>facebook</i> friends, which is to say I have little-to-no contact with them outside of my occasional forays into their fb updates, so their children are strangers to me - they could be <i>anybody's</i> kids.<br />
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But my children... My children are the lasso around my neck. I cannot ignore them, pretend they aren't there, get away from the truth they force upon me. I cannot escape the fact of them and of their aging and growing. I cannot close my eyes and tell myself it's all just a dream and I'll wake up in a few minutes - time to get up to catch the school bus.<br />
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No, my children force perspective on me, make me acknowledge myself in a way I'm not always comfortable with. Make me see myself as I truly am. They are a fun-house reflection of me. Not really me, but close enough to make me take stock of who I am, what I am, and what I could be and must be.<br />
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Am I sorry I have children? <i>Absolutely not</i>. Would I have it any other way? <i>Blasphemy!</i> But do I long for the ignorance, the veil of self-deception that allows me to think I'm as young as I feel? <i>Certainly</i>!<br />
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What I never understood as a child, and I understand better every day, is that older people don't <i>know</i> they're older people! They may have a brain-bound knowledge of their age, and their bodies may be breaking down, and they may talk about being old all the time... but in their heads, they still see themselves as they used to be. They still remember how it felt to be young and alive and full of vigor. And not only do they remember it, they <i>feel</i> it... they <i>think</i> they still have it, even if they <i>know</i> that it's gone or going.<br />
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I just realized that I used the word "they" in the above paragraph, not the word "we." And yet, I <i>am</i> an older person - by childhood standards. And yet it doesn't feel right to go back and change the "they"s to "we"s above. I <i>am</i> older, I know. But I'm not <i>old</i>. I'm not one of <i>them</i>... And I never will be. The amazing thing about this is that I know there are people older than me who will read this, some of them as much as 20-30 years older than me, who will undoubtedly not think of themselves as part of the "they" when they read it, either. They will see themselves as I see myself: aging but not old. Breaking down, but still young. Bodies that don't do what they used to, but inside, still full of life, desires, joys, fears, longings, hopes, needs, wants, and so much more - the things young people are known for live on in the older generations, but they are curbed by reality and buried under responsibility and care.<br />
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I've rambled incoherently for a while now (it is a blog on aging after all), and though the student in me wants to go back and re-structure, re-write, and edit the piece - the writer in me wants to leave the stream of thought as it is. I woke up this morning unable to get back to sleep, all the vagaries of my dreams still prancing about in my semi-conscious mind, and I felt an urgency to get in front of my PC and type the thoughts and ideas and randomness of my frail processes... and because this is not a work of academia, or a piece of scholarship, not an article intended for publication in any respected journals or magazines, and is merely my blog - shared with whomever finds it, but more directly with those who know me and perhaps love me, I feel more honest leaving it as it is. Streaming and unedited (well... I do some editing as I go along - but it's minor stuff like spelling, word-usage, you know: the basics).<br />
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I started this out focused on how old I feel when I reflect on all the changes around me, but have ended up regarding my age as merely the tangible part of wisdom and responsibility. Inside, I am no older than I was 20 years ago, so I suspect in 20 years, I'll be no older than I am today - and by extension, no older than I was 20 years ago, still. My body may be more beaten, my actions may be more deliberate, my choices more experienced, but barring actual cerebral damage and decay, I anticipate feeling like I have always felt, on an emotional, intellectual level.<br />
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If only children could understand this. If only older people knew how to teach it... Fortunately, anybody who lives long enough to become "older" will learn it. I expect I've just touched on the surface of what it's really like for those who have lived 37 years more than I have. I'll see about looking back on this when I'm 74, and maybe make an update at that time. Unless I am just too old to bother.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-22674502573174043392012-05-29T21:18:00.001-06:002012-05-29T21:18:26.401-06:00A Dash of IronyI liked this so much I had to take a picture. It will likely make it onto my facebook and Google+ profiles... and I think I may just submit it to Failblog.org<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-4838791459022020952012-03-06T19:16:00.000-07:002012-03-06T19:16:32.031-07:00Soooo Many GigglesVideo update.<br />
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Here you get to see and hear the newest little Casperling in one of the best moods I've seen.<br />
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Behind her, you'll see big sis tracing Disney Princesses.<br />
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My girls.<br />
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I love 'em.<br />
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<br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/HWb3A8ec8o8?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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Anybody who only reads the blog from their email, and doesn't actually get my videos embedded in their email notification, can go directly to <a href="http://fantasmini.blogspot.com/">http://fantasmini.blogspot.com</a> in order to view the blog in its natural habitat.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-44091441721526275112012-02-04T20:31:00.000-07:002012-02-04T20:31:15.331-07:00Oooo Look! It's Flashing!It's been a while since I took Driver's Ed (something like 20 years). It's been less time since I took traffic school (probably somewhere around 8 years). It's only been about 2 years since I took a 2-month course in commercial driving. And in all of those educative experiences we learned about signs and rules and what specific colors on the street lights meant. We learned how to treat a four-way stop, and as such learned that the meaning of "Right-of-Way" actually meant that in a tie, the person to the <i>right</i> had the right to go first.<br />
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We learned, back then, how to treat a street light that was out or obviously malfunctioning. We learned that a red arrow meant "Don't turn." If it was pointing left, it meant don't turn left. If pointing right, it meant "Don't turn right - even if the guy behind you is honking (you'll get the ticket if you run it, not him, so let him honk)."<br />
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We learned that green means <i>go</i>, red means <i>stop</i>, and yellow means (ha ha) <i>go faster</i> or - more responsibly - <i>use caution</i>.<br />
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What I never learned, and surprisingly not I nor anybody I've asked, has been summoned to a Driver's Ed refresher course to teach us how to deal with the following changes - despite how useful such refreshers would be in the evolving urban nightmare that UDOT (I include city planners and whoever else it is that blows our tax dollars on experiments) has begun forcing on the Salt Lake Valley.<br />
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<ul>
<li>Continuous Flow Intersections (CFIs) - so named to mislead the people with the money into forking out large enough sums to pay for the destruction of corner homes and businesses, while simultaneously providing months and years of construction work (ie. traffic congestion, narrowed lanes, construction zone speed limits, etc.) and ensuring years of confusion amongst out-of-towners, elderly drivers, and people who just plain missed the "on-ramp" light for their left turn a quarter-mile down the road. Another benefit provided by CFIs is the renovated "No Right Turn" light (a bright white outline of an arrow with an impressive red circle and line crossing through it) - a red right-turn arrow isn't enough, even UDOT agreed, to ensure people no longer try to turn right at an intersection. So now you can't turn right on a red, and you get to wait for your left turn from further away. There is probably some benefit somewhere, but methinks it's mostly a benefit to somebody writing off something somewhere, or padding their resume with "I conceived of the plan to rebuild the entire traffic-system in the Salt Lake Valley, and successfully convinced them to do it."</li>
<li>Mostly the above.</li>
<li>And third, Flashing Yellow Left-Turn Arrows.</li>
</ul>
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That's right. We have flashing yellow left-turn arrows peppered around the valley. Why, you ask? Let me tell you why! So that we know to use caution when turning left at an intersection!</div>
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As I typed the above, I realized that there is more to it than that - obviously everybody knows that you have to use caution before turning left on a solid green light. In fact that is why I started this rant. I was kind of annoyed that they were changing perfectly good, working solid greens with flashing yellows that didn't change anything about how you turn left. </div>
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But now I get it. Let me share my epiphany.</div>
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You see, the planners are so dead-set on converting every intersection in Utah into an arterial joke, that they are concerned people will forget how to safely wait for an opening in on-coming traffic before turning left at the few intersections they can't convert. We're to become so familiar with the Crazy Flow Intersections, and their magical ability to let through-traffic flow at the same time that left-turners are making their turns, that we will eventually think a solid green light always means "go for it!!"</div>
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We really are a stupid breed, I guess. Good thing the smarty-pants in charge are ahead of the curve and compassionate enough to look out for the rest of us tards. Phew! I guess I should just relax, stare contentedly at the flashing yellow light, and hope for an opening before the drool spills down my shirt.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-32090290348323655732012-01-26T09:57:00.002-07:002012-01-26T09:57:56.161-07:00Thomas Healy - See You On the Other Side<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Thomas Charles Healy</div>
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September 19, 1953-January 24, 2012</div>
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Thomas Charles Healy left this earth peacefully after a 2 month battle
with cancer, on January 24, 2012. Tom was born on September 19, 1953 in Salt
Lake City, UT to Melvin and Mary Jane Healy.</div>
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Tom graduated from Kearns High School in 1972. He married Lynda Joyce
Duffin on July 13, 1973. They were sealed in the Salt Lake Temple on July 13,
1983. Tom retired from Concrete Products Company. He spent his retirement with
his grandchildren, and serving in the Jordan River, and Oquirrh Mountain
Temples. He served faithfully in the church as a dedicated Home Teacher, High
Councilman, Bishopric Member, Stake Sunday School Presidency, and the Emergency
Preparedness Committee.</div>
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Tom is survived by his wife Lynda Healy; children Chad (Patti) Healy,
Michelle (Blake) Draper, Tammy (Steve) Casper; 6 grandchildren Cordelia,
Garrett, Madison, Cameron, Ethan, and Sorella; mother Mary Jane Healy, and
brothers Melvin (Drena) Healy and Victory Healy. Preceded in death by his
father Melvin Healy</div>
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Funeral Services will be held on Saturday, January 28<sup>th</sup> at
11:00 AM at the LDS Meetinghouse at 6364 S 3200 W, West Jordan, UT. A viewing
will be held on Friday, January 27<sup>th</sup> from 6 to 8 PM and one hour
prior to services, also at the church.</div>
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In lieu of flowers, and in honor of Tom’s love for temple service,
please donate to the LDS Temple fund.</div>
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Arrangements entrusted to Starks Funeral Parlor. Online condolences may
be offered to the family at <a href="http://www.starksfuneral.com/">www.starksfuneral.com</a>
.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-54235714372761202982011-12-27T17:29:00.001-07:002011-12-27T17:51:47.795-07:00Year End Pictures<br />
It's been a while since my last post, and in a way I feel super bad about it.<br />
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But in another way I feel okay about it. Because I've been super busy. This particular post is another of my famous "touching base" posts.
Cordelia is doing great, Sorella is getting big, Tammy is enjoying Winter Recess, and I'm... well, I'm happy to be employed.<br />
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And now, what we're really here for: Pictures!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkmJePsMWDX_-eEB_CUXwbP1i-K-nSokC4TbmgSZnlPiZ_G54ChhCUpqrN7PxargUlTGjf-zbtzB1_Sck9iCKh1-sNPlaRJqs2zQEzP60qYilfA9oaZmcoHtBIxFdlFuxIGOzH16uUFIhq/s1600/SM+-+Loving+the+Bath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkmJePsMWDX_-eEB_CUXwbP1i-K-nSokC4TbmgSZnlPiZ_G54ChhCUpqrN7PxargUlTGjf-zbtzB1_Sck9iCKh1-sNPlaRJqs2zQEzP60qYilfA9oaZmcoHtBIxFdlFuxIGOzH16uUFIhq/s320/SM+-+Loving+the+Bath.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsC-I-F8mUlJXlMQ6NvvFlAFhNjXZ7ZQXjutYW-Ony_5fP5UcauuR92yUqrF8APLixmI9R01O81AERA2n2Ue7Robdy-V_GiauUeZQ9Qi50XfxvYye6B6NGTSMYfEzKcSDNAYIZbXO96DF6/s1600/2011-12-05_20-30-29_678-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsC-I-F8mUlJXlMQ6NvvFlAFhNjXZ7ZQXjutYW-Ony_5fP5UcauuR92yUqrF8APLixmI9R01O81AERA2n2Ue7Robdy-V_GiauUeZQ9Qi50XfxvYye6B6NGTSMYfEzKcSDNAYIZbXO96DF6/s320/2011-12-05_20-30-29_678-1.jpg" width="236" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnyUFUayNQoSldfSKw9h8KLdxi-vhhRn-EOQAxjbHynvbWy_pkWYwqE14OCMVAVEP36woXWyHgCyXEXq6iHyFhkHf9BkbGyFZyptcOr-rJRmOq6Unex1sKHbvf4Qe4LXkIpBwuyu-NdJ9p/s1600/SM+-+My+Little+Christmas+Lady+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnyUFUayNQoSldfSKw9h8KLdxi-vhhRn-EOQAxjbHynvbWy_pkWYwqE14OCMVAVEP36woXWyHgCyXEXq6iHyFhkHf9BkbGyFZyptcOr-rJRmOq6Unex1sKHbvf4Qe4LXkIpBwuyu-NdJ9p/s320/SM+-+My+Little+Christmas+Lady+001.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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And this one from Halloween:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6hhGvFevWLaOlL7xQ_Wu7CKzaOAEIQTvbCJBlJO3AyvpyvHyTzF0uQYfII_4yAHMIg2k_-GpDrrCO2UojvvlQp6Vu0zk7prL7J3gqAEubLbE4SK7jpHpYtaMSdmmCe7s7Xa8kf_QDVGyI/s1600/SM+-+Halloween+Girls+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6hhGvFevWLaOlL7xQ_Wu7CKzaOAEIQTvbCJBlJO3AyvpyvHyTzF0uQYfII_4yAHMIg2k_-GpDrrCO2UojvvlQp6Vu0zk7prL7J3gqAEubLbE4SK7jpHpYtaMSdmmCe7s7Xa8kf_QDVGyI/s320/SM+-+Halloween+Girls+001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And I've got a video I want to upload, but it's going to take a little editing which I just don't have time for in this very moment.</div>
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Anyway, I hope you all had a merry Christmas and wish you all a safe and fun new year!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-17304603576685731702011-11-11T15:20:00.000-07:002011-11-11T22:36:29.559-07:00Scripture Mastery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Okay, so the ward Primary Program is this Sunday - for those who read this and are not LDS or not familiar with what a Primary Program is, let me explain:</div>
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Every year the ward (church group) puts on a program during the portion of Sunday meetings where the entire congregation is gathered together (as opposed to being in various Sunday School classes). The program consists of the Primary (children between the ages of 3 and 12) singing, giving talks, and reading scriptures to the congregation.</div>
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Last year, Cordelia was given the opportunity to participate by reading the first Article of Faith (13 articles provided by Joseph Smith to the editor of a newspaper to explain in concise terms what the LDS people believe).</div>
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The First Article is: <i>We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost.</i></div>
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At 3 years of age, obviously she couldn't read it, and rather than having somebody standing over her shoulder, telling her what to say, Tammy came up with the idea of actually helping Cordelia memorize it.</div>
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Which she did. We were very proud!</div>
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This year, they've given her a bit more. They gave her the assignment two weeks ago [Mosiah 3:5]. She's still learning the basics of reading, so we set out to help her memorize this one, too.</div>
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We think she's ready.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxJiLIBXYke5zmRHDYxkk__zOyt-yoM0UEh9ZuwqsIn2MAeX74jGq2SWvbbjZpQnA2Yvj1yefvyVG1vF54q7w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-14434875049252299362011-10-13T11:54:00.001-06:002011-10-13T11:56:02.755-06:00To Shave or Not To Shave<br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was recently surprised to learn that there are still people, reasonably educated people, who still believe that shaving causes hair to grow back thicker, fuller, faster.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Adult people who have gone to college, even.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Despite there being a singular lack of logic to this belief.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Let's examine:</span></div>
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<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> If shaving caused hair to grow in thicker, balding men (and women) would be wise to shave their heads to encourage thicker re-growth.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> - Personal Observation: I've been shaving my head fairly regularly for close to 10 years now, and each time I let it grow back for more than a few weeks, I note that my hair, if anything, is actually thinner than it was the last time.</span><br />
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<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Assuming hair growth (or loss) is determined by genetics, then in what way does shaving cause a change to one's genetic make-up?</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Assuming hair growth (or loss) is determined by diet, environment, or other non-genetic factors, how would shaving alter those non-genetic factors?</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> - Personal Observation: I've been shaving my face fairly regularly for about 20 years. Every time I let my beard grow for more than a week, it becomes painfully obvious that I am no closer to dressing up as Grizzly Adams or playing Santa Claus this year than I was last year.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ultimately, I have determined that there are some reasons why people are inclined to believe in the false assertion that shaving affects the rate or fullness of hair-growth. And a quick Google-search of "Does shaving cause hair to grow?" vindicated my thoughts.</span><br />
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<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">A strand of hair is thicker in the middle than it is at the [natural] end. Therefore, when you cut it, you go from having naturally thin end, to having a thicker end - giving the illusion of increased thickness</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Additionally, making a comparison of a single hair to, say, a blade of grass or a length of rope, it is possible to see a characteristic shared between them. When they are short, they have a relative stiffness when compared to longer versions. This makes stubble rough and un-bending, which could be interpreted as being thicker or fuller... though it's not.</span></li>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have also developed my own considered theory as to how this particular myth was born, and why we continue to perpetuate it.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><u>Boys</u></b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The parents of boys will almost uniformly encounter the embarrassing time when their pubescent child will decide that it's time to grow a moustache. This time will most likely come sometime between the ages of 10 and 14.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The parents of said adolescent will try to find some innocuous way to hint to their peach-fuzzy offspring that it isn't really time to grow it out. This could come in the form of a razor in a stocking at Christmas, or an elaborately wrapped birthday present. A way of stating "You are becoming a man! Here is a manly gift, a razor! If you shave, you are a man!"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This works pretty well. I know how jealous I was when my older brother got an electric shaverr at Christmas... I was sure I needed one, too. I totally would have started shaving.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This may not work if the fuzzy-faced pre-teen would rather demonstrate his manliness with actual hair, rather than with a shaver that stays in the bathroom, undisplayed to the world at large (aka all the girls at school).</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thus the LIE: "It's kind of peach-fuzzy right now, but if you shave it, it will grow in thicker and thicker. You'll just have to shave it once or twice a week (or month) and before you know it, you'll have a nice full beard!"</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><u>Girls</u></b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The parents (probably the fathers more than the mothers), in an effort to keep their girls young and innocent, forever children, never ever ever to become interested in, or the interest of, boys... at least until they are 30, use a similar tactic to forestall leg-shaving.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The LIE: "You know if you start shaving your legs now, the hair will just grow in thicker and fuller and faster. You should just leave it alone for now."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><u>Summary</u></b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Boys want hair, so wr tell them to shave it.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Girls don't want hair, so we tell them to let it grow.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Parents are awesome.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-51241789828027737362011-09-16T19:59:00.001-06:002011-09-16T19:59:55.900-06:00Let's Make A Dill...<div>
<i>or </i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b6d7a8; font-size: large;">If You Don't Say Stupid Things, I Wont Mock You</span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtU9aKKcSc0u4yPI490G4LUetChUoyH8Nmwu1eCwSF-FBg9RsISRcwuw0tjR7Imly3U0-9qy_mpuX48gd2mwwz8RJcb78_jqCru-kpaaC38jOioSbI5fj-LFcE4CXUvaSKC_iJPrvdPh3_/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtU9aKKcSc0u4yPI490G4LUetChUoyH8Nmwu1eCwSF-FBg9RsISRcwuw0tjR7Imly3U0-9qy_mpuX48gd2mwwz8RJcb78_jqCru-kpaaC38jOioSbI5fj-LFcE4CXUvaSKC_iJPrvdPh3_/" /></a>How sad that Corporate America's marketing department is so in touch with the Utah marketplace that they have chosen to reinforce our horrifyingly ignernt accent. An accent which comic geniuses have been openly mocking for years and possibly (sadly) without true diehard Utahns even realizing it.<br />
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This kind of rhyme should be scoffed at heartily. Here are a couple of cringers I just made up (to illustrate):<br />
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<b><u>KFC: </u></b><br />
Where the Colonel Trod,<br />
The chickens were Fried (frod)<br />
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<b><u>H&R Block:</u></b><br />
Need help with your Taxes?<br />
Just come in and ask us! (axe us)<br />
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BTW, this picture was taken at Target.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-22403520449190042022011-09-11T13:19:00.000-06:002011-09-11T13:19:09.663-06:009 Months In the MakingOkay okay okay, so I've been a terrible blogger for a while. Well, you know what? It's hard to blog when you have big news that you don't want to spill the beans on... I mean, big news is big news, right? so if you're going to blog, you want to share the big news.<br />
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But we wanted to keep our big news a secret until we knew what gender our big news was going to be... And as we waited and I stopped blogging, it got easier and easier not to blog anything at all, even after we knew that Cordelia was going to be getting a baby sister. And so even that announcement, which should have been a much more involved blog, turned out to be nothing more than a simple video clip of Cordelia breaking the big story.<br />
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So, now that I've gotten that off my chest, let me go ahead and spill the rest of the beans.<br />
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Just over a week ago, at 11:17 PM Saturday September 3, 2011, Cordelia's baby sister arrived on the scene.<br />
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Weighing in at 7 lbs, 2 oz, Sorella Celeste Casper was 20 inches tall, and almost an identical match for her big sister's birth size and weight.<br />
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Catching everybody up on this pregnancy:<br />
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<ul>
<li>Tammy was 2 months along before we even knew she was pregnant. It took 4 different pregnancy tests and a lot of nausea to finally figure this one out. We were becoming concerned that there might have been other issues, when the PTs kept coming back negative.</li>
<li>This pregnancy was, in some ways, easier for Tammy than with Cordelia, and in some ways more difficult - all in all, it may have been sixes.</li>
<li>The 26 hour delivery of Cordelia - who was induced 18 days early - was almost certainly more difficult, overall, than the 4-5 hour delivery of Sorella, though it was not without it's own complications.</li>
</ul>
<div>
Sorella was due September 5th, my brother Shän's birthday. On Saturday, the 3rd, Shän and his family were having a barbequeue to celebrate his birthday, as well as Labor Day (which also fell on the 5th). We were invited to come over to celebrate with them - baby-issues notwithstanding. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I dragged Tammy to the store, to get her on her feet and get her some exercise, and maybe even get that baby to fall out - as she'd been hoping for an early delivery, and because the baby had been seeming to try and get out any way she could for weeks.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After shopping, Tammy lay down on the bed and told me she felt tired and weird. Weird, huh? That made me uncomfortable. But I let her take a nap for an hour or so, then I made her get ready to go to Shän's house.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She didn't want to go. A number of reasons why not: She's allergic to cats. Shän has 2 (and my dad has one more stashed away in the basement). She's 9 months pregnant and was feeling "<i>weird</i>". She's tired and her feet are swollen. These are very valid concerns.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My perspective: She feels weird, I'm not leaving my weird-feeling, 9-months-pregnant wife home without a car, while I'm 20 miles away.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As we were discussing whether or not she was going to come with or stay at home, she started having contractions. No big deal, really, as she'd been having contractions off and on for weeks, more often in the recent few days.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It became a big deal when she kept interrupting the conversation to breathe. Okay... once in a while, it's normal... several times in the same conversation? This was new.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I got on the Android App Store and downloaded an awesomely convenient app: Contraction Timer</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And we started timing frequency and duration as we drove to my brother's house. Right from the start they were lasting about 30 seconds, and coming every 4 minutes. 3 minutes 50 seconds, 3:30, etc.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She didn't eat anything at the barbequeue (we got there about 5, the contractions had started around 4). She let me and Cordelia eat, though, which was nice. As my dad was loading up my plate, it was about 5:45, she told me to call the hospital and let them know we were on our way.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I think, at this point, Tammy was still not sure this was the real thing, but we went anyway. On the way there, her contractions were so frequent and so strong, that she was barely able to catch her breath between one and another. I was sure this was it... but she still had her doubts.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It wasn't until she was admitted and the nurse who walked us to the L&D room said, "You don't have the look of somebody we're going to send home," that Tammy finally accepted that, yes, this was - indeed - it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The labor was intense. The baby's heart rate was unusually high, 180bpm, and they wanted it down to 160bpm, or they were going to do a C/Section. Fortunately, the doctors and nurses were all very competent and took all the steps necessary to avoid a surgical delivery, if possible, and within a few minutes, the baby's heart-rate came down. It took some oxygen for Tammy, and the breaking of the water by a doctor, but it worked.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The on-call OB wasn't Tammy's regular doctor, but was very sweet and friendly. Dr. Luewen. She was busy that night. Babies were popping out one after another. When they finally decided it was about time to start pushing, they chased down the doctor, who was presently delivering a baby, and who then had to attend to a minor emergency with another delivery. So the nurse who had been with us the whole time said, "Let's do some practice pushes while we wait for the doctor."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The contraction came, the nurse said, "Let's get three good pushes on this contraction."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Tammy pushed once, the nurse said, "Okay, stop pushing." She looked at me with a big grin and said, "This baby's ready... we had better wait for the doctor!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Once Dr. Luewen made it into the room, Sorella was born between the first contraction and the second. Tammy got her three pushes in, and the baby was out far enough that they didn't even bother waiting for the next contraction.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Naming the baby... that is a whole other story that could go on for days. Suffice it to say, we had her named before we left the hospital. Here is a brief list of the names we'd been throwing around for months:</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Avarilla</li>
<li>Adelaide</li>
<li>Hazel</li>
<li>Isabel</li>
<li>Arabella</li>
<li>Lavina</li>
<li>Celeste</li>
<li>Leona</li>
</ul>
<div>
And finally, for the main event - Here are some pictures:</div>
</div>
<div>
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<br />
PS - She had jaundice pretty bad, and she didn't have a wet diaper for almost 2 days, so they were monitoring her fairly closely. Then, just as they were about to catheterize her, she peed. Thank heavens.<br />
<br />
They let her come home with us, and our pediatrician ordered us a BiliBlanket (a nifty little in-home phototherapy device for babies with jaundice). One day's worth of treatment and her bilirubin levels were way down. Two day's worth, and she was perfectly healthy.<br />
<br />
I'll cut the cord on this post now. Thanks for patiently waiting!<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-59224368830910006882011-04-28T20:14:00.000-06:002011-04-28T20:14:13.084-06:00Quick Video Update - Starring Cordelia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='640' height='532' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/e8O29NlxFlw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-30564034976125866082010-12-15T18:15:00.000-07:002010-12-15T18:15:28.265-07:00Cyclical MusingsThe other day I was musing on several topics, and the one that held my mind most firmly was "cycle." Yes, the word. Cycle. What a bizarre word. Say it a few times. Cycle, cycle, cycle. Rhymes with psycho. Sort of.<br />
<br />
Or does it?<br />
<br />
Monthy, a cycle spins the moon.<br />
Spinning, a cycle strains your clothes.<br />
<br />
Add a seat and sit on a uni-cycle.<br />
Keep the seat, add an engine, double the wheels, and you've got a motor-cycle.<br />
<br />
But what if you lose the engine? What if you add another wheel?<br />
You end up with a bi-cycle and a tri-cycle.<br />
<br />
What a fickle cycle the cycle is!<br />
<br />
Speaking of cycles, what on earth is an icecycle? Right, it's not. It's an icicle. A what? Why icicle? There's another strange one. It's not an icesickle. Not an icescythe. It's simply an icicle. Why not some form of "-actite"?<br />
<br />
And Popsicle? What the heck? I think there is an obvious correlation between popsicle and icicle... but why an "s"? and more importantly, why "pop"? Was the first popsicle made of soda-pop? And <i>why</i> is there a correlation between icicle and popsicle? It doesn't make any sense, on the surface. I suppose I used to break icicles off and suck on them... but I was a stupid kid. Whoever invented the popsicle had to have been smarter than me. Though he may have been selling to people as dumb.<br />
<br />
The answers to these questions evaded me during my reverie. Thank goodness for the interwebz.<br />
<br />
I have done some research since I mused these musings, and should anybody ever care: icicle comes from ye Olde English and German for "cold piece of ice." More or less.<br />
<br />
Popsicle is a trademarked name, presumably from the combination of <i>Lolly Pop</i> and <i>Icicle.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Still not 100% sure about why unicycle, motorcycle, and cycle in general use the long <i>i</i> whereas bi- and tri- versions go with the short <i>i</i>. Since language is fluid, and morphs over time based on the usage of those who speak, I can only go with the explanation that English speakers don't like to have two long <i>i</i> sounds in quick succession.<br />
<br />
With the exception of <i>aye-aye</i>. And <i>bye-bye</i>. And <i>twighlight</i>.<br />
<br />
Ah heck... there is no satisfying explanation. Stupid English.<br />
<br />
<br />
/Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-54424907621994100462010-12-09T13:54:00.000-07:002010-12-09T13:54:49.149-07:00Quick VideoNot much to say, just wanted to let you know we're still alive. And here's a short video:<br />
<br />
<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/nPAH7BJ4GgA?hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/nPAH7BJ4GgA?hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-85532558538324587662010-11-10T14:34:00.000-07:002010-11-10T14:34:55.131-07:00Wanted: Good Pie Crust Recipe - Instructions for Dummies a Must!Ok, some of you may recall earlier posts where I discuss the making of pumpkin pie. I have even posted my pie recipe about a year ago. Something I've been struggling with, however, is the making of a really good pie crust to go along with the pumpkin pie.<br />
<br />
I've explored various pie crust options that I've found online, and they are all pretty much variations on a theme:<br />
<br />
3:2:1 ratios of flour : fat : water - give or take.<br />
<br />
Without fail they require me to freeze the butter (I'm only interested in butter-based crusts because I don't care for transfats... I've been avoiding them since before it became chic, you know, back when they were simply called "hydrogenated oils"). After I freeze the butter, I'm supposed to mix it all up in a food processor. Great, if I had a food processor that actually worked. I don't. But I do have a lovely pastry blender that works fine. I blend and blend and add bit by bit of water until the butter is the size of peas, and the dough just clumps together. Yay. So far it sounds perfect.<br />
<br />
Then they tell me, "Wrap in plastic wrap and put it in the fridge for 30 minutes-overnight."<br />
<br />
Seriously? Overnight? 30 minutes I can do. Usually I can even wait a couple of hours. So I wait as long as I can, generally 2-3 hours.<br />
<br />
Without fail, however, the dough will <i>not</i> stick to itself as I try rolling it out. It's obviously not watered enough, even though I followed the instructions <i>exactly</i>, and it matched the description I was given in the recipe I was following. So I end up having to add water. That leads to an awful mess, dough that ends up over-kneaded, and ultimately, sub-par flavor.<br />
<br />
I'm *this* close [picture forefinger about to touch thumb] to calling it quits on the home-made pie-crust ideal, and start buying Pillsbury. Please, somebody, save me from the fate of buying ready-made, industrial-strength pie crusts!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-67138554933364460122010-11-07T10:37:00.000-07:002010-11-07T10:37:52.499-07:00Children vs. MarkersNo matter how well-behaved your child, it is inevitable that if you leave them alone with access to pens or markers, you will at some point have to ask yourself this question:<br />
<br />
"Is it okay to use alcohol on small-people?"<br />
<br />
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Or maybe you'll remember other kids, not you, of course (maybe you) eating crayons as a child.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWVw2DXyev6zin-vG_m1CflFuNas9yK_eCTXQA2g272UhskzOkaAumC9rCBCT10xEIzUTjaZqlqQyndFOifMDY9wsMOlmGx6wFzg2v7F3ewV3HJxUDnUpLewRk7Hf4H0JevIkF7odRmaNw/s1600/1231082051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWVw2DXyev6zin-vG_m1CflFuNas9yK_eCTXQA2g272UhskzOkaAumC9rCBCT10xEIzUTjaZqlqQyndFOifMDY9wsMOlmGx6wFzg2v7F3ewV3HJxUDnUpLewRk7Hf4H0JevIkF7odRmaNw/s320/1231082051.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0zhrwR-pIsTlgcQyIUHUTE5Kp0PCc7x1s_2yAt4R-GHbZWpkyGeix7e0A3btDf4rfUHxN0VTRODYTeGlZm-PrX2q8DvD0hhlVQCkUmyWP7D4G2hgMyargq3X40UvvjYh7VQtPHCcgqEJT/s1600/Crayola+Blue+Grin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0zhrwR-pIsTlgcQyIUHUTE5Kp0PCc7x1s_2yAt4R-GHbZWpkyGeix7e0A3btDf4rfUHxN0VTRODYTeGlZm-PrX2q8DvD0hhlVQCkUmyWP7D4G2hgMyargq3X40UvvjYh7VQtPHCcgqEJT/s320/Crayola+Blue+Grin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhfF3XRAMbOco8NHRMOEaZLxHfMyvommfBp8tUpUEHf2U7YTSjV0SbpGWrOlCXZW4VOQEdcN9g8LtqPwIjgpoolpVZfMxS3BplMYBPepziFQN7v20wxy0U8iOlARVhITt0g22NkXaqwqhD/s1600/Crayola+Blue+Smile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhfF3XRAMbOco8NHRMOEaZLxHfMyvommfBp8tUpUEHf2U7YTSjV0SbpGWrOlCXZW4VOQEdcN9g8LtqPwIjgpoolpVZfMxS3BplMYBPepziFQN7v20wxy0U8iOlARVhITt0g22NkXaqwqhD/s320/Crayola+Blue+Smile.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
These pictures are all fairly old. She hasn't colored on herself in a while (like 3 days), but I keep hearing about how all these well-behaved kids keep doing stuff like this. Most recently, my niece Madison. <br />
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This is for you Patti. We feel your pain.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-30336119732117931152010-11-01T14:33:00.000-06:002010-11-01T14:33:14.496-06:00Driving Responsibly - A RequestOk, everybody knows the rules. Everybody knows they should do this, not do that, etc. So I'm not going to say anything about the safe/legal responsibilities. Rather, I'm going to make a single, simple request to try and remember that there is one time and place above all others where you need to be paying very close attention.<br />
<br />
Stopped at a light in position #1.<br />
<br />
When you are at the front of the line, you have a sacred responsibility to everybody behind you to <i>pay attention</i> to the light.<br />
<br />
If you're in position 2, 3, or further back, you can get away with paying just enough attention to notice if the car in front of you is moving. But if you find yourself in the honored front of the line position, then you are saddled with added responsibility. A trust. A duty.<br />
<br />
This duty becomes even more important in construction zones and at left-turn arrows where traffic becomes backed up and the length of time you have to make it through the intersection is extremely precious. When both of these added factors combine, you are at the pinnacle of driving responsibility. You hold the fates of many in your hands. <br />
<br />
Becoming distracted in such a situation can mean the difference between 1 car or 5 getting through the light. And if you're so far out of it that you don't notice the light has changed until it's <i>yellow</i> again, you are not only asking for a hefty helping of angry honking, but you might also be in for a negligence-induced beating.<br />
<br />
Of course, I'm not condoning vigilante justice, or even violence as a means to solve issues of road-rage. But I am making a desperate plea for all responsible people everywhere to please take this duty seriously. If you were unable to make it through the green/yellow/orangish light, then you have taken a great yoke upon your shoulders. They yoke of responsibly watching for the next green. <br />
<br />
An otherwise furious follower will thank you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-67994399118947797282010-10-06T19:40:00.000-06:002010-10-06T19:40:42.001-06:00I'm Going to Be a Grandpa!So Cordelia told me this evening that she's going to have a baby. She told me it is in her belly, and upon some very patient questioning, she confessed that it's going to be a girl, and her name will be Ellie.<br />
<br />
When I asked who the baby's daddy would be, Cordy just kind of shifted her eyes. So I asked what the baby's last name will be, and she said, "Casper."<br />
<br />
So I guess the father is not in the picture. <br />
<br />
I inquired when the baby would be coming and she said, "14."<br />
<br />
"14 days?" said I.<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
And then she used her finger to draw on her tummy: the baby's head, arms, legs, ankles, eyes, mouth, ears, and shoes.<br />
<br />
Yes, shoes.<br />
<br />
Just 14 more days, till I become a grandpa. I'm kind of excited :) !Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-26958382237452222382010-10-04T09:17:00.000-06:002010-10-04T09:17:06.770-06:00People Don't Love MathSo I just saw a Pizza Hut commercial that may well guarantee that I boycott them forever and ever amen.<br />
<br />
I already don't care much for Pizza Hut pizza, being excessively greasy and not very good, in general. The fact that I have a pretty wicked case of stomach flu right now doesn't help the matter. <br />
<br />
Here's the premise of the commercial: People standing in a Pizza Hut are looking over coupons and trying to make sense of them... because coupons are so hard to comprehend. Pizza Hut then declares that they are not going to have <i>specials</i> but instead are just going to sell you medium pizzas for the "low" price of $10. <br />
<br />
Cut to cute-ish girl: "No more confusing math."<br />
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Cut to possibly cute guy: "Because people love pizza, they don't love math."<br />
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Message received: People who eat at Pizza Hut are too stupid to figure out coupons. People in general are too stupid to figure out coupons. Besides: "If we eliminate coupons we can charge people whatever we want, telling them that this is an <i>awesome </i>deal, I mean look, we don't even do coupons anymore. That's how low our prices are!" Even if the price goes up to $20 for a small. People don't love math so they won't figure out they're getting reamed.<br />
<br />
Also, math is a fundamental tool that has a very bad reputation in this country. As my wife (a certified mathematics teacher) has pointed out on more than one occasion, people who would be embarrassed to admit that they cannot read, are not the least bit hesitant to shout from the rooftops that they don't get math. Math is too hard. They can't do it.<br />
<br />
The fact of the matter is, for the most part, these people have not given math a reasonable chance. They heard from their friends or their parents or older siblings that math was hard. They brought their homework home and asked if mom or dad could help them, but mom or dad said, "Sorry son, math never made any sense to me."<br />
<br />
Fine, calculus is pretty involved. Trigonometry, too. But most kids getting to those levels don't need mom and dad's help quite so much anymore. The stigma of mathematics begins at the early levels. Order of Operations, cross-multiplying, etc. None of it is actually difficult, it's just a matter of learning some basic rules. All multiplication and division before addition and subtraction. Stuff inside parentheses before the stuff outside... basic rules, like <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">"I before E except after C, or when sounding like A as in Neighbor and Weigh. Or when the word is simply </span><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">weird</span></b></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">."</span> And math rules make more sense than writing rules.<br />
<br />
Yeah, people don't love math. But instead of encouraging such sentiments, maybe Pizza Hut should be contributing more to educational reform.<br />
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Stupid Pizza Hut.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-24208652467671779802010-09-06T12:07:00.001-06:002010-09-06T12:08:00.982-06:00Learning is Not an OptionHere's a screen capture from a letter sent home with my nephew last October:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp097tDjfmUThQvutP4FrwEhtGyccxxgSJHezQPUmvecubnrDjvV5fs1O_C9gfa3ynGtfuehrQwzwKRwT_OyfVFJh3Di5-i9igqU37LQGmVv-qjQZSsEiG7_0YElB5Wc8QThRb3SDOLu0d/s1600/fail.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp097tDjfmUThQvutP4FrwEhtGyccxxgSJHezQPUmvecubnrDjvV5fs1O_C9gfa3ynGtfuehrQwzwKRwT_OyfVFJh3Di5-i9igqU37LQGmVv-qjQZSsEiG7_0YElB5Wc8QThRb3SDOLu0d/s640/fail.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Here's a screen capture from a letter sent home with my niece, last week:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMvyYTqvN71Gp2esUzzAshrv9K5LrFuVNOKT4uzfy7M4nsflO2agd6SUKpykl5aFZemRmNY7RqrUUFG5BioFbYCR4p7qOQlJkcbwdauxTpScI3YF2lFCmvlrRw5qbBebGSCbFHa0g7VJj1/s1600/fail+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="188" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMvyYTqvN71Gp2esUzzAshrv9K5LrFuVNOKT4uzfy7M4nsflO2agd6SUKpykl5aFZemRmNY7RqrUUFG5BioFbYCR4p7qOQlJkcbwdauxTpScI3YF2lFCmvlrRw5qbBebGSCbFHa0g7VJj1/s640/fail+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
And here is an open letter to the principal of Camerado Springs Middle School:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>Dear Ms. Enns,<br />
<br />
<br />
Though I do not currently live within your school district, I am a concerned parent. Not just concerned for my own children, but for all children receiving public education.<br />
<br />
It came to my attention some time ago that you have a “Solutions” program which is geared towards ensuring students are getting their homework done. This is a fine plan. <br />
<br />
The problem is that I was shown a copy of the Solutions letter that students bring home to their parents. A letter that states, “At Camerado Springs Middle School we believe that learning is not an option.”<br />
<br />
Excuse me as I pause to restate: “Learning is not an option.”<br />
<br />
When it’s said that something is “not an option” what is implied is that there are other options, but such-and-such is not one of them. Here are some examples:<br />
<br />
• Failure is not an option.<br />
• Skipping your bath is not an option.<br />
• Texting while driving is not an option.<br />
<br />
Nobody I know who speaks English as a native language would ever confuse any of the above statements as meaning:<br />
<br />
• Failure is a must.<br />
• Skipping your bath is a must.<br />
• Texting while driving is a must.<br />
<br />
And yet, the faculty of your school would have parents believe that “learning is not an option” means “learning is a must,” in defiance to conventional English as shown above. Should parents not expect a school - entrusted with providing a solid education to their children - to be capable of making the subtle, yet powerful, distinction between “not an option” and “not optional?”<br />
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It is a simple enough mistake, and therefore easily overlooked, and easily allowed to slide. Fortunately it is also easy to correct. I would not be writing this email, if not for the fact that this particular problem was brought to my attention by a parent of a child at your school about a year ago. This parent contacted the school at that time and discussed the nuance at length with someone I had assumed to have been the principal, and who gave a shoddy explanation defending the wording.<br />
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Now that a year has passed, another of this parent’s children has brought home a Solutions letter with the identical wording. <br />
<br />
Perhaps the faculty of Camerado Springs Middle School does not believe that correcting their mistakes is an option. <br />
<br />
I hope I am wrong.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-77638792463997416722010-08-07T07:51:00.000-06:002010-08-07T07:51:26.370-06:00An ObservationI have an observation about restrooms in general, and the one at work specifically: Men’s room air fresheners should absolutely not smell flowery or fruity. In fact I’m going to go out on a limb and say that they shouldn’t smell anything like food.<br />
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When I walk into the bathroom, the last thing I want to associate food with is <em>number 2</em>. I know it is just processed food, but I don’t care. When the two smells intermix it’s disgusting, truly and horribly. In fact, I think men’s rooms should smell like wood chips. There’s nothing quite like squatting in the woods, and men - more than women, I think - are comfortable with it. <br />
<br />
In fact, I think a lot of guys would be comfortable with a restroom that had no toilets at all. Just a pile of wood chips along one wall to pee on, urinal style. And in each stall a pile of chips for covering nastier business. Of course, you’d probably have to pay the janitor a whole lot more money to sweep it out, but how much would you save in building design, plumbing, water costs, etc. It might be worth it. If not for the rampant spread of disease you could expect.<br />
<br />
Well that’s my rant for today.<br />
<br />
Work has the citrus kind, by the way. Ew.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-91089870661917430282010-07-25T16:08:00.000-06:002010-07-25T16:08:46.454-06:00Pose Face Contest - Who Looks Like They Are In More Pain?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxJ0ecMh-_aOtl2YifjCWZ86oXrhkFmJhgcxNoGyYmogP90_zm339bpvf8_Ti6rCMofilgkNum0ZN-SfvqZvNX8UZqwBvC9YDDWj4Is4BdfGAZnqR7D4zH0ZzacugcNtaJSpjWNpi_iVHQ/s1600/PoseFace+Contest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxJ0ecMh-_aOtl2YifjCWZ86oXrhkFmJhgcxNoGyYmogP90_zm339bpvf8_Ti6rCMofilgkNum0ZN-SfvqZvNX8UZqwBvC9YDDWj4Is4BdfGAZnqR7D4zH0ZzacugcNtaJSpjWNpi_iVHQ/s200/PoseFace+Contest.jpg" width="173" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEHH09nPL0HUOq9SR40QPniC68zVspbaVKO3EQFDPzPgctHpac7NXoM4l9QHTXw-jrfQbnN91pWaUT4d5eJjKhV1-tyb5VxY6r8BqxSoOSkaYPQM9NZBSr0XHfw6VfsiwUC_PwgLm3Lwrx/s1600/Goof+Face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEHH09nPL0HUOq9SR40QPniC68zVspbaVKO3EQFDPzPgctHpac7NXoM4l9QHTXw-jrfQbnN91pWaUT4d5eJjKhV1-tyb5VxY6r8BqxSoOSkaYPQM9NZBSr0XHfw6VfsiwUC_PwgLm3Lwrx/s200/Goof+Face.jpg" width="140" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></a><br />
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<br />
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To be fair, this is the worst of Tammy's pose-face. Usually it's just unnatural, not actually painful-looking.<br />
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<br />
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But her natural smile is, as always, perfect:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTfzH0dsQ7HVeZyuHlSWMymxs_Q-pAxqQPi7_cQH3L0AI_L9vCVPlCHyeD3FpxoKbhc82cKQv0Ku1oOf1ksMVGlFdRBgVGpaaTcS5jOo38PpmV23DPotJy_QhMvToaINYXVFolh1MJOIcX/s1600/PoseFace+Contest+-+natural.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTfzH0dsQ7HVeZyuHlSWMymxs_Q-pAxqQPi7_cQH3L0AI_L9vCVPlCHyeD3FpxoKbhc82cKQv0Ku1oOf1ksMVGlFdRBgVGpaaTcS5jOo38PpmV23DPotJy_QhMvToaINYXVFolh1MJOIcX/s320/PoseFace+Contest+-+natural.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Now, to prepare my funeral arrangements for when Tammy sees this blog post.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-34973407282531408252010-07-23T18:46:00.000-06:002010-07-23T18:46:20.386-06:00"Cordelia" ... No, really... It says Cordelia!Two days ago, I was spending some much-needed quality time with my princess. She had placed a couple of magnetic letters on her easel (gift from Uncle Chad and Aunt Patti last Christmas), and wanted me to help her write them on the marker board.<br />
<br />
Because the easel is sized for a child, because I'm not a child, because my knees don't make the best feet, and because the spoiled little angel also received a Crayola writing desk (complete with a marker-board top) from her daddy for Christmas last year, I was able to convince her to come practice on the table.<br />
<br />
After a few attempts at the two letters she brought over with her (S and T), Tammy and I were able to convince her to try some other letters, and even to write her name.<br />
<br />
With just a little coaching: "C looks like this..." and "D looks like a long up-and-down line with an O touching it." and "an L is just a long line that goes up and down." etc.<br />
<br />
In short order we had this:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMltfMdbLNLTTwzQNvgKeLE8ztPv4tbp4nkwocHL1tgcKAqbJIyGNxDGXUQr34cdjTZAxip96d0hyphenhyphen5k4rOnKf1vVvNUFjIDyRbsTF1j-ccFMO65mmY6zano0yZg72uhEMec0nuOlEF4J2c/s1600/Literate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMltfMdbLNLTTwzQNvgKeLE8ztPv4tbp4nkwocHL1tgcKAqbJIyGNxDGXUQr34cdjTZAxip96d0hyphenhyphen5k4rOnKf1vVvNUFjIDyRbsTF1j-ccFMO65mmY6zano0yZg72uhEMec0nuOlEF4J2c/s400/Literate.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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Oh... one more thing. The last blog, about the parade, I forgot to mention: We were on TV. Apparently we were either perfectly placed, or the cameras thought Cordy was cute enough that nobody would notice the bald fat guy towing her along the parade route, because we got center stage. Yep. We're famous.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-8570152629138130522010-07-23T18:22:00.001-06:002010-07-23T18:25:40.386-06:00Days of '47 Youth ParadeThe West Jordan East Stake was asked to participate in the Day's of '47 Youth Parade this year. Our ward happens to be in the WJES, so we had a float in the parade:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTBDUnehoy9hqNy_UW5ZKuxFGMfzkhTWQkVHZl7pPxAAa2y67sV8WQzdAcMsqNxqYOqfFv5KsATQeQl4Ad-BBYO_1QIpBqknx5UDZqdqUQlMxw4ztSYTE1dm3RasEPwZBfJyEt3Bm1lk6M/s1600/SM+-+Parade+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTBDUnehoy9hqNy_UW5ZKuxFGMfzkhTWQkVHZl7pPxAAa2y67sV8WQzdAcMsqNxqYOqfFv5KsATQeQl4Ad-BBYO_1QIpBqknx5UDZqdqUQlMxw4ztSYTE1dm3RasEPwZBfJyEt3Bm1lk6M/s320/SM+-+Parade+004.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The theme was "Bee a Helping Hand in Service" (I think...). On the front of the float, invisible to all but the most superhuman of eyes is a <i>Pennies By the Inch</i> collection jar.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I had nothing to do with this float, so don't start commenting on what a great job I did. It was a whole bunch of other people with more talent and skill (and patience) than I could possibly lay claim to.<br />
<br />
The reason why I mention this particular parade is because one very special little girl has a mommy who is way good at finding ways to give said little girl wonderful, memorable experiences. The daddy in this tale <i>wants</i> the little girl to have fun experiences, but is often too lazy, unmotivated, or just plain grumpy to actually seek them out or jump at the chance.<br />
<br />
Therefore, the wonderful mommy went out of her way to make sure the special little girl was prepared, dressed and present the morning of the parade.<br />
<br />
The daddy who, at the time, has never really found any point to parades, and who would have been extremely pleased to be able to sleep in on a Saturday morning in July, was also prepared, dressed and present the morning of the parade.<br />
<br />
The mommy and daddy each had a health concern regarding walking a mile in 97º weather. Mommy's asthma had been acting up, and daddy's foot was still extremely tender from recent surgery. It was determined that daddy would be the parade walker, while mommy watched with her family from the sidelines.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPc-pVjl9zHuZhmzE3wzVMkrpcb_3m-7pxvmuw_zEHZ_MO49IsXte5d0y-m-cc-NXM8cwoJcaEPnI9XZaA1PwNS0whWB0XF4hiv_X93_4BQSq2aNl_EhQVPq-5guBcZIsEOR_IBRrHKq_p/s1600/SM+-+Parade+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPc-pVjl9zHuZhmzE3wzVMkrpcb_3m-7pxvmuw_zEHZ_MO49IsXte5d0y-m-cc-NXM8cwoJcaEPnI9XZaA1PwNS0whWB0XF4hiv_X93_4BQSq2aNl_EhQVPq-5guBcZIsEOR_IBRrHKq_p/s200/SM+-+Parade+001.jpg" width="200" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz6gOEttIcLHqa9wnhKN4ddClCo9QnU1PQHyZF28lG-wucWYckYM5tui4sAkekn2thfHI64-s2awXCPMw_p4jgVoHksT1sbD9jjBG-8GPaoy90ogyYcN_bjYQCa2QZ1AltI3mRH-vlAxrh/s1600/SM+-+Parade+002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz6gOEttIcLHqa9wnhKN4ddClCo9QnU1PQHyZF28lG-wucWYckYM5tui4sAkekn2thfHI64-s2awXCPMw_p4jgVoHksT1sbD9jjBG-8GPaoy90ogyYcN_bjYQCa2QZ1AltI3mRH-vlAxrh/s200/SM+-+Parade+002.jpg" width="200" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As you can see, the special little girl was lucky enough to get to ride in a wagon for the mile-long walk along 500 south. And she was pretty happy to be there. Mostly... but we won't focus on the less happy moments waiting for the parade to finally begin. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhd9WRnsQP282WaqugHcLO6GbRku53Yckaf2ZzP9r_oK65jD41S8fwMeyPUr_dtcZ3HXc2pHoUy8mMMZfQvkDuGwQWNZNzhx2I3bZw1SKASlBoPE9S2_dWPE25cWrAWi_UWEUJjH5NL_6o/s1600/SM+-+Parade+005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXrvkG-OTASYtm-8TB_I5Xgm3Ru2ac_HVtQQYMll5jtYx82H0rfWtTfM6zCqvKw5W9iN8TxbpotxWFnTN61rqxkaWCubru7kPHPL0Vs6QUJM1wMruSqu4RlrU7vcUn7RVZdsRIwzqFE7_L/s1600/SM+-+Parade+006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXrvkG-OTASYtm-8TB_I5Xgm3Ru2ac_HVtQQYMll5jtYx82H0rfWtTfM6zCqvKw5W9iN8TxbpotxWFnTN61rqxkaWCubru7kPHPL0Vs6QUJM1wMruSqu4RlrU7vcUn7RVZdsRIwzqFE7_L/s200/SM+-+Parade+006.jpg" width="150" /></a><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhd9WRnsQP282WaqugHcLO6GbRku53Yckaf2ZzP9r_oK65jD41S8fwMeyPUr_dtcZ3HXc2pHoUy8mMMZfQvkDuGwQWNZNzhx2I3bZw1SKASlBoPE9S2_dWPE25cWrAWi_UWEUJjH5NL_6o/s200/SM+-+Parade+005.jpg" width="200" /></div><br />
I know I've mentioned my daughter's awful pose-face before. But honestly, I just can't mention it enough... I think that maybe subconsciously I might hope that if I talk about it enough, she'll become so self-conscious that she'll spend hours staring in the mirror practicing her smile so that it doesn't look SO INCREDIBLY FORCED AND UNNATURAL.<br />
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Yes, I'm a terrible, horrible father. No need to point that out to me.<br />
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It's one of the reasons you will often see Cordelia sticking her tongue out in pictures. If I can't get her to smile somewhat naturally long enough to snatch a photo of it, I make her stick out her tongue. It's acceptable among children, so I encourage it. Generally, I try to catch her in candid photos, as that's the best way to view any person, in my opinion.<br />
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However, sometimes there is nothing for it, but to have a completely unnatural, forced photo-op. Like when you get to be in a parade and you want to have memories of it. And when somebody decides that it's time for a group pic:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrTYHLrQbMOD_zU7nIAFvOe47itAUwmiL7C6716QpJbT59ZhTA9jjOkFK5f644OcrAVJAs4IRLpe2sggEY70ghOOjPAyWiQPyvLX7jMaZkcX3fV7HfYD54IbNwhZ5TjprtqzHRi7Y6zvF1/s1600/SM+-+Parade+007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrTYHLrQbMOD_zU7nIAFvOe47itAUwmiL7C6716QpJbT59ZhTA9jjOkFK5f644OcrAVJAs4IRLpe2sggEY70ghOOjPAyWiQPyvLX7jMaZkcX3fV7HfYD54IbNwhZ5TjprtqzHRi7Y6zvF1/s320/SM+-+Parade+007.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back: J. Herman, B. Glazier, C. Sorensen, J. Sorensen<br />
Center: S. Herman, A. Glazier, O. Sorensen, T. Dahl<br />
Front: Cordelia "Pose-Face" Casper</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8722106758126953901.post-31011547075108949742010-07-23T17:41:00.000-06:002010-07-23T17:41:54.285-06:00Updated Blog *NEW*You'd think that a guy who was basically unemployed for 2 months with nothing better to do than sit at the computer all day applying for jobs online would have been able to find 15 minutes every few days to update his blog.<br />
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You'd be wrong. Or actually, you'd be right, he would have been able to. But he didn't.<br />
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Anyway, my foot is well on the mend. The last of the scab fell off two days ago. It's on the floor here somewhere... unless the dog ate it. Never mind.<br />
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So moving past that, I have a hoard of pictures to post and some stories to go along with them. But since I don't really want to associate them directly with my foot-scab story, I'll add them separately.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0