tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-139950732024-03-20T02:20:11.181-05:00Mary + Her Mental Health"Many July 27 people have a problem with anger and aggression. Not infrequently they are physically formidable, even intimidating people." - Gary Goldschneider, The Secret Language of BirthdaysMaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.comBlogger238125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-10114014903380817682008-08-13T00:36:00.001-05:002008-08-13T00:38:33.954-05:00from now on<a href="http://maryjoanna2.blogspot.com/">http://maryjoanna2.blogspot.com/</a>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-55888271738974765852008-08-12T00:21:00.001-05:002008-08-12T00:23:12.101-05:00names and new beginnings<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://z.about.com/d/atheism/1/0/z/d/MaryMagdaleneTomb.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://z.about.com/d/atheism/1/0/z/d/MaryMagdaleneTomb.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">After 228 weeks and 3 days, I’m leaving Boston. Up and on. Tonight is it. Wheels up in 11 hours.<br /><br />I am feeling so strange right now. <br /><br />A while back, I started thinking about my name. Mary Joanna. Mom told me a long time ago that my first and middle names were carefully chosen for me, her first daughter. Mary for Mary Magdalene, Joanna for my great aunt, a woman very much admired by Mom. Joanna is also a biblical name. Both Mary and Joanna were once lost and sorrowful women. Both had been healed by the Savior. (Luke 8.) Both gave up everything to travel with Him during his ministry. Both were there at Calvary. Both were at Joseph’s tomb. Mary was the very first to see Him following his resurrection. Both of them saw the Risen Lord and spoke with Him. (Luke 24:10.) When I think about this, I feel pretty humbled. These are my foremothers. I bear their names.<br /><br />Helaman had two sons, which he named Lehi and Nephi. Lehi and Nephi were revered ancestors of Helaman, and deeply loved. Helaman told his sons, “when you remember your names ye may remember them...their works...they they were good.” He named them in hopes that they would remember their fathers, and “that [they] should also do that which is good, that it may be said of [them]...even as it ha[d] been said...” of their forebears. (Helaman 5:6-7, Book of Mormon.)<br /><br />In Hebrew, Mary means “sea of bitterness.” When I read that I felt vindicated on so many levels. Likewise for the second Hebrew meaning cited: “wished for child.” Also true. I took a slight pause though when I found the Egyptian root for Mary, “mry” means “beloved” or mr, meaning “love.” That was nice. Joanna in Hebrew means “god is gracious.” <br /><br />I’m grateful to finally recognize that embedded in my very own name are the two most prominent of Christ’s characteristics: love and grace. Mary (Love) Joanna (Grace). I wish I would remember always that my name beckons me to always remember Him, His works, and how good indeed they were. Likewise for Mary and Joanna, how strong, how faithful and vibrant they must have been, how devoted they were to their Redeemer. Wouldn’t it make for a glorious life mission to live such that it might be said of me what has been said of them? Tall order, but one to die trying for.<br /><br />A few months ago, I called up Mom to thank her for my name. I think she thought I was drunk or something. But I really did want to thank her. I had not realized just how precious and beautiful my name was until this year. She needed some gratitude paid for that. Thanks, Mama.<br /><br />In 2005 when I started this blog, I assigned it the URL, maryjoanna.blogspot.com Lately, the cobwebs have been collecting on this specimen of online journaling. I’m moving out of Boston, to a new town and a new life. I think this calls for a new blog as well. I’m not sure yet what to name it. Joanna Mary perhaps? If I have any readers left, please stay tuned. A new link, a new blog, and a new life will be posted hopefully soon. <br /></div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-30773982851632405902008-07-12T10:39:00.002-05:002008-07-12T10:42:52.983-05:00make up a story time...Sareth grew up in a town that might as well had gone unnamed. No one who lives there ever travels outside the town limits, there is no outside postal system, no phone towers, and no one born there ever moves away. To oblige a sense of community, however, the early settlers gave their town a name, in 1897, which they they still go by today. The name is Haviland.<br /><br />Haviland is evergreen, dense, and overcast, all the time. Every year, there is a brief season of rain. It occurs in January, and lasts anywhere between five and twenty-three days. Total rainfall each year is considerable, even an average of six to nine feet. But every year, there is enough to sustain Haviland for eleven more months. Folks who live in Haviland consider this as one of the advantages to living there. Two weeks of rain, and for the rest of the year, they have their beloved gray skies to enjoy.<br /><br />The houses are mounted on solid pine stilts, high above ground. According to local building codes, all houses are built directly in the center of a thirteen acre plot. Each plot looks like a park; such green, rugged landscape. The kind you see in photographs. But no flowers. And surrounding each house there is a mote, drilled ten-feet deep and twelve-feet wide, with its very own drawbridge. Just like the castles Sareth read about, only more modern. Thus, all the folks of Haviland are situated close enough to feel in company with other households. But not connected. And that is how it is preferred. And they are happy.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">so....is it interesting? </span>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-49442437207267185822008-06-21T18:49:00.000-05:002008-06-21T18:50:32.228-05:00Top Chef without apology.No, actually. I do not find it ironic that I crave and often prepare frozen pizzas whilst watching Top Chef, pretending that I, too, can cook. Not at all. I throw that frozen round thing on a piece of foil and slap it on the rack with fierce authority. And I swear that show inspires me to know the precise minute, indeed the very nanosecond, when that sucker needs to come out. Perfection. In 17 to 19 minutes. I’ve never cooked a better frozen pizza than when I’m watching Top Chef.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-87576556936378844362008-05-30T07:39:00.002-05:002008-05-30T07:47:50.621-05:00breakthrough!Thank goodness. I found a life line. No, smarty. Not like the one on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Like I broke a big hole through a wall with a sledgehammer this week, and found the trail again. Yaaay!Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-51415604411864444422008-05-28T13:36:00.001-05:002008-05-28T13:40:14.014-05:00the four steps...I’m tuning in to a little thing I do sometimes. It happens first thing in the morning, just as I’m waking up. I open my eyes, I turn on my other side, hoping to sleep a few more minutes. I open, then turn, then close. Then panic.<br /><br />First moment of consciousness is a seized shake of all systems. It feels like a punch in the gut that radiates up to my chest and out my fingers. I never wake up to an alarm clock. This feeling is my alarm. As my eyes close shut again, I’m running a dialogue in my brain as my body starts to quietly freak. Okay, you woke up and now you’re feeling panicky. Your stomach is in a fat, splintered knot. Check. Wake up a little more and figure out why.<br /><br />Is there something I am dreading? Yes. Do I know what it is? Not exactly. I’m dreading what may happen today. I’m dreading the countless things I will never think of. I’m dreading the things I do think of. I’m scared to feel more of the things I’ve already been feeling. I’m worried I’ll learn something today that will make my life more sad to me. I’m afraid of losing my hope today, once and for all. Maybe today is the day I finally lose my mind. Maybe today is the day I get irrevocably crushed, body and soul.<br /><br />Step 1: a feeling. Step 2: the thoughts behind it. Step 3: Prayer.<br /><br />This fragile mess is once again spinning in circles. I can’t talk to anyone, but I can talk to you. This stuff, what this is, it’s not real, right? Please help.<br /><br />Last week, a young co-worker at one of my three jobs was talking to a newer co-worker in my presence. “The thing you need to understand about Mary,” she starts with authority, “is that whenever something goes wrong in her life, the girl prays.” I turn red and hide my face. She keeps going, “I swear, I’m making her a t-shirt that says ‘Stop, Drop, & Pray.’” Until this moment, I had no clue how much I had mentioned prayer in front of her.<br /><br />There’s a line in the film, Shadowlands. C.S. Lewis is speaking: <br />“I pray because I'm helpless. I pray because...I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn't change God. It changes me.”<br /><br />I do feel helpless. More than ever at any time in my whole life. I don’t know what to do ever. I’m only functioning because I do Step 3 every morning. And after that comes Step 4. I call it KGG: keep going girl.<br /><br />The minute Step 4 commences, that is, when I start doing what is expected, working, being kind, remembering to mail that letter, etc., that’s how I know that God lives. How else can a broken girl go from Step 1 to Step 4 without Step 3? You can’t, I tell ya. It doesn’t change God, it changes me.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-79923462157628991982008-02-13T04:43:00.004-05:002008-02-13T05:00:15.922-05:00tell me how to stop thisWell, it's not getting better.<br /><br />4:43 a.m. and I've started a blog post. Haven't slept all night. I tried to. For about an hour and a half. That started around 2:20 a.m., when I closed my book and shut off the light.<br /><br />The doctors said not to try and sleep until I'm sleepy. Is it possible to be exhausted beyond description, but not sleepy? Cuz that's how I feel.<br /><br />The doctors also said that if I haven't fallen asleep within thirty minutes of trying, I should get up and do something none too stimulating until I feel sleepy again. There's that word again. How can I feel sleepy <span style="font-style: italic;">again</span>? I'm still waiting for the first sleepy.<br /><br />So I made blueberry pancakes. And watched t.v. And now the lights in the senior center across from my bedroom window are on.<br /><br />Last Saturday, I walked into a local fitness center on a whim and asked a sweaty body builder behind the counter if they were looking for a front desk person? He said they were, but then asked how I felt about starting at 5:00 a.m. every morning? It took a second and a half to realize that I'd probably be up anyway. I said, "Actually, that's perfect."<br /><br />On the nights when I get five or six hours of sleep, it's because I've swallowed two Benadryls and a Klonopin. And this just frightens me to no end. You're saying pills are my sole ticket to Slumberville? Only a five-hour tour, and I'm paying a potentially dangerous price for it.<br /><br />Right around now is when the high-pitched fuzzy ring in my head begins. Let's see...I could read, put my clean laundry away, go to the bathroom, take out the trash, read more of my book, make some herbal tea. Anyway, that's the stuff I usually do. But with the snow trucks and snow blowers buzzing outside, and the fuzzy ring ringing inside, what chance does one poor little teabag have really?<br /><br />Maybe I'll just blog. What in the world do I sound like at 4:56 a.m.?Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-82554456381294677812008-02-05T00:10:00.000-05:002008-02-05T00:20:58.506-05:00i may have to blow town after publishing this one...Part of what endears me to Boston is its underdog, not-a-prayer history. From politics to pro-ball, the underdog spirit is part of what makes this town what it is. This is why I’m secretly delighted that we lost the Super Bowl last Sunday.<br /><br />I recognize that some may want to take me behind O’Malley’s and smack some sense into me for saying it, (or worse) but I really am happy about the upset. We had a chance to make football history, and we didn’t. I just love that. Maybe that makes me some kind of sicko. Or maybe I believe in keeping a little humility. There was something good that came out of The Curse. But after the 2004 World Series, something changed. And by the Red Sox win of '07, I realized I missed that feeling of being under that curse. We had become a broad-shouldered bully of a baseball team, with a ballooning budget, and big guns in the bullpen. The best and harshest way I can put it: we were starting to look like the Yankees. (Sorry if I dwell too long on baseball, that’s the sport I like best.)<br /><br />And so we come to 2007-2008. Sox win the Series (again), we float through an entire frigid football season undefeated, the Celtics season starts, and they’re kicking major booty just like every one else around here. (I don’t follow hockey much, how are the Bruins doing?) Boston is overflowing with record-breaking stats and athletic power-house acclaim. It’s great, it’s wonderful...so why am I feeling mildly nauseated by it? I’ll tell you why...we ain’t got no more curse.<br /><br />The curse kept us hungry. It challenged and gave us fight. It made us choose to believe or give up. It’s what made this town a tad shy of psychotic when it came to “fan appreciation.” Without it, we’re just another billionaire’s ball club with no heart, no soul. Losing is what makes us great. Big losses are what make Boston, Boston. I guess it was nice to see some hint of that again this past weekend.<br /><br />Of course it was a colossal blow; we all felt it in the air on Monday. We haven’t stopped the post-mortem lament, the analyzing, like what you do with your gaggle of girlfriends after a bad breakup. We probably won’t shut up about it for another week or so, and there will be those who may never recover from it. Good, I say. It’s all good. I’m hearing the hunger pangs already.<br /><br />You know, you really shouldn't listen to a single thing I say. I didn't watch one solitary minute of Sunday's game. In fact, I didn't sit down for five minutes for any football game of any sort in any part of the nation at any time. I just like to write stuff.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-82545114140394219142008-01-19T09:44:00.000-05:002008-01-19T11:13:33.370-05:00#237 - sleep hygieneAges. Ages since I posted. I'm sure you all have moved on from reading this blog, and the only hits I'm going to get from now on are the Google searches for Robert Sean Leonard photos. Apparently, RSL is quite the hottie in Dusseldorf. This blog is ready to serve them.<br /><br />I've decided not to bother with a holiday update. It's too late for that anyway, right? And besides, Christmas 2007 was such a memorable, important season for me this year, it would take lots of brain cells and time to find the right words. Brain cells I frankly don't have, and so begins my post.<br /><br />The last time I glanced at my watch last night it was 4:15 a.m. This is the third or fourth night in a row where I simply cannot shut down. But between 4:15 and 7:40 a.m., I managed to create a dream where I spoke these words to someone I don't recall, "For the rest of the day, can we please, please speak in dialogue only found in low budget action cartoons from 1979?" I laughed when I said that. My laughing woke me up, and then I jotted the sentence down on the notebook sitting on my nightstand. Can you imagine? Spending a day uttering gems like "Zoikes!" and "Not so fast, Zothar!" to your friends, finding ways to make them pass for reasonable responses in normal conversation? I say we try it.<br /><br />I've had trouble sleeping as far back as childhood. I could spend hours awake in my bed, thoroughly convinced that someone was going to break into our house that night. Any small noise sent new surges of alarm coursing through my body, adding at least another twenty minutes of consciousness per sound. I never mentioned this to my family because obviously they had no fear of burglars, they all could sleep just fine. My conclusion was I was an idiot. But even idiots can be right sometimes, and maybe this was going to be the night I was to be captured and taken from my home while my family apathetically slumbered.<br /><br />I'm a light sleeper, which accounts for why I was able to hear so many benign bumps in the night growing up. Burglary and kidnapping are no longer the fearsome fantasies which keep me up. It's more like the Evil Dollar, the ever-deepening lines on my forehead, the fear that I've forgotten something incredibly important, or re-living an experience I'd much rather forget, but can't. Ahhhh, <span style="font-style: italic;">those</span> demons. They're the pesky ones. Sometimes they're not demons at all! Sometimes I come up with fantastic ideas lying there for hours on end. Lesson plans, questions to ask, plays I want to read, people I want to call, action cartoon dialogue I want to say. Some of it's worth hanging on to, take my word for it. I'll get on a roll, and then suddenly I start to wonder what time it is, and then I look, and it's 4:15. Another four-hour night of brainstorming, four-hour night of sleep.<br /><br />I'm getting help for this. I now have a sleep regiment. Well...I have it, much in the same way I have an iPod. Sometimes I use it, sometimes I don't. Lately I haven't been using it. Not the iPod. The sleep thing. And then I spend an entire blog post talking about my insomnia. I know, I know. But, I'll totally own up, it is pure stubbornness I don't do the darn sleep hygiene crap every night. Total pride. It's the same reason I didn't talk to my parents about why I couldn't fall asleep for the non-existent kidnappers outside my window. I feel like an idiot. The entire planet seems to be able to fall asleep just fine, thank you very much, without performing some ridiculous one-hour ritual prior to climbing into bed. So why can't I? I feel like a 2 year-old kicking a brick wall, getting red in the face, screaming to the universe, " I REFUSE TO BE HIGH MAINTENANCE! YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!!!" Like a speck of sand resisting the tide's pull.<br /><br />I'm hungry.<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-87128701692294335382007-12-10T17:08:00.001-05:002007-12-10T17:08:38.366-05:00follow me in mary measure (fa la freaking la.)Christmas - - a time for peace and love. Spreading peace. Every moment. Of every day of the festive holiday season. Until it kills you. Until you bleed. Until every minute of your life is this uninterrupted siege, this unending typhoon of activities, parties, concerts, working, baking, decorating, volunteering, card mailing, and shopping. Shopping. Along with every single one of God’s children for the same items in the same store at the same time in the same place. Shuffling, sashaying, scooting and spitting your way through aisles of crap, trying to find something cheap but meaningful for everyone in your whole stinking life. Shopping for loved ones. Hoping to give them peace and happiness with your gift. Happiness. As you circle the Public Garden for an hour trying to score a parking space, because parking in a garage, to pay to have your car just SIT IN A SPACE for 15 minutes, will cost you twice what you’re willing to spend on your own mother. Icy roads, frigid wind, burning fingertips, runny noses, tense shoulders. Getting home in the traffic hopefully before New Year’s. And then there’s all the wrapping. Because you have lots of time for that too. 10 minutes to wrap one gift. 0.5 seconds to tear it all off forever and put it in an oversized plastic bag. Gosh, I feel so peaceful right now. No bitter. Just peace.<br /><br />I know what Christmas is supposed to be. And it ain’t any of this. And this much I know for sure. Says Oprah.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-35045911493937360222007-11-15T10:24:00.000-05:002007-11-15T10:28:52.676-05:00it's coming...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioRJFON9UWq9SV19D5yzE1MdLOuFGisHPRW7g2Q6usXzisd2c5K6pdY_QHE8BJB2uiiUWG9P7UfA-iPcuuqgiBmhmcSykNO2ipVILGommITT5Xw-veIzmYz_saHQamuQrnGpSNxg/s1600-h/P-M4.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioRJFON9UWq9SV19D5yzE1MdLOuFGisHPRW7g2Q6usXzisd2c5K6pdY_QHE8BJB2uiiUWG9P7UfA-iPcuuqgiBmhmcSykNO2ipVILGommITT5Xw-veIzmYz_saHQamuQrnGpSNxg/s400/P-M4.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133089020137225154" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Craptacular II</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">Be inspired.</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);font-size:130%;" >November 30th.<br />One night. Two shows.<br />7:00 & 9:00<br />Davis Square, MA</span><br /></div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-51676457560996450892007-11-10T11:22:00.000-05:002007-11-10T11:59:00.127-05:00grandpa's here at the broadway dinerI’m sitting at a table in the Broadway Diner, in the community of Arlington, where I live. I just finished a corned beef sandwich. This place has been open for only a few months. As a kid I remember seeing these places everywhere. The kind where nieces are the servers, the owner is manning the grill, and his wife is behind the cash register. I bet their house is around the corner from here, and they’re only open for breakfast and lunch.<br /><br />Sample Patrons: two Arlington cops on a coffee break in the corner booth, two women that look like friends of my mother, talking about their directionless children. A retired couple just pulled up in their pristine 1986 black Caddy. The wife is behind the wheel, and the husband walks through the parking lot slowly, with a cane. To my right, there’s a suit with a receding hairline just sat down and ordered coffee, unfolds the Herald from under his arm. I’m guessing insurance, owns a small private office. Or maybe a patent attorney. There’s two old guys at the counter with all the stools (what do they call that?) and they’re talking up the cooks in the kitchen. Wheezy, jagged-edged laughter erupts from one of them. That’s the sound of two packs a day for thirty years.<br /><br />What is it exactly about these greasy spoons? The food is anything but spectacular. It’s what you make for yourself at home, only not as good. The furnishings are sterile and uninspired. Burgandy vinyl booths, gray utility carpet, white walls and a few ivy plants. Stacks of assorted single serving Smuckers jams, sweeteners, and squeezy ketchup bottles on the tables. The average ticket is under $20. Diners like this always make me wonder how they stay in the black.<br /><br />I think I like this place because every time I sit down, I want to look for Grandpa. He should be here with me. He’d dig the menu. Grandpa would order the cheeseburger plate with a Pepsi. This is pre-ill Grandpa, of course. The Grandpa who’d take me to a place like this when Grandma was busy with another grandchild, and we had some time to kill before Mom picked us up. He’d tease me about whatever Disney character was on my t-shirt, and never make me finish all my french fries. My whole life, I think Grandpa is the only man who made me feel like anything I did was perfect; I was as perfect as anyone could get. Somehow I knew that’s what he thought of me all the time. So, strangely, this made it okay to not be perfect all the time.<br /><br />When Grandpa was in his final days, I flew home from Boston to say goodbye. Grandpa’s kidneys were done, so he came home to die in the home where he raised two daughters and loved his wife for over 50 years. On the car ride from the airport, I was warned that he was too weak to talk, and told not to expect much. Walking into the house, I stood in the doorway of his bedroom, and caught his eye. “I came a long way to see you,” I said. He quickly fired back in a strained whisper, “I’m so glad you did.” He reached his hand out, and patted the bedspread. Way more than I was expecting, and I nearly burst into tears that very moment.<br /><br />Whenever we visited Grandpa during one of his many hospital visits, he always wanted you to sit on the bed and hold his hand. This was no exception. I took my place, and talked to him for an hour, filling him in on what was happening at grad school. He pointed to my red fingernails and gave me a thumbs up. He would speak a little, but was most comfortable just listening.<br /><br />A few months before seeing him here, I’d sent Grandpa a video of one of my BoCo voice recitals. I sang one of his favorites, a 40’s standard titled “I’ll Be Seeing You.” I really wanted him to hear me sing that song. Mom said he loved it.<br /><br />Grandpa was tall and masculine. But starting in his late fifties, his health became impossible. He had heart problems, circulation problems, muscular skeletal problems, kidney problems. It was ridiculous. Countless doctor appointments spanning over the last two decades of his life. I don’t even know how many different surgeries. Always something different. But you would not believe this man’s optimism, and his constant concern for Grandma and his kids. Once or twice, I was asked to drive him to an appointment. Sitting in the waiting room, in a chair that looked anything but comfortable for Grandpa, he leaned over and gave me some advice: “Mary, m’dear. May I make a suggestion? Don’t ever get old.” And then he smiled at me.<br /><br />Grandpa tended to look uncomfortable in any chair other than his big brown leather recliner. That large, paternal-looking patriarchal throne fit him like a glove. Grandpa and Grandma always came to our plays and recitals as kids, and even as a child, looking out in the audience to find them, I’d see Grandpa, sitting in that unsuitably rigid folding chair, and wish we’d brought the recliner. Never a complaint though. He’d catch my eye and wink.<br /><br />The day before Grandpa passed away, he was barely there. Past the point of being able to respond to anyone in the room, he slept most of the time and expended all his energy trying to breathe. It looked painful. My wonderful EMT trained brother monitored his vitals every hour. When his eyes were open for just a few minutes, I came over to the bed and stroked his head. I got very close to his face, and looked straight into his eyes. In that moment I was overwhelmed with gratitude. This is the man who quit high school at 17 to begin supporting his mother and four sisters, worked two farms, completed his GED, enlisted in the Army Air Corps in 1944. He married his best girl Catherine shortly before heading down to Texas to begin army training. He spent his entire existence in devotion to his wife, his girls, and the Sante Fe Railroad. He never raised his voice, (if he didn’t like something, he’d tisk, shake his head, and walk away) he was never disrespectful to his wife, he never, ever, EVER, walked away from a responsibility, great or small. His gentle giant ways, his sweet voice, and his endearing sense of humor. The truest of patriarchs you’ll ever meet. This is what was in my head as I looked into his eyes that day. I said, “Thank you.” His face strained a little at the words. So I said, “I know, you want to thank me, and tell me you love me so much. I already know all that, so don’t worry about it.” He looked at me a little longer, and then closed his eyes to sleep a little bit.<br /><br />Around 3:00 p.m. the following day, he slowly, peacefully stopped breathing. My brother, Paul, was there with his stethoscope, listening, waiting, then unceremoniously unwrapped it from around his neck, sat back and looked at Grandpa. Paul wore this sad, small smile as he looked at his Grandpa. He was gone. I ran out to the front porch and looked up into the sky. I kind of wanted to see if I could see him leaving us. I didn’t see anything. So beautiful, so sad.<br /><br />Sometimes I think Grandpa visits me, or at least I hear him in my head. Please don’t commit me for admitting this. But it’s true. If I’m sad about a boy, Grandpa’s voice comes to say “Never you mind, honey. Never you mind him.” Once, when I was still nannying George, I could swear Grandpa was watching us. As if he just wanted to see me again. Ever the caretaker. He still checks in. He’s not here with me at the diner today, but my love for him, my memories of him, fill this entire room.<br /><br />I just realized this is Grandpa’s birthday month. Happy birthday, Grandpa! Every time I think of you, I still can’t stop saying the words, Thank You.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-36698998297219392512007-11-03T09:35:00.001-05:002007-11-03T11:43:51.096-05:00season highlights<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtqeajjtZvEEfpXi3TwGQoqc4wHTzxy8Im3rpPkEhmFOGBYguF84BfBzw4xm1SRnlemDl4xXDEJlFjNoKKkQYOm0GEI-COAoU0odnp5qYUnDwiJ_gb65zU_oql5eAk1EdE8GlFVQ/s1600-h/IMG_0716.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtqeajjtZvEEfpXi3TwGQoqc4wHTzxy8Im3rpPkEhmFOGBYguF84BfBzw4xm1SRnlemDl4xXDEJlFjNoKKkQYOm0GEI-COAoU0odnp5qYUnDwiJ_gb65zU_oql5eAk1EdE8GlFVQ/s320/IMG_0716.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128654499110221010" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjwp4XBN4wK7C6vi7MVe-KiT8-T-bHD0XJkIwUizUO_1svawonp6yJ3_URNZ9OxE6xRfaxdFLFzrL8qzXDgVH_ndfWGabq0b2suuk13VrXpFJMRaAYogrj0qw9w3w3gCLEIPdWWw/s1600-h/IMG_0712.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjwp4XBN4wK7C6vi7MVe-KiT8-T-bHD0XJkIwUizUO_1svawonp6yJ3_URNZ9OxE6xRfaxdFLFzrL8qzXDgVH_ndfWGabq0b2suuk13VrXpFJMRaAYogrj0qw9w3w3gCLEIPdWWw/s320/IMG_0712.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128654168397739202" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxC5IbNrOgjPcOxBhyphenhypheng6Ndrr4dCW_LxoQIAbWWjtmVCsUTaHAVxKkmHaHb1hwLIwccYG73LvLIvDGqSHhmlwbA6xREOHne_ZgbVE-kcgWJQpgj4gK8elC1ta8yguF5WcQW5ByZ8A/s1600-h/Row+Team+Row.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxC5IbNrOgjPcOxBhyphenhypheng6Ndrr4dCW_LxoQIAbWWjtmVCsUTaHAVxKkmHaHb1hwLIwccYG73LvLIvDGqSHhmlwbA6xREOHne_ZgbVE-kcgWJQpgj4gK8elC1ta8yguF5WcQW5ByZ8A/s320/Row+Team+Row.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128653794735584434" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdeeuS6UYn4B6gGnljww5ZuTrm0myWpEdbRdVpgdBj03by6v3iGLDvRR-1vU43-b-BqmbbZgkmW6MR_nL7Eec6VoN-6yKTqSGPTihh_FYGWMNVj_4zqz4S_tWcinmN6_JcuTYmCw/s1600-h/Peggy-Corn.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdeeuS6UYn4B6gGnljww5ZuTrm0myWpEdbRdVpgdBj03by6v3iGLDvRR-1vU43-b-BqmbbZgkmW6MR_nL7Eec6VoN-6yKTqSGPTihh_FYGWMNVj_4zqz4S_tWcinmN6_JcuTYmCw/s320/Peggy-Corn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128653683066434722" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ihn5f0OnAdSZYoXUJ4RXmPtay-L2yR19voam-hnIUnpZv9YOyTH-t4B6L9Dftlp6WQGQIPHPNnHxBzpoHcDqbYWqcYIITCN9KsFTnpT5fajUusfSbl5_O2rZIn0-u9nKPvZN_w/s1600-h/Peggy-Mary+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ihn5f0OnAdSZYoXUJ4RXmPtay-L2yR19voam-hnIUnpZv9YOyTH-t4B6L9Dftlp6WQGQIPHPNnHxBzpoHcDqbYWqcYIITCN9KsFTnpT5fajUusfSbl5_O2rZIn0-u9nKPvZN_w/s320/Peggy-Mary+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128653579987219602" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhocONfCkPJAPBUsw33wG-cXCTdOwsbayzMRBA23FLgFnwwzhl4ItYDct9n3H2yCAwAlJLgzvQBc3mC6oIRpjFhSxHSBtIDrxbQw84rf1VoBlgIxSXxzSt91UAfdNVcp9zPxHVIYg/s1600-h/October+Sky.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhocONfCkPJAPBUsw33wG-cXCTdOwsbayzMRBA23FLgFnwwzhl4ItYDct9n3H2yCAwAlJLgzvQBc3mC6oIRpjFhSxHSBtIDrxbQw84rf1VoBlgIxSXxzSt91UAfdNVcp9zPxHVIYg/s320/October+Sky.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128653339469050994" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYuuc5RvvsNVVTdxHuHgAMKELPfbn5PHuhJzgamsHnNEjE2XV_1LlZJ0LgLoW73SSgRl6yYmumxBdaj2docmIpBz0b_kVTde7AYvdh7I1eMAIASDB8XK-Yrtv5ewxPSe_UF4LIkw/s1600-h/Apples+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYuuc5RvvsNVVTdxHuHgAMKELPfbn5PHuhJzgamsHnNEjE2XV_1LlZJ0LgLoW73SSgRl6yYmumxBdaj2docmIpBz0b_kVTde7AYvdh7I1eMAIASDB8XK-Yrtv5ewxPSe_UF4LIkw/s320/Apples+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128653210620032098" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidxGCzP7drYuqkyEb56nfQJVX4jfZM9lJWeX3OV88-XTklCIWs1JMaBafdC2ak7I9pMSvLwzGYMGpcTXDIbntiz3Bj0eAX_r06PF6tNzwasbAyhTcjSsQ-GyKZDGhnbfnraSCw6Q/s1600-h/Apple+Crate.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidxGCzP7drYuqkyEb56nfQJVX4jfZM9lJWeX3OV88-XTklCIWs1JMaBafdC2ak7I9pMSvLwzGYMGpcTXDIbntiz3Bj0eAX_r06PF6tNzwasbAyhTcjSsQ-GyKZDGhnbfnraSCw6Q/s320/Apple+Crate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128653098950882386" border="0" /></a>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-82241597501256373542007-10-31T22:20:00.001-05:002007-10-31T22:31:35.770-05:00whore-o-weenJust got back from seeing Wicked. On Halloween. Totally awesome. But I'm tired now and I have to go to bed. But before I do, I'd just like to leave you with a great quote from an L.A. Times columnist speaking to the slutty Halloween costume phenomenon that has reinvented Halloween for many girls and women all over this blessed nation. I swiped the quote off a <a href="http://www.replikate.blogspot.com">really great blog</a> I visit on occasion, and I recommend reading her post on this same topic. Here: <br /><blockquote><br />"I understand that the masquerade ball is a classic that faded away, and that people need an opportunity to hide behind a mask in order to safely express their hidden selves. It makes sense that once a year I get to peek into your psyche and find out whether you think of yourself as a whore nurse, a whore pirate, a whore angel or a whore whore."</blockquote><br />Thank you. Just thank you. For reaching into my soul and giving it perfect verbiage.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-67509685867294494302007-10-30T22:44:00.001-05:002007-10-30T22:44:32.584-05:00bwahahahahaha!!!<table width=350 align=center border=0 cellspacing=0 cellpadding=2><tr><td bgcolor="#DDDDDD" align=center><font face="Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif" style='color:black; font-size: 14pt;'><b>You Failed Your Driver's Test</b></font></td></tr><tr><td bgcolor="#EEEEEE"><center><img src="http://images.blogthings.com/areyouagooddriverquiz/fail.jpg" height="100" width="100"></center><font color="#000000"><br />You only got 5/10 correct.<br />If you have a driver's license, it needs to be revoked! </font></td></tr></table><div align="center"><a href="http://www.blogthings.com/areyouagooddriverquiz/">Are You a Good Driver?</a></div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-85095496279158390232007-10-29T12:40:00.000-05:002007-10-29T12:42:36.104-05:00it's all so wonderful, isn't it?I’ve become a regular at the 7-Eleven on Tremont and Winter streets here in the lovely downtown Boston area. I only just realized, however, that that’s about to change. This is my last week working in the city. I’m down to just teaching in the afternoons come next Monday. But I don’t really want to talk about that, kay?<br /><br />I frequent the 7-Eleven, because I am constantly trying to restructure the way I manage my addiction to Diet Coke in a way that won’t cause any permanent upset to kidneys, REM cycles, waste cycles, girly cycles, unicyles, hair growth, habitual vomiting, shortness of breath, health of the nail beds, knuckle sensitivity, minor rashes, saliva production, and other nervous complexes. We want all of that staying exactly as it is, MEANWHILE, getting in our necessary daily intake of Diet Coke. It’s a crafty dance of balance and beauty, really. Quitting the habit altogether would be too easy. No creative thinking behind that choice at all.<br /><br />The latest way I drink Diet Coke is to take care of it first thing in the day. 44 ounces starting at 9:30. Drink it in an hour or so. No more for the rest of the day. Gluttonous quantities of Diet Coke at 9:30 and then I’m good for the next 24 hours.<br /><br />So this morning was quite chilly, and I’m without a winter coat. An older black gentleman is leaving as I’m going into 7-Eleven. I smile and hold the door for him. He’s holding two lottery tickets. “Why, thank you sister!” he says to me and smiles. “You’re welcome! Have a wonderful day!” I reply. “You as well, God bless you. God bless you!” And then he leaves.<br /><br />Can I just say that I felt so good after that? Such a small exchange, but…he called me sister! And the cheesy ridiculous part is…that’s exactly what I felt like to him! Children of God holding doors for each other on a cold Monday morning. I felt honored by him. I remember walking to the fountain drinks hoping he’d scratch into a million dollars today.<br /><br />I pull my gargantuan red cup from the dispenser, and fill it with ice. Happy smile. Happy day. I press the little Diet Coke button, and out comes….SODA WATER. <br /><br />“Excuse me, you’re out of Diet Coke.” I say calmly. Guy in red shirt says, “Sorry, it’s too hard to get to the boxes of soda because there’s tons of stuff in front of it.” “So, you can’t fix it?” “I can’t fix it.”<br /><br />I’m not even out the door before I’ve begun strategizing how I’m going to torch this mother down. I hate humans. Kiss this regular goodbye…<br /><br />KIDDING.<br /><br />Not sweating it, I head toward the door and a large white construction guy follows right behind me. I hold the door for him on our way out. “Thanks, sweetie.” He says. “Not a problem.” I reply. <br /><br />If only the Red Sox could sweep the World Series every weekend…Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-67075214314743517612007-10-18T12:06:00.000-05:002007-10-18T12:11:31.173-05:00keeping the candle litI've told a few friends about a play I know I'm supposed to write. I even know what it's about, and I know what it's supposed to say. I just don't know how to say it. So I write other plays, thinking that will help me become a better writer for the play I know I'm supposed to write.<br /><br />I can't tell you how strange it is to have dialogue running in your mind spoken by a woman you've created but not written down yet. I'm intimidated to the teeth by her; I don't know how to do her wisdom justice. I'm just not that good.<br /><br />Then today, my dear friend sent me a quote I've read many times before, but needed to read again. And then the candle lit up inside me. Here's the quote:<br /><br /><blockquote>"The story of Mormonism has never yet been written nor painted nor sculptured nor spoken. It remains for inspired hearts and talented fingers yet to reveal themselves." -Spencer W. Kimball, Teachings</blockquote><br />Okay, okay. Okay.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-71506799521519585062007-10-17T09:50:00.000-05:002007-10-17T09:57:30.302-05:00methods of reasoningThis morning on my way into work, a toothless, crazy homeless man riding a rusty bike on the sidewalk pedals past me and says, “Ooooo. Sexy.” These were my thoughts following that, using the skills acquired through a methods of reasoning course during freshman year of college:<br /><br />1. Crazy men who have not teeth do not make truthful or valid statements.<br />2. Therefore, I am not sexy. <br />3. Normal attractive men make truthful and valid statements.<br />4. Normal attractive men do not ride past me and say, “Ooooo. Sexy.”<br />5. Therefore, I am not sexy.<br /><br />Based solely on the tenets of logical cognition, I conclude that this reasoning is FALSE. And so I ponder further:<br /><br />1. Crazy people usually say the things we are too afraid to say.<br />2. Normal attractive men usually stay away from saying things that sound crazy.<br />3. Crazy man said I was sexy.<br />4. Normal attractive men usually are too afraid to say I am sexy.<br /><br />This reasoning is SOMEWHAT TRUE. We’re getting warmer. [Note that this posit does not argue whether or not I am sexy, only whether one should say so. While pedaling a rusty bicycle down a sidewalk.] <br /><br />And then like a beacon of great light, I uncover the truth:<br /><br />1. Perception is reality.<br />2. I perceive that I am attractive on numerous levels.<br />3. Crazy man says I am sexy.<br />4. Normal attractive man says nothing.<br />5. I am attractive on numerous levels.<br /><br />Statements 3 & 4 have no bearing on Statements 1 & 2. Statement 5 is TRUE. <br /><br />I rode up the fourteen floors of my building beaming. Don’t you just love logic?Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-62755889736207277712007-10-16T08:45:00.000-05:002007-10-16T08:53:00.425-05:00P to the M to the S...This morning my boss comes in first thing and hands me a box wrapped in deep red paper and a big gold bow. "From C*." (Boss' beau.) It's Belgian chocolate. And the tears begin to flow. They need to commit me, I swear. A present! A present after a sleepless night, and a hard morning, and a long day of work and teaching ahead! God loves me.<br /><br />I wrote C* a quick email. We've been friends for many moons now, you see. Whenever he calls for the boss he always asks me how I'm doing, I inevitably get dating advice or a career pep talk or something. He's fantastic.<br /><br />"Thank you so much for the chocolate," I said. "I've just ruined my breakfast. God bless you for that."Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-75898427135029031672007-10-12T17:15:00.000-05:002007-10-15T10:26:51.260-05:004 days in o-HI-ohSo as <a href="http://www.juliehulet.blogspot.com/">Julie</a> has already mentioned on her blog, little ju-ju bee and I went on a trip to Columbus over Columbus Day weekend. We really get into the holiday.<br /><br />Since Julie and I are both fans of the blog, and like to share all the banal of our lives with no one in particular and everyone all at once, we kept a "Blog Log" of our 14+ hour car trip on our way to Ohio. I've left all the typos, because I think it gives the piece character. You will also note that as the hours grew later and later, the brain did a funny dance put on paper. And since I can't find the cable that connects my camera to the computer, I can only give you the photos taken by my Macbook's Photo Book. In spite of how horrifying they are, I believe in being honest, and include them with this post for your viewing abhorrence.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Blog Log</span><br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Stardate: 10-5-07 7:28PM- Lice Lady</span><br /><br />Heart beat out from the pike. Stopped at a light. Got the window’s rolled down. Gonna do it up right. When to our right,...okay enough rhyming....single woman rolls down her window, greets us with her Bostonian slur and says, “Feels like summah!” Julie and I give the gratuitous, “yeah.” We continue with a few pleasantries when car lady hits us with the bad news... “At the school where I work we got an out-break of lice.” At this moment Julie resists rolling up the window. She continues, “And so I’m sittin heah all sveltering thinking, ‘my scalp itches’ and I’m wondering, huh?” The gods finally have their laugh and let the light turn green and we are once again on our way. And as a further farewell, lice lady cuts us off. We let her go because, well, the woman’s got lice.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Stardate: 10-5-07 11:44 PM - Julie needs a Snickers</span><br /><br />We’ve entered upstate New York, and Julie needs at least 30 more voice lessons. Cha-ching! Mary’s tambourines keep going off in the trunk, which tells you the conditions of our road. Mary’s resisting the urge to sell junk by the side of the road and wear a long gauzy skirt. Can you tell it’s nearly midnight? And only eleven and a half hours to go. But hey, we got pretzels. And we do not believe that anything has happened in the last four hours. Thank you.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7FHwMii9w90ibejFBeE0Qe7Q1YwS03GAIs_enZGOof92QN5AbyqxSI3NiTLLZP39PCn68o3DMtASL2HNh3PrG2CfFnpVrK1D5vO3VgTmcjYrTJtxotUp1gCo37DBEcMZGjkZeqw/s1600-h/Ohio+2+-+Julie+Drives.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120580661439418290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7FHwMii9w90ibejFBeE0Qe7Q1YwS03GAIs_enZGOof92QN5AbyqxSI3NiTLLZP39PCn68o3DMtASL2HNh3PrG2CfFnpVrK1D5vO3VgTmcjYrTJtxotUp1gCo37DBEcMZGjkZeqw/s320/Ohio+2+-+Julie+Drives.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Quotable Quotes thus far:<br />Mary: Intimidated by what?! I fart!<br />Julie: The tambourines make me giggle.<br />Mary: It’s scientifically impossible to hate you...but go to hell.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Stardate: 10-6-07 1:32AM - This trail mix is good</span><br /><br />Just left the Mobil gas station somewhere in New York. We just passed a sign that said 70 miles to Rochester. I think that’s where we’re going to stop for a more than needed two-hour naparooni. We went over the pros and cons of being in a singles ward. The final verdict: Painful but necessary.<br /><br />Julie’s ritual when she drives this by herself is to stop every three hours, run around the parking lot twice, buy a Red Bull at the convenience store, and then she’s good for another three. But since Mary’s here, she’s good with trail mix and Cherry Coke. Mostly Julie wishes that no one judge her for drinking Red Bull. Mary wants it known that if you do judge her, she has no power to stop you. Julie thinks Mary is astute.<br /><br />We’re now going to watch a video Mary made of Peggy telling a scary story by the campfire in her Sister Utah voice. Don’t you wish you were here?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOQuN75V7OzfrHlrJyV3PvR5EEXlKSZZCMv_dcE7NFAAJOaAGdVS19UdxHijhAIzQYiXHiAqGbZqffhJENqc9pMkOTs57GdYk0tGwAlF5yQ6Aiejn0QD9-HBXKHTkp3-A_zq2ang/s1600-h/Ohio+1+-+Mary+Crazy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120580438101118882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOQuN75V7OzfrHlrJyV3PvR5EEXlKSZZCMv_dcE7NFAAJOaAGdVS19UdxHijhAIzQYiXHiAqGbZqffhJENqc9pMkOTs57GdYk0tGwAlF5yQ6Aiejn0QD9-HBXKHTkp3-A_zq2ang/s320/Ohio+1+-+Mary+Crazy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Stardate: 10-6-07 2:14AM</span><br /><br />What is art? Whitney Houston, that’s what. We’ve resorted to calling people names like sicky puke man face and stupid dummy dum-dum man head. And right now we are laughing uncontrollably. And we also know that in twelve hours none of this will be funny, (Note: we re-read this 6 hours later, and it was pretty dang funny) partly because Conference will be over and we will feel sufficiently chastised for calling people names. Actually, we’ll also feel bad for pretty much sleeping through Conference as well. I’d like to make a statement: Julie has a statement. Julie clears her throat: I believe the children are our future...lead them well but let them lead the way...and that’s all she’s got, folks. Wait,...its teach them well. Thats not what Julie said. But don’t tell her. She’ll feel bad about that too. Now we’re singing that Allure song, All Cried Out....HOvah youuuuuuuuu. We sang the whole dang thang. We’ve determined the best line of that song is as follows: Apology not accepted, add me to the broken hearts you collected - AHHHHHHHHHHHH!<br /><br />Julie talks about how she feels right now: It’s like I”m not even tired cuz like all of the caffeine I’ve had is burning up the endolphins is like releasing the syruptonin tha’ts like in my bran, and it’s making me not tred but lke happy at the same time ,and I’m pretty sure that’s like an effect of Diet Coke.<br /><br />Thank you, Julie.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNzvSbOyeUM22XZaRE06ICpmKUCiTza3SDK88yiNNXaMtvMJhwq2KQR7QsIlAJ80D_h3qU8w77PAIjm2Q0MpmXsytS4Pfjhx44VZlRMZNVzGjsiFaQgm52UaW5HBFg1MsXI-7_jg/s1600-h/Ohio+4+-+Julie+Kisses.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120580828943142850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNzvSbOyeUM22XZaRE06ICpmKUCiTza3SDK88yiNNXaMtvMJhwq2KQR7QsIlAJ80D_h3qU8w77PAIjm2Q0MpmXsytS4Pfjhx44VZlRMZNVzGjsiFaQgm52UaW5HBFg1MsXI-7_jg/s320/Ohio+4+-+Julie+Kisses.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQ_m2aNY0iQC5JPnOJ9gYX9TZ4lntMPl3NkDvghbP5pcYATUEtZ-tKZ9QD67OHezNjxlkEI4CvP_cVEtKKhxQgKmJhq3RnZ7aSuXD89c4sr0PJ27O4dx4d3TmGwbx1u3HiQtNvw/s1600-h/Ohio+3+-+Mary+Screams.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120581009331769298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQ_m2aNY0iQC5JPnOJ9gYX9TZ4lntMPl3NkDvghbP5pcYATUEtZ-tKZ9QD67OHezNjxlkEI4CvP_cVEtKKhxQgKmJhq3RnZ7aSuXD89c4sr0PJ27O4dx4d3TmGwbx1u3HiQtNvw/s320/Ohio+3+-+Mary+Screams.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Stardate: October 6, 2007 6:05AM - Post 1.5 Hour Nap</span><br /><br />We’ve been driving for about an hour and 20 minutes. I”m pretty convinced that woman gave me lice. Look, I just itched my scalp. Who knew that it took so little time for the eggs to hatch. We just crossed the Pennsylvania state line. Julie says, “Hey, remember when we were just asleep in that parking lot and it was blazing hot in the car and there were people walking around outside the car and talking the whole time?” 100 miles to go. I could go for a steak right about now.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Startdate: 10-5-07 8:06AM - Wee Hours</span><br /><br />Let it be known that Julie lied. It wasn’t 100 miles to go. It was 240 miles to go. But she let Mary sleep for a couple hours so it’s cool. And whilst Mary was slumbering, Julie watched the sunrise through the rearview mirror. Awwwww. Julie listened to her iPod. Here’s the list:<br />Garth Brooks, Ain’t Goin’ Down Till the Sun Comes Up<br />Coolio, Gangsta’s Paradise. Way to go, Cooley-Julio!<br />Queen, We Will Rock You<br />Bon Jovi, You Give Love a Bad Name<br />Sarah Brightman, Phantom of the Opera<br />and finally<br />Metallica, Enter Sandman<br /><br />Mary feels as if she missed out on some of the best tracks o’ the trip. Actually, the only tracks o’the trip. Speaking of O apostrophe’s, we forgot to mention our brief listen to Famous Irish Folk Ballads last night. Didn’t last long. Probably have to be in Ireland.<br /><br />Julie says we’re actually about 100 miles out now. For realsies this time. Mary’s not listening to single word she says.<br /><br />Mary had to hear the following story exactly three times in succession before comprehending, and not even then: “My parents always complain about how grey Columbus is. But every time I come, it’s sunny. So I’m not sure I believe them. The End.” Mary thought Julie was saying her parent always said Columbus was ‘GREAT’ not ‘GREY’. We’ll be stopping for Q-tips and more Diet Coke shortly.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Stardate: 10-6-07 9:43 AM - It’s Official</span><br /><br />Julie and Mary have completely run out of things to talk about. We knew we were getting close to this moment when we started listing the nicknames of our respective siblings. Even the box of Hot Tamales turned cold.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">-End of Blog Log-<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left">Postscript: About 15 minutes later, we pulled into Julie's parents' driveway. It was so good to be in a real home, with real food, and real pajamas (for two days straight), and have real sleep in a real bed. I loved this trip. And two days later, we got back into my little Suzy four-door, and drove home. We were kind of over the "blog log" log thing at this time. Perhaps one noteworthy point of that trip was Julie dared me to tell a story about making a peanut butter sandwich that stretched over 40 miles of road. At the speed we were going, that meant I told a story about nothing for 40 minutes. I did it, but I think it fundamentally and permanently changed our friendship for the worse. I'd advise against it. </div></div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-85932148002298977412007-09-29T17:53:00.000-05:002007-09-29T19:17:18.784-05:00i ate broccoli, and other items no one should or ought to care about<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://blog.nutritiondata.com/photos/uncategorized/26436919_broccoli_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://blog.nutritiondata.com/photos/uncategorized/26436919_broccoli_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Oh, hang on. Before I start this post, I have GOT to swallow some Advil. Headaches, boo. Hold please.<br /><br />(back from the kitchen...)<br /><br />Mmmmm. Liqui-gels.<br /><br />Folks, I ate some broccoli this week. Family? Did you hear that? I, Mary Joanna, ate broccoli. And you can tell Mom that. Tell her I ate it without sitting at the dinner table for two hours after everyone had finished, I did not pout once, and I required no nose-pinching or yellow mustard to cover up the flavor. <br /><br />Sometimes grownups have to do hard things. When you're a grownup, and you no longer care to show off your distaste for something as adored and commonly eaten as broccoli, when you're sitting down to a wonderful meal prepared by someone you care about, who made it especially for you, and it's a casserole, with broccoli in it, and there's nothing else on the table to eat but a salad, and you know if you don't eat the casserole, the whole dinner is a bust and you'll look like an ungrateful beast with a food attitude, then you suck it up, remember that you're a professionally trained actress, and you eat the broccoli. With a lot of the other casserole stuff mixed in, careful to keep it to just one broccoli per bite. And you don't even gag once. <br /><br />The first bite wasn't bad at all. In fact, I even asked myself whether I might one day eat broccoli like normal people, you know, regularly. I was getting a little excited about that when I took the second bite. Oops. I got a little cocky. Ate a big one, and didn't include enough casserole stuff. Maybe I still don't like broccoli. I had several bites more to go, and I did so good, but I had to leave about four of those little nasties off to the side. I made up for it by offering some killer conversation topics. Mom! I totally ate like five pieces! Can I have a lemon bar now?<br /><br />And now for a few other items:<br /><br />Incidentally, does it ever occur to anyone else that so much of what we bloggers blog is by and large self-gratuitous and boring to good people everywhere? But since when does that stop us?<br /><br />Our stake was signed up for volunteer service in the Boston Temple this month, and this afternoon I worked in the cafeteria and laundry facilities. I think I got picked up on while in the service line of the Boston Temple cafeteria. I give this guy his chowder, and he asks me my name with a smile that says he's pretty proud of himself. I tell him. He says, "you come here a lot, don't you?" I blink twice. A random guy, in the <span style="font-style:italic;">temple</span>, just knocked me with a "come here often?" Sir, I'm wearing a hairnet for the love of Zeus, I've got a shapeless white gown on that fastens with a big ugly zipper down the front like a housecoat and I'm wearing granny slippers. Exactly what are you seeing here that tells you I'm here today to score some sweet lovin' from a seafood chowder enthusiast? Wheat roll? <br /><br />A little later, I headed into the back, and asked my other volunteer friend, "Uh, the guy with the chowder?" Volunteer friend looks up from her dishwashing and says, "you mean the one who just hit on me?!" I burst out laughing. So warning, girls: some dudes got it bad for cafeteria ladies. <span style="font-style:italic;">Righteous</span> cafeteria ladies.<br /><br />Let's see anything else? <br /><br />I got about 20 pages of my play written this weekend. And I figured out what to do with the second act! Which is huge! Do you know how many plays have been written where the second acts are just life-sucking wastes?! Right now my whole play lacks any real creativity, but I'm hoping that comes later. At least I recognize the fact that my work currently reads like a sitcom with Reba McEntire. It'll get better. I hope.<br /><br />Enough for now. Hey, my headache's gone!Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-85158110585403008842007-09-28T21:55:00.000-05:002007-09-28T21:57:18.733-05:00this can't be accurate. *sigh.<center><a href="http://www.strangegirl.com/austenquiz/" target="_blank"><img src="http://www.strangegirl.com/austenquiz/anne.jpg" width="200" height="300" border=0 alt="I am Anne Elliot!"><p><br />Take the Quiz here!</a></center><br /><p>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-82009261266112692592007-09-24T11:43:00.001-05:002007-09-24T11:52:26.709-05:00summer highlightJust looking over some photos today, and had to post these. This made me laugh so hard remembering it. One day we all went down to the Cape, and a few friends decided they wanted to create a human wheel, and then roll themselves on into the surf. It took a whole team of people, an applauding audience of strangers, and a whole lotta guts from the participants, and it still didn't work. I just hid behind my camera and took photos of the process. I laughed so, so hard. Hope you enjoy. <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOFs4DI1WWLe84wAFJmTV0n9J9UuNb8-lh2mKVIR8tPEa5DUpxh6iKxRGPuqteQDljphVqvL5fESlIYIZ0-BfsWwmbplQCvkeliLs-LJM9ZNprmEc4QvUSmKGV8DFts_OmZalXTw/s1600-h/May+-+June+07+019.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113813480903069586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOFs4DI1WWLe84wAFJmTV0n9J9UuNb8-lh2mKVIR8tPEa5DUpxh6iKxRGPuqteQDljphVqvL5fESlIYIZ0-BfsWwmbplQCvkeliLs-LJM9ZNprmEc4QvUSmKGV8DFts_OmZalXTw/s320/May+-+June+07+019.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8n4WTzuWmVYkPhlq-9nBUPN2-JgVdY8ge_K516t1fWOF6BIDxcOWae-rn2FqCmefmEiOMGJw-E_pklL81PmmWFp2dlHg2AmP1Czr-fkF6uAvq1KvjysQxRIq0zc055Y2hDPPITw/s1600-h/May+-+June+07+018.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113813399298690946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8n4WTzuWmVYkPhlq-9nBUPN2-JgVdY8ge_K516t1fWOF6BIDxcOWae-rn2FqCmefmEiOMGJw-E_pklL81PmmWFp2dlHg2AmP1Czr-fkF6uAvq1KvjysQxRIq0zc055Y2hDPPITw/s320/May+-+June+07+018.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigqJiONVqr9ns4YGk4BcLvUs1yi9v5tpZyJToF54TMX1RM4mdFWTs0qb9vUj2Xx6NQqq0C1Qg3WAtz4FGvwvtOPD90GNIXQL9xi6r8ftMq2CQwCo6jwIeZW-QaJ8Zg-XS9-IM0fw/s1600-h/May+-+June+07+017.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113813326284246898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigqJiONVqr9ns4YGk4BcLvUs1yi9v5tpZyJToF54TMX1RM4mdFWTs0qb9vUj2Xx6NQqq0C1Qg3WAtz4FGvwvtOPD90GNIXQL9xi6r8ftMq2CQwCo6jwIeZW-QaJ8Zg-XS9-IM0fw/s320/May+-+June+07+017.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlxe6Khcx4jb_KwkUL0up1Myot-J-D-u1qlAcFUflIaUHx5yWQ_OSE2cjdevXDOoVkYajXKLy_iG8lP5NdQdjCoUSTBqaQ9IetwoddOFU_itveHZX6azDBau2jHb3OHzbdZVW-mw/s1600-h/May+-+June+07+016.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113813253269802850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlxe6Khcx4jb_KwkUL0up1Myot-J-D-u1qlAcFUflIaUHx5yWQ_OSE2cjdevXDOoVkYajXKLy_iG8lP5NdQdjCoUSTBqaQ9IetwoddOFU_itveHZX6azDBau2jHb3OHzbdZVW-mw/s320/May+-+June+07+016.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqgEQh88oU9hSD1-H6PFx-CEMPmHiPpTU1XYDVv07sL9XCiebJhTE14MAOz46WCSXVLVBBWZ3iymV_-Z7ZNFfYZ0U3KiLug1iz61Jib1v1kRxGq-84sPoMjYk6M0xX-yqVc7tAiA/s1600-h/May+-+June+07+015.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113813184550326098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqgEQh88oU9hSD1-H6PFx-CEMPmHiPpTU1XYDVv07sL9XCiebJhTE14MAOz46WCSXVLVBBWZ3iymV_-Z7ZNFfYZ0U3KiLug1iz61Jib1v1kRxGq-84sPoMjYk6M0xX-yqVc7tAiA/s320/May+-+June+07+015.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJduc-agtW-P6haEL9Rdh99FZcdZZ7oBnELgLY3OCflqA3-ILMYCErinAq4lWABs2m1eqDnTePY_2toAwyFxg_3RiSrZ_zYL5Ys1gKa-i8gmVx6CoaD8AIqLx29mrGXOQpBzlucA/s1600-h/May+-+June+07+014.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113813102945947458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJduc-agtW-P6haEL9Rdh99FZcdZZ7oBnELgLY3OCflqA3-ILMYCErinAq4lWABs2m1eqDnTePY_2toAwyFxg_3RiSrZ_zYL5Ys1gKa-i8gmVx6CoaD8AIqLx29mrGXOQpBzlucA/s320/May+-+June+07+014.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwLK4K3j-0kZZ-uYx7Ty8rcwRCCJ_n3gydb86zLp3Vh78UQQ2qYx8iK4rY5wprP8N1cLeDOFvg126RnmJgAZIZwnNJey1-FBJpKRWduW6Sd9w5JS38rSHY8GTNK3rFhZzhbAH0hA/s1600-h/May+-+June+07+013.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113813008456666930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwLK4K3j-0kZZ-uYx7Ty8rcwRCCJ_n3gydb86zLp3Vh78UQQ2qYx8iK4rY5wprP8N1cLeDOFvg126RnmJgAZIZwnNJey1-FBJpKRWduW6Sd9w5JS38rSHY8GTNK3rFhZzhbAH0hA/s320/May+-+June+07+013.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZoZcM8vnQdVKbhb79ZPwI8PQORRBimNl0nYMQPiZlppkZq9TN0IX1LFnd8ZhBd7G_04xlACVi0h4Qf1yxv8_RThStR2civuCJS1rz9SAIa-X6egklvlPwgEIHPNYat3DkDNrdNg/s1600-h/May+-+June+07+011.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113812909672419106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZoZcM8vnQdVKbhb79ZPwI8PQORRBimNl0nYMQPiZlppkZq9TN0IX1LFnd8ZhBd7G_04xlACVi0h4Qf1yxv8_RThStR2civuCJS1rz9SAIa-X6egklvlPwgEIHPNYat3DkDNrdNg/s320/May+-+June+07+011.jpg" border="0" /></a>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-81750880875653454152007-09-18T09:11:00.001-05:002007-09-18T09:11:45.996-05:00love my married friends...Husband: “It was the last week in July. Or no, wait. First week in August? No, probably July. I think it was end of July…um. When was it? (looks over at Wife.)”<br /><br />Wife: (quietly) No one cares.<br /><br />Husband: Right. Anyway…Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13995073.post-47897306288159776652007-09-16T12:43:00.000-05:002007-09-16T13:13:14.713-05:00a day separate<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Ca4jgSZM5VxLUihg5E3Fkj85d-a5xE92vV8TiTRZalYSvE3w-3Y8aaiq9G5gdmd_HxQqOAfQjTzJdBfgWEbg0aGXZHBC8hkk7rBIxUErTxGi8ZgcvaorLxKHLr7ULd0QRb4SYQ/s1600-h/IMG_0671.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Ca4jgSZM5VxLUihg5E3Fkj85d-a5xE92vV8TiTRZalYSvE3w-3Y8aaiq9G5gdmd_HxQqOAfQjTzJdBfgWEbg0aGXZHBC8hkk7rBIxUErTxGi8ZgcvaorLxKHLr7ULd0QRb4SYQ/s320/IMG_0671.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110859967349937570" border="0" /></a><br />Drove myself to the Boston Temple this morning and did a little thinking. It was warm in the sun, and cool in the shade, with a breeze that reminded me it's definitely September in New England. Gorgeous.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_DJbGIPRkcDCdig9FkHeVwG_vqrizlNwkeJF9RskeJvO3HjZK2SiGrvkZAJmuREv_gD0cQrhyphenhyphens2w1OJxxstIM6_8_kdHG1jL2-V9ZrQ751K7JY3pSg8a4ymyVCEBmYrlKaqxAAA/s1600-h/IMG_0670.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_DJbGIPRkcDCdig9FkHeVwG_vqrizlNwkeJF9RskeJvO3HjZK2SiGrvkZAJmuREv_gD0cQrhyphenhyphens2w1OJxxstIM6_8_kdHG1jL2-V9ZrQ751K7JY3pSg8a4ymyVCEBmYrlKaqxAAA/s320/IMG_0670.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110860512810784178" border="0" /></a>I was a little cold, so I found a sunny spot to perch.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ4nSGfQFVgfxDpU3QQLrfmgFVl3WTiheVShDSa97Sys80YpaEV6lmNZawPtVbHkpOSo_NBVT3hDnrrkzAjDtHZvwF9ByS71OL1t4-kh9DsX8Jj364r9PPN4ksNt0H55REhjFxHw/s1600-h/IMG_0672.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ4nSGfQFVgfxDpU3QQLrfmgFVl3WTiheVShDSa97Sys80YpaEV6lmNZawPtVbHkpOSo_NBVT3hDnrrkzAjDtHZvwF9ByS71OL1t4-kh9DsX8Jj364r9PPN4ksNt0H55REhjFxHw/s320/IMG_0672.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110860925127644610" border="0" /></a>My seat faced the front entrance. I sat down on the bench and enjoyed the total solitude for a few moments. Then I tried to pray. I tried to pray out loud. Nothing came. Too many thoughts all happening at the same time. Many of them not very happy. Which is why I went there. All that ended up coming out was, "You know what I would say."<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2MuzmrFWYjSeKOIcGHjl1m2kOCasg71EvLo3vngwrO07BYBXH6KvDJ0BuEMsWpatA6tVh86CfHm2y6Ns1YXu6lSu5QxsdD11xoZsB9h6VHwvJt1SnAwqdAy_9CMIsAZR2ON4TSA/s1600-h/IMG_0673.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2MuzmrFWYjSeKOIcGHjl1m2kOCasg71EvLo3vngwrO07BYBXH6KvDJ0BuEMsWpatA6tVh86CfHm2y6Ns1YXu6lSu5QxsdD11xoZsB9h6VHwvJt1SnAwqdAy_9CMIsAZR2ON4TSA/s320/IMG_0673.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110862514265544146" border="0" /></a><br />This is the view from where I was seated. This is the front entrance of the temple. And then I started getting all metaphoric in my head about approaching the gate seeking sanctuary, etc. I started to cry. Really, really cry. Oh wow, I totally sobbed. I was afraid someone was going to see me, but I couldn't stop. It felt good.<br /><br />Then I opened my scriptures, and read Chapter 22 of 3rd Nephi in the Book of Mormon. This is the same as Isaiah Chapter 54 in the Old Testament.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaxIjboIRa3GkwqSN9j8V4WhE4xtLgxTGP3aLl7m98pnaUnlgptFIYkGOIuaTf8ATLrqgW1me6Wo8ehPc6mB4AxV3-aF96YCw_r28pD5DHCKP9_XuS5kB6Hr9CF-xf0TrEMoerPQ/s1600-h/IMG_0669.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaxIjboIRa3GkwqSN9j8V4WhE4xtLgxTGP3aLl7m98pnaUnlgptFIYkGOIuaTf8ATLrqgW1me6Wo8ehPc6mB4AxV3-aF96YCw_r28pD5DHCKP9_XuS5kB6Hr9CF-xf0TrEMoerPQ/s400/IMG_0669.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110864193597756914" border="0" /></a><br />I got up and walked around the grounds for awhile. I realized I wanted to remember September 16th 2007, because it was a beautiful one. So I took all these pictures to remind me of what happened. I'm hoping in September of 2008 I'm going to look at them and have one of those "wow" moments, where you realize how much you didn't know then, and how much things have changed since, and what an amazing God we have to know what you need when, and how much to stretch you, because it produces the most indescribable happiness in the end.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgTzuEIBI9g431SBhR47GsxbaM2uDuTDIXpEHst-5bR_bBzs-TYOnMqjHwT5EDwqc23Fap8M4PF6g2Nk-IesX9FJRCuJqTDG2y1ZFIk2h8fW87iCZWW_Ol_eugFuTIzlB2qed7Q/s1600-h/IMG_0674.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgTzuEIBI9g431SBhR47GsxbaM2uDuTDIXpEHst-5bR_bBzs-TYOnMqjHwT5EDwqc23Fap8M4PF6g2Nk-IesX9FJRCuJqTDG2y1ZFIk2h8fW87iCZWW_Ol_eugFuTIzlB2qed7Q/s320/IMG_0674.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110865812800427522" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />And then I went to church, and it was fantastic.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01881149102981381456noreply@blogger.com4