Thanksgiving 2009: 10 Things.

1. I am thankful for a beautiful world and getting to see bits of it.
2. I am thankful I found my overpriced Lancome eyeliner that I thought I’d accidentally thrown away.
3. I am thankful for miracles.
4. I am thankful my house didn’t burn down either from cooking or leaving my straightener on.
5. I am thankful for all the babies expected in summer 2010 by my good friends and family.
6. I am thankful for the seasons.
7. I am thankful for Dancing with the Stars.
8. I am thankful for memories.
9. I am thankful for cheese.
10. I am thankful for you.

Uxmal

Uxmal, however, was love at first sight. It was quiet--a few other tourists and no vendors. It’s also just beautiful-lots of lush vegetation making you feel like you wandered into the jungle and discovered the pyramids all by yourself. You can climb on several of the structures, giving you a better taste of the views, feel and smells that the former residents experienced. We had time to explore by ourselves, and sat and gazed for a while in the golden late afternoon sun, and imagined Mayans coming and going and performing their rites.

The experience wasn't exactly marred, but was not maximised, by our guide, who gave our tour in both Spanish and English. Sample:
Guide in Spanish: 10 minute screed plus extended Q and A in front of a building.
Guide in English: “We are speaking of the mayans, who lived here.”
(Possible slight exaggeration alert).

Later that evening we came back for the sound and light show. The trouble with knowing a language only slightly is that most of one's knowledge is completely useless. Of the spoken part, I understood bits like "the colour yellow..." "The men have..." and "...because..." So I can't tell you what it was about.

Well, ok, it was obviously a dramatization of ancient life there, with people chanting to Chaac, and praying for rain, and explaining the meaning of the colours in and around the temple (according to our guide, they represent life, and black represents death). There were translator headphones available, but our guide omitted to mention that beforehand. But honestly, I'm fine with only the gist. I dislike translator headphones on the whole, and the experience felt a little more real for being a little more mysterious to me. There was music, and a sonic rainstorm, and the lights were pretty spectacular, and I can understand lightning in any language. It was a beautiful ending to our trip.

A Wonder

I had an interesting reaction to my first sight of Chichen Itza--I was distinctly underwhelmed. I blame the posters. For days I've been looking at pictures of this place, hearing about how it’s just been named a wonder of the world, and we got to the site and paid our fee, made our way through the turnstiles and crowds of tourists and vendors, and then suddenly there it was. Just like in the pictures, and we hadn't even had to walk uphill to get there.

However, our guide started telling us about its history, and about Mayan sacrifices, and the mysterious ball game that was tied to it all. He showed us carved symbols, and the cenote where sacrifices where thrown, and how the sun lights up the main pyramid at the vernal and autumnal equinoxes, and we walked around the site and explored a little. And I fell in love a little bit with Chichen Itza and its veiled past. I wanted to gaze at it more as we left than when we arrived.

We're of course lucky to have so much access to information about our world. But it does mean that the impact of certain things is lessened. Not that I'm saying we should avoid books and pictures for fear of losing the novelty factor of things--it’s just that, when people tell you you're going to be stunned by something, and you see it in pics, or read about it online, or watch TV programs on it.. It makes it a little harder to be stunned than perhaps it was for Spanish colonialists who may have happened upon it a little more unawares.

On our way back, we stopped at Kikil (sp?), where there's a swimming cenote. Now, I'd heard of these, but not really understood what the big deal was. We swam in it, and honestly, it was completely amazing. You descend down dimly lit stone steps, down, down, down to the limestone pool. It was beautiful, green, shaded with light breaking through, hung with vines, little waterfalls and sprays falling from the sides, and moss decorating the edges. It was like a tropical fantasy. We had less than an hour to spend there, and loved every second.

Flamingos

Once I was with a group of teens in southern Utah playing games. One of them involved saying what animal we thought each person would be. Dogs, cats, lions, horses...and then one of the teens turned to me and said she thought I'd be a flamingo.

I'm still not sure what that means, but I’ve felt a small bond between me and the pink creatures since then, and I was excited to see my peeps today. Celestun is one of only a couple of places where pink flamingos live in the wild, apparently. We took a day trip to see them, toured around in a small motor boat, took pictures and watched them standing one one leg just as they do in books, preening, screeching, showing off. Apparently they get their colour from carotene, which somehow is filtered through their beaks. The water itself had an orange tint.

You can’t help thinking that God was having a bit of a laugh designing those things. As in “I’ve had a long day creating Kilimanjaro and it’s time for a bit of frivolity. I know...pink birds!”

After circling around for a while, our captain steered towards trees at the edge of the lake--rather quickly, I thought. Really, rather too quickly to stop in time...and then we found ourselves sweeping through a little opening into a tunnel of mangroves. The light was filtering through the trees, and the water was glowing ruby red in places. We stopped at a little landing, wandered around, looked at gigantic termite nests. We then drove to a nearby beach, and I swam in the gulf, and lazed on white shells, and we ate filetes in a beachside restaurant.

Driving to and from in the van was also pretty great. We sped past thatched huts, kids flying kites, coca cola logos painted on buildings, schoolgirls in pleated skirts, taxis powered by motorbike or cycle, and old churches. A bizarre cultural moment came listening to Beatles covers in the van, with a very sultry latina singing lines about renting a cottage in the Isle of Wight if it's not too dear. A little surreal.

The Hostel of the Stupid

Hola chicas! Buenos tardes, mis amigos! Cuanto esta? Gracias! Donde esta el bano?

There you have just about the limits of my Spanish (and I suspect that some of it may really be Italian), but thanks to the friendly people of Merida, it is sufficient to get me through a week in Mexico.

I travelled to meet a friend there, and after the first night, we left our expensive but bland hotel with unhelpful concierge for a picturesque hostel with an unpredictable hot water system, but totally charming hosts Linda and Florian who, as far as I can tell, spend their days eagerly waiting for us to return and wondering how to make us happier. Linda is a petite blonde, who said "welcome home" when we arrived, later said eagerly, "I want to show you something," and proudly led me to the beautiful open balcony above the square, and was thrilled when I told her we liked the hostel better than our hotel. Florian is skinny, blond, and be-pierced, and booked us three tours for roughly the price of one from the hotel, offered us spaghetti for dinner, and excitedly met us as we came back from our tour to hear about it. They nearly trampled each other to get a map when we asked where to buy a certain item in merida and sent us off with instructions on what to look for and to "negotiate!"

Sadly, though charming, it is clearly the hostel where stupid people end up. Both TLC and I forgot to a) charge our cameras and b) bring chargers. Because, you know, we're going to see one of the wonders of the world, so camera phones will cover that, right? There was no help for us. Florian just lost his charger, and one of the other tourists forgot his camera altogether.

It seems that there are constantly fiestas in Merida, which is great, except when you’re dropping off to sleep next door. TLC and I started giggling one night when we turned out our lights and immediately loud music and shouting broke out. As I said, on the bright side, the motorbikes and taxis almost drowned it out.


A few pics of our home in the city.

The Frozen Tundra

I must admit that I’m not 100 percent sure about what a tundra is, but I’m pretty confident that I’m familiar with the spirit of it, and I’m all about living according to the spirit of things, which is why I still eat tiramisu.*

Early this year, I went to the Banff Film Festival, which is not in Banff, incidentally, but tours all over the place. The featured film was about a couple who decided to trek across the north pole all the way to Canada. They walked for months and months and finally had to be picked up by rescue plane because climate change was causing the ice to break up, and they were about to die, basically. They were incredibly tough and resilient and cheerful, even when the woman left some vital piece of equipment at one of their camps and they had to trek back for about three years to get it.

As I watched it, shivering sympathetically, I thought, “I would never ever even be tempted to do anything similar.” I have no desire to climb Everest or visit the North Pole or similar. I don’t like being cold, I don’t particularly like heights, I have a rich history of ankle injuries, and I’m not a thrill seeker.

So why was I about 11,000 feet up a mountain on Saturday?

This week, a friend invited me to climb Timpanogos and enjoy the fall colours. Well, I do like autumn. And I do like hiking. And Mount Timpanogos is so pretty!

So we began hiking, and it was a beautiful day, and there was a waterfall, and aspens, and sunshine. But as we headed up, it got colder. And windier. And snowier. And we met a few hikers coming down who had left their camp at two in the morning and said “it’s been one of the most miserable experiences of my life.” Others advised us not to try to summit.

As I trudged through what was most certainly frozen and what I’m pretty sure was a tundra, with the wind howling around, nose dripping, and wondering if my feet were actually gangrenous or just frostbitten, I suddenly realised that the scene was a lot like the Banff movie.

Now, OK, a particularly astute observer might have noticed one or two superficial differences. For instance, it wasn’t quite so cold that my eyes got frostbite, as the intrepid woman’s did, and we hiked for hours rather than, say, months, and there weren’t any polar bears (as far as I observed), and no-one had built them a fire in a hut at the north pole. So yeah, if you want to nitpick, I guess it wasn’t quite the same experience. But I felt I was living the spirit of the north pole trek!

We didn’t summit, and I’m just fine with that. We got to Emerald Lake, which was more like “Frozen Wasteland Ice Rink,” and dove into the hut at the top, where some wonderful, marvellous campers had lit a fire, and I got to dry out my socks, thaw out my toes, and re-attach them to my feet. We chatted to other hikers who had also decided not to summit today, and we all admired the one girl who had had foresight enough to wear actual boots instead of running shoes. It was rather fun, and I think we all felt pretty tough, and the views were spectacular, and the joy of warmed feet carried me back down the mountain.

And I guess what I’m saying is that I can see how people get suckered into climbing mountains and visiting poles. They come back from a little hike and look at their pictures while they’re sitting by the fire drinking hot chocolate, and see how pretty it was, and forget their blisters and start planning another slightly bigger one. And before you know it, you’re climbing Everest “because it’s there” and getting frostbitten corneas.

Look at my pictures.** Aren’t they pretty? I can’t wait to go again next year.

*made with brandy and coffee and thus considered non-kosher by some Mormons.
**For some reason I can't post any of my rotated pictures. If you want to see those, they're on FB. If you know why, send me a postcard.

Back By Popular Demand

I think I can say that now that more than one person has commented on my absence.
I wish I could say that I was busy fighting tigers in Namibia, or building an orphanage in the Brazilian jungle, or negotiating the release of hostages in Honduras, but it was not so. In fact, I suspect there may not even BE tigers in Namibia.

But I have seen at least one tiger since last I blogged (in the zoo). And we all have friends who’ve helped build orphanages in South America, haven’t we? And Bill Clinton helped with hostages in Korea. So it’s almost true.

In addition to those exciting events, I’ve been doing other stuff. Oh, all sorts of other stuff. Summer stuff. That kind of summer stuff that, .come cooler weather, becomes a vague golden memory. Like camping. I went camping, and I believe blisters and sore muscles may have been involved, but all I REALLY remember is the beautiful mountains and lakes and streams, and freshly caught trout roasted over wood fires, and mysterious mountainous noises at night.

And a trip to Bear Lake, where my trusty car inconveniently decided it also wanted a holiday, and suddenly stopped working. But what I really remember is the warm beach, and the cool water, and the best raspberry shakes ever, and various other sunny summery images.

And gigs with Citrine, where I know for a fact that we had sound issues, and my feet ached from standing on the stage for too long, and the “Scottish” shortbread...wasn’t. But I best remember hanging out with my Sistrines, and enjoying the surroundings, and how good it felt when the music came together and people enjoyed it.

I hope y’all had lovely summers too, with lovely memories. I’ll blog more later. Right now I have a nicely timed and not-too-severe head cold which is just bad enough to give me an excuse to lie around all weekend and drink hot Ribena. It’s all very pleasant and autumnal.

Moby Dick or Shopaholic?

Last week I went to lunch with an old friend, and we were joking about the novel I could write, coming up with ridiculous plots for it. I’ve forgotten them all now, but rest assured they were brilliant. I asked him if he thought he had a book inside him, and he said yes, in fact he’d written one as a teenager. “I wonder if I have it somewhere,” he said. “I hope so, I expect it’s dreadful.” We agreed that it was likely to be entertainingly awful, especially as it was a fantasy novel.

Once, a friend said my life would make a good book. “I mean, I’m not saying it would be great literature or anything, but it would be a good read,” she said, somewhat insultingly. “So, what you’re saying is, it would be a trashy novel minus all the sex,” I said. Other friends have discussed how fun it would be to write a screenplay together.

I know we’re not the first people to think we have a novel inside us. Far too many people think that, and far too many publishers agree with them, in my humble op. The nice thing is, I/we get to let our urge to write come out in fits and starts, through blogs. No need for plot, no need for a certain number of pages by a certain deadline. No need for discipline or well-constructed sentences, even. I like blogging, and I like reading others’ blogs. I do wonder whether all the writing practice is setting someone up to write the great British/American novel, or if it just substitutes pictures of kids, hiking anecdotes, and meandering streams-of-consciousness for what could be a new Hemingway or Austen.

I don’t personally think I’ve got the modern “Mansfield Park” within me. I’m not sure I even have “Bridget Jones Diary 3.” If I were to write a book, I’d want it to be a light and fluffy travelogue and/or romance. What would you write?

Busy Nothings

I have two items of business to discuss, ladies and gentlemen.

1. You know how everyone in Utah right now is all, “It’s like we’re living in Seattle!” because of the weather? Well, I have a theory about this.

I hypothesise that, a month or two ago, while we were all asleep, a large comet hit the earth and knocked it off balance a little. It shifted the earth’s position a few hundred miles, and gave us a temperate, humid climate.

Guys, we ARE in Seattle.

I’m a little surprised that none of the TV meteorologists have mentioned this possibility. Although maybe they have. I wouldn’t really know, I don’t have a working TV any more.

2. Last month I took a work trip to Phoenix, visiting both Bryn and Britt in the process, and Britt told me I needed to blog about what happened at her house, which I frankly think shows a lack of delicacy, CONSIDERING.

She and I went for a swim/hot tub, and she wore a dress down to the pool as a cover up. I wore a swimsuit and towel.

Later, we walked back to the building, and Brittany said “oops.” Which is rarely a good omen. She’d forgotten the key to the back door of the building.
“So we’re locked out?” said I.
“Not exactly. We can get in the front...”

Which is all well and good, except they live on Central Avenue. Opposite a Metro Station. And while I’m not THE most modest person on earth, I do prefer not to walk down major thoroughfares in large cities dressed in a two-piece swimsuit.

Brittany appeared to think the situation hilarious, and openly, if insensitively, bemoaned the fact that there weren’t MORE people around to see and be entertained.

So if every you see someone walking around who seems to be inappropriately dressed, and you hastily judge them as crazy, take a moment to pause. Perhaps they are a trusting friend, who thought they were out for a dip in a private pool. Or perhaps they were trying on their Hallowe’en costume and got locked out when they took a moment to empty the rubbish. You just don’t know.

Sex

I do hope that got your attention. I realise sex is talked about waaaay too much already in our society, but it would be a little sad if it didn’t get a second look as a blog headline. Also, this isn’t one of those tricky posts where one puts a headline up that SOUNDS provocative but really has a tame other-meaning attached to it--I’m not just going to talk about gender, I’m not talking about cows mating or something, this is the real deal. A little sex talk.

OK, maybe I’m holding out on you a LITTLE. I’m not sharing any juicy details about my own or anyone else’s super-sexy private life--I’m not sure that I’d be able to fill a whole blog post with that, anyway. I have kind of an ulterior motive...but it’s a good one, I promise.

Here are two points I want to make.
a) Sex can cause cancer.
b) You can win some pretty nice prizes by blogging about that.

a) You may already know, but most cervical cancer is linked to the HPV virus, which is sexually transmitted. Now, before you sigh and ask if AIDS, herpes, genital warts, and syphilis weren’t enough to take the glamour out of sex, don’t be discouraged. There’s always abstinence! No, it gets better. Because abstinence hopefully isn’t a terminal condition, and because EVEN MARRIED PEOPLE IN UTAH (previous marriage? previous indiscretion? current indiscretion(shame on you)?) can get STDs, some kind scientists developed an HPV vaccine. It’s pretty safe and effective and if you’re a chick you should probably get it. (Guys can’t get one yet, but I believe there are future plans for that).
a) http://www.cancerutah.org/prevent/ Please visit this link. And then blog. You were going to blog about something, right? Make it useful for a change. If you’re lazy, you can just use Twitter. And you really can win some cool prizes. I helped choose them. Including the spa package. I recommended the spa. It’s really wonderful. And I can’t enter the contest because of the fine print rules and my job. So you should.

Again: http://www.cancerutah.org/prevent/ Click on the big “Cervical Cancer Prevention Contest” link at the top.

Ow

I guess there are people who don’t like massages--I expect they’re the same people who don’t like chocolate or babies. But for me, having my back rubbed, and having sore spots kneaded out of me is sublime.

I’ve had some neck issues for a couple of years. Over the last couple of months I decided to finally go for it and have semi-regular massage for a while to see if it could help. I’m not sure that it’s been as therapeutic as I’d hoped, but it’s felt great.

So, today, I got a call from the massage place, and was told that my regular therapist, Julie, was sick, and did I mind having...let’s call him “Chad”....take her place. No problem, I said, as long as he can do deep tissue.

Oh, he can do deep tissue, she assured me. What she didn’t mention was that he was a sadist who’d been kicked out of the CIA’s elite Department of Waterboarding and Torture for being Too Brutal.

Now, you need to understand that I really do like deep tissue massage. Though I can cry at the drop of a hat, I have really high pain tolerance for certain things--like when I broke my ankle and drove my stick shift to the doctor’s office--and then to and from the radiology department a few miles away. Not a brilliant idea in the end, because once they’d bandaged me up it was physically impossible to drive home and I had to call Heather and beg for a lift. But you get the idea. Also, (TMI warning), I have had electrolysis on a Very Sensitive Area. Without any pain gel or pills or anything.

Again, you get the idea--and previous massage therapists have commented on it, “You really DO like deep tissue,” etc. And I think I’ve become a little proud of it, as one sometimes does become proud of things that one has no reason to be proud of. So when Chad said “let me know if you need me to ease up,” I thought “ha.”

And then a few minutes later I thought “how am I supposed to tell him to ease up when his heel and full weight is between my spine and my shoulder blade and I CAN’T BREATHE?” And when he started digging his elbow into my thigh muscles I wondered if I could reach to kick him in the teeth.

They do Fijian-style massage there, where they walk on you and balance themselves with straps hanging from the ceiling. It’s great...except when it’s not. This wasn’t so great. Of course, I really should have told him to ease up right away, but I thought “no pain, no gain,” and Pride was a barrier, and when I finally did speak up, we were near the end anyway.

He did ease up when he got to my neck, but it still lacked...finesse. And instead of my muscles feeling all stretched out and gooey at the end, I felt tense. And a little uneven. And honestly, there was a spot on my neck that wasn’t feeling so hot.

He asked how I felt at the end. I mentioned that there was an area on my neck that was feeling...odd. “Odd?” he said. “Yes,” I said. Silence from both of us. He gave me a glass of water. I went home.

Right now, I feel in need of a neck rub. A gentle one. We’ll see how I feel tomorrow. If necessary, one of them can do a little extra work and fix me. I can be assertive when I’m not being Prideful.

LOL

A few years ago, I was due to give a talk in church. I told my roommate Margaret that I was going to have a secret theme, and see if anyone noticed it. The theme was to be the Sound of Music, and I was going to incorporate as many references as possible, for example, starting sentences with phrases like “I have confidence...” and “A wise woman [the abbess] once said “these walls were not meant to shut out problems. You have to face them. You have to live the life you were born to live.””

Margaret’s response was, “you do know that not everything in life has to be a joke, right?”

OK, so I didn’t go with the theme, but I think I did mention the Sound of Music once, just to Show Her.

Now, last week, my brother’s family talked in church--I wasn’t able to go, so they all gave me a synopsis of their talks, youngest to oldest, and before my brother said anything, my sister-in-law said, “and of course, Mike got up and thought he was a comedian.” He gave me a copy of his talk to read, and it is actually excellent (be obedient! It’s better in the end), but it’s true, there are a lot of laughs there. I told him what Margaret had told me all those years ago, and he had the same reaction as me.

“Huh.”
and then.
“Really?”
and then
“Hahahahaha.”

And then we proceeded to make jokes about it. How bad is it that that phrase itself has become a bit of a giggle to us? Do we D’s use humour as a crutch? Is that a problem?

So today, I was talking to my brother and happened to cry a bit, and apologised for being all emotional in the middle of his Friday and he said “It’s fine, I’m used to it,” and then sniggered and said “I HAVE to remember that not everything in life is a joke,” and then we both laughed and commented on how it probably wasn’t good that we’ve actually had to ponder that concept as rather a novel one.

So my two thoughts on this topic are:
That’s the second time that someone has said “I’m used to it” in regards to me crying this week (I’m really totally fine, just being a bit of a girl), so maybe I need to get a grip on the waterworks. And,
This whole “life isn’t a joke,” thing? I’m not so sure.

I don’t for one second claim to be a comedian, and, like Elizabeth in P&P, I hope I never laugh at what is wise or good, but whims or inconsistencies do divert me, and I laugh at them whenever I can. And there are a whole lot of whims and inconsistencies in all of us, right? So, I get Darcy’s and Margaret’s point, and I don’t want to be the girl whose first object in life is a joke, and secret themes in sacrament talks really isn’t my style, but I do think there are very few occasions that CAN’T be laughed about in some way and aren’t a little better for it.

Amen?

p.s. I should probably just mention here that Margaret is hilarious, tons funnier than I will ever be. She is also wise.

Finished!

I’m not sure if that title describes our accomplishment or my emotional state.

For the last few weekends, my Sistrines and I have been recording for our upcoming CD, and we are DONE. Expect me to be dropping lots of unsubtle references to that on here and FB as soon as it’s floggable.

Recording involved being in a smallish room in close contact with twelve other women with no air-conditioning all Friday evening and all Saturday for three weekends straight, singing phrases like “ooh....oh” over and over and over and over and over again and being told that my vowels were wrong. How fun does that sound? And we’ve actually come off pretty easily--Rowan and the band are still recording away.

But it was fun, sorta. At least, rewarding. Our performance standard is going to be raised a notch as a result of the intense repetition. And we managed to avoid catfights and hair-pulling pretty consistently. Sure, my fellow-commuters and I considered having a “no speaking” rule in the car to ward off being sick of each other, and we had sore backs from standing all day long (thank you, yoga stretches), and there were a few times when I wanted to snap my headphones in half and make for the door, and I’m not experiencing any wistfulness for being a real musician, BUT having a group working hard together to get something right is a good feeling. And hearing even the rough version made the perfectionism worthwhile for me. In fact, when we hear the final version, we’ll probably think we weren’t perfectionist ENOUGH. Well, maybe. I’m not suggesting we go back and re-record or anything.

Dinner Convo.

It was a couple of years ago that Gwyneth made some comments about Britons being more civilized than you Yanks, and how we are very refined and talk about much more erudite things at dinner parties than say, work and money. It’s true, I was reminded of that this weekend.

Me: Have you watched DWTS lately? [Aside to teenage niece] There’s a really hot French guy on there.
Sis-in-Law: No, but isn’t the Bachelor chick on there?
Georgie Girl: The one who got...
Me: Dumped! Yes! She’s really good
Mum: What happened?
Me: OK, I’ve never watched this program, but the Bachelor supposedly fell in love with generic leggy brunette and asked her to marry him. Then weeks later he dumps her on TV for another generic leggy brunette..
S-in-L: No, she was a blonde!
Me: Even better. Holly, or something.
G: Molly.
SiL: Isn’t she dating the host of DWTS?
G: Ew, he’s...
Me: Too old. Tom Bergeron? No, don’t think so.
Mum: Holly?
G: Molly.
Me: No, the dumped chick.
SiL: Oh, I think it’s her partner she’s dating.
Me: Tony? No, he’s married.
SiL: Well, she’s dating someone.
Me: And now everyone is all “THAT shows HIM” about the Bachelor, because she’s a good dancer.
Mike: I bet he’s kicking himself. If only he’d realised she could dance.
Me: Exactly.
SiL: We’re going to sign you up for the Bachelorette.
Me: Thanks a LOT.
Mike: What? You could pick from all those great guys.
Me: Yes, I’m sure I’d meet such quality people on a reality show.
SiL: Don’t you want a trip to NZ?

G: And the special OVERNIGHT STAY?
Me: Well, when you put it like that. I do want to go to NZ.
Littlest Niece: But if someone’s going to be my uncle, I want to see what he’s like first.
Me: Sweetie, if that happens, I promise you will meet him first and have a say in it.

You Are the Light

Sometimes, you just have to be there. My friend, colleague, and fellow yoga bunny Kim told me earlier this week about glowga, a special class at Centered City Yoga. Naturally, I said I’d go.

What’s glowga, I hear you scream?

The idea behind it was that we are in a dark place in the universe right now, but light is persistent, and often the light comes from ourselves and others. There is a divine light within that can help us through difficult times.

We kitted ourselves out in shorts and tops--the advice was the more skin, the better. Our yoga instructor handed out glow-in-the-dark body paint and glowing plastic string, and we proceeded to decorate ourselves and each other with swirls and dots and other designs. The paint looked and felt a lot like glue, and didn’t seem to be very glowy, so I was a bit worried that we’d got the wrong bottle. But when the lights went out, it was fantastic! Some people were polka dotted, Kim had a big heart on her thigh and an om on her back, the guy in front of me had one big spiral on his torso, and I was a mishmash of swirls and streaks, with my midriff glowing particularly brightly. We did yoga by the light of each others' bodies, with musicians playing as we moved. About halfway through, our instructor noticed that we were fading, so he turned on the blacklight for us to recharge, and we danced to Staying Alive as our glow brightened.

It was hot and sweaty and we stuck to our mats and flaked glow paint til my mat looked like the milky way, and I got some in my eye during shoulder stand, and I found I have terrible balance in the dark, and then there were strobe lights and we danced again, and then we chanted and sang along to the music, and then did savasana as we were sung to, and our instructor quoted poetry and Leonard Cohen to us, and I loved loved loved every second.

The instructor seemed to enjoy it too, as he says he’s going to do it again. I will be there. You should too. Namaste.

Blasts from the Past

Late on Friday afternoon, my co-worker Kelli sent Kate and I a YouTube vid of the kids’ song she and her baby sing and dance to every morning, saying how it always makes her happy. In return, I sent her this:



--and got back this, which I also fondly remembered:


Kate, who’s a few years younger, joined in with this, which we felt explains a lot about her generation (violence! loudness! power!), and then Doug heard what we were doing and jumped on board with this (I adore the Spotty Man!):



We ended the day watching more random childhood videos in Kelli’s office (they nearly collapsed when I showed them Bagpuss--I never realised before how Depression-era the opening looks) and dancing along to the one that started it all...this:



Any childhood faves you’d like to share?

Pero, a Chocolate Biscuit, and a Birthday

What’s cosier than a warm laptop, a mug of pero, pyjamas, and the aforesaid choccie biccie, with a little Missy Higgins on the playlist? This is how I’m ending my Saturday.

Today was my dad’s birthday. Wasn’t sure if I’d feel something extra or different today, but I really didn’t. I think probably because birthdays aren’t a huge deal in our family. We remember them--if you forget it’s a no-no, but we’re not too princessy about them. Gifts are sometimes optional. In fact, one of my fond memories of my dad is related to that. I’d always get a call on my birthday--usually on the answering machine, because of the time difference. I got home one year and hit play, and as expected, there was a message from my dad. I got to the end and thought “wait a second.” I played it again, and sure enough, there wasn’t a “happy birthday” within earshot.

I called him the next day to berate him for forgetting, and to ask where my present was (we rarely got the hang of mailing things early enough internationally, so “it’s in the post” became a bit of a joke). But honestly (and I told him this), I kind of liked that he called me mid-week without being consciously obligated. It’s like the men who send roses when it isn’t Valentine’s day (not that I know any personally, but I’ve heard legends)--it’s a little more meaningful when Hallmark hasn’t guilted you into it.

So I don’t know that I’m obligated to do something “special” today. I couldn’t visit my dad’s grave, for obvious reasons. I thought about going up into the mountains and beginning some kind of tradition, but in the end it felt like it would be just manufactured. I think about my dad a lot--right now I don’t need a ritual. I sort of doubt they celebrate birthdays in the next life, anyway, but I’ll assume that if they do, my dad knows I’m thinking of him. Or even if not.

Another Excuse Not to Write a Real Post

I went to a work lunch today that showcased winners from some Cannes advertising competition. I had to leave early, so I'm sure there were gems I missed, but my favourites are below. See, advertising can be art. Or just really funny.



Beautiful--really pretty simple technology but used skilfully, and totally fascinating.



I think this ad is phenomenal. They've used Richard Burton and the poem in a way that doesn't feel exploitative, it feels like that's exactly what Dylan Thomas had in mind as he wrote it. It's beautifully and creatively shot, and for me, it captures that very alive feeling you get sometimes when you're driving at night, and you're alone, but not lonely. And of course, overtly reminds you that driving itself can be a pleasure rather than just A to B. I kind of miss that feeling.




This one had me giggling for some time after. I think because it took me several seconds to realise what was going on. I adore the sheepish co-worker.

Schweppes, VW, and whichever candy company, you are WELCOME for the free advertising here.

Lena Dies a Little Inside

Bloggers, do you ever just feel like you’ve lost the ability to blog? That you have NOTHING left to say that even your mum would care to read? That you would fall asleep reading your own blog post?

C’est moi!

So, we’re working on this big proposal at work. Really big. I mean, big as in we are mildly worried about whether or not it will fit into its two-inch binder. I have
put blood (wonky staple caught my thumb), sweat, and maybe even a couple of tears into that thing. I really hope the readers like it.

The somewhat twisted thing is that I am also somewhat enjoying writing it. I like writing, I do. Even technical writing. I really like taking other people’s prose and editing it. I’m not ashamed of my nerdiness.

But it has somewhat killed my ability to write about anything else. I have actually lost sleep over this thing. I keep thinking about additions, and edits, and making it flow, and...

I’m barely able to write Facebook updates, let alone blog posts. The only updates that come to mind involve being tired and hoping to make it to the weekend, and I consider frequent use of either of those as being on a par with “Lena is eating lunch [unnecessary exclamation mark]”

Note. If your Facebook update is any of those things, I still love you.

So this post is just to say that I have nothing to say. At least, not in any readable way.

I went skiing with my niece and nephew.
I saw an interesting Werner Herzog movie about the South Pole.
I went for dinner and a great motorcycle ride with my friend Jeff.
I rehearsed with Citrine in preparation for our CD recording.
I inhaled hot chocolate and “orange” “drink” while cleaning the dairy at Welfare Square.
(I think ATMIT is really cool.)

See what I mean?

Let’s hope for a rebirth of my brain cells in the near future. In the mean time, Lena is going to bed!

p.s. Thanks, Tim for sending the pic today--that expresses it perfectly.

God Bless America, and England, and Canada, and even France

I don’t have anything I particularly want to share about my life right now, so let’s take a look waaaaaay back at 2008 (cue swimmy harp music and wavy images).

Some time around August, you may have noticed a change in Lena. Maybe her carbon footprint increased a little, maybe she hankered after fast food a little more, maybe she put on a few...eh, whatever--making American jokes is no fun when it’s mostly Americans reading them.

But yes, amid the more important events in my life such as finding clips of Colin Firth on youtube and blogging about going to the dentist, I somehow omitted to tell certain people (i.e. most of you) that I became a US citizen. Now, don't panic. I'm still a British one too. I still like Marmite and hot water bottles and don't like ice in my drinks. I still scoff when Americans say things like "different than," "aluminum," and "World Series." I still mock the guy/woman who has to give the little explanation of the upcoming programme on "Masterpiece Theatre" (guys, just because they're wearing period clothes doesn't mean it's hard to understand).

But, I:

Can't get deported (again).
Don't have to pay an exorbitant fee to the INS every few years for the privilege of a new green card.
Can work for the federal government (Lena for secretary of state?).
Can vote.

This is very nice. But I must confess I'm not overly emotional about it, and that is perhaps why I haven't mentioned it to y'all before now.

I took the citizenship test (Francis Scott Key! Betsy Ross! 10 out of 10!), I went to the citizenship ceremony (the largest in Utah history), I took the oath and all, but I was very much aware that there were people there for whom this meant a lot more than it did for me. It was wonderful to see. It really felt like the poor, the oppressed etc, had come to find a new home here in the states, and becoming a citizen was the crowning moment of that for them. But I've never had to struggle for my freedom, I come from a nation that has a lot to be proud of and a fascinating history, and getting citizenship wasn't something that affected my personal identity.

So, America is lovely. Gracious skies and amber waves an' all. It stands for great things, and I really respect that. I just can't promise to get chills when I see the flag wave, or hear the national anthem. I hope you do.

Lena’s Mum Has Ideas

My mum called me this morning.

Mum: Lena, what do you think about going blonde?

Me: What? Why? [suspiciously] Is this a “have more fun” thing?

Mum: I just thought it might be a nice change. You could get highlights.

Me: But I like my hair colour.

Mum: Yes, of course, it’s lovely, and with your skin... [stream of motherly compliments]...But it might be a nice cheerful change.

Me: I suppose it might be fun to switch things up. But don’t you think I’d end up looking a bit washed out with my pale skin?

Mum [very positively]: Not with YOUR clothes.

Me: What’s that supposed to mean?!

Mum: Nothing! You always look lovely! I just meant that you wouldn’t have to change your clothes!

Me: I’ll think about it. Maybe in the summer.

Mum: I also thought, how about getting a bird feeder?

Me: A bird feeder.

Mum: Yes, you could hang it on your balcony. I have one, and it’s so delightful watching all the birds come and play. It’s like spring.

Me: Yes, I expect it would cheer me right up.

Mum [giggling]: I could buy you a bird book!

Me: I could buy an anorak!

It's not fine.

So, here's the ad with me in it. Behold me over-act.

Um, I must say, the "American accent" isn't quite as noticeable as it was in my head. Which is probably a good thing.

100 Random Thoughts..

...as fast as typing allows.

1. I probably should have gone grocery shopping today.
2. Because what am I going to eat tomorrow?
3. And I probably should build up my food storage if I’m going to be laid off.
4. Probably should have done that a long time ago.
5. I hope I don't get laid off. I’m kind of irritated at people that borrowed beyond their means who contributed to the likelihood of me being laid off.
6. Though if I was laid off I could spend more time reading.
7. No I wouldn’t, I’d have to be sending out resumes and interviewing, which is probably my least favourite thing in the world to do.
8. Other than sleeping in airports.
9. Or getting up early in the cold.
10. I wonder if it would be easier or harder to get up if I wasn’t sleeping alone.
11. I hope my carpets are drying out ok.
12. I don’t want to wake up to mouldy carpets.
13. I still love Cliff the plumber, even if he contributed to the minor flood in my closet.
14. Mind a blank.
15. Chocolate.
16. Nah, not really hungry.
17. What is this song on my ipod?
18. I swear I don’t even recognise half the music on my ipod.
19. Does it make me pathetic that I’m spending Saturday night doing laundry and writing down my stream of consciousness thoughts?
20. I wish my stream of consciousness thoughts were a lot deeper.
21. I could cheat.
22. Nah.
23. I CHOSE to stay home tonight, anyway.
24. I was actually looking forward to it, and cleaning, and getting things together.
25. Not that I’ve accomplished all that I meant to.
26. But that’s a typical Saturday.
27. And the mini-flood didn’t help.
28. The temple open house was nice today.
29. The bride’s room chandeliers were tops.
30. And some nice paintings, though I saw the same prints repeated multiple times, 31. which makes me think the church needs a few more good artists.
31. Maybe I should have gone to art school after all.
32. Are you kidding me? Artists would be suffering even more from this economy.
33. My brother always said I should have been an engineer.
34. I still have hopes that Obama will help.
35. I have a crush on Obama, let’s face it.
36. Whoever it was who said it last night was right, Obama does sound like a first name.
37. President Obama. President Barack. President Obama.
38. Like Drs who say things like “I’m Dr. Dave,” to be all friendly.
39. Whereas I don’t really want a personal relationship with my doctor.
40. Really? Only 40?
41. I still can’t believe the customer service chick at t-mobile asked me what the difference between London and England was this morning.
42. Sometimes it would be nice to have a customer service call without having to give my life story.
43. But I guess it’s nice that they’re friendly.
44. I wonder if there’s a way to stop my ipod playing podcasts when it’s on shuffle.
45. And christmas music.
46. Ray Charles, that’s more like it.
47. I need more happy songs.
48. A-M was right, it’s difficult to write happy songs that aren’t about relationships. And aren't "What a Wonderful World."
49. I like Jess’s idea of having an imaginary enemy.
50. A nemesis. There’s an underused word. Also “vexed.”
51. My nemesis would have a black fedora, and...wait, I’m visualising Dick Cheney.
52. Can’t decide if my superpower would be flying or having extreme beauty. You could get a lot done with either.
53. Flying, for sure. Less emotionally complicated.
54. Agh, another hideous song.
55. When is apple going to develop themed shuffles depending on your mood. Not playlists that you have to pick yourself.
56. Because that’s way too much effort, and the joy of shuffle is the surprise.
57. I need to polish my shoes.
58. I need another Saturday.
59. Wonder when the next public holiday is? President’s Day? Did we already do that?
60. I like looking at the city at night.
61. It’s pretty dark tonight. But at least it’s clouds not smog.
62. I guess we Brits really do talk about the weather a lot.
63. Speaking, of, wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.
64. Must get an early night tonight.
65. Mustn’t forget to get up and meet Liz at the Spoken Word.
66. When apple has finished making the perfect computer, maybe they can move on to gene therapy and tweak my brain so that I start enjoying getting up early.
67. Lots of meetings tomorrow.
68. Crap, am I conducting?
69. No, that’s next week.
70. Can’t stand conducting. Always forget to announce at least one thing.
71. Even though it’s written on a piece of paper that’s right in front of me.
72. Must write thank you notes.
73. Right after this extremely important blog entry.
74. About three quarters of the way there.
75. And then I can read my book.
76. Which I’m quite enjoying.
77. (The Last Chinese Chef).
78. Work book group book.
79. Must get the other book group book, too, whatever it is. I think Heidi emailed it.
80. The title, not the book.
81. Haven’t really felt like reading, which is funny given that it’s been freezing outside and is perfect reading by the fire weather.
82. Except have no fire.
83. Maybe I could get one of those gas things.
84. Except have no gas.
85. And possibly no job, shortly.
86. Should probably buy food instead.
87. Great, am back to beginning.
88. Which would be a lot more poetic if this was item 100.
89. Could always go back and cheat.
90. Nope.
91. Blank mind.
92. Sad thought.
93. I totally agree with what Tiffany wrote about preferring to be in thirties than twenties.
94. Despite life stresses and occasional misery.
95. When you stay in on a Saturday night, you realise that no-one is emailing you. I thought my blackberry was broken for a while.
96. I do love my blackberry.
97. Must think less materialistic thoughts. Someone may still be reading.
98. Flowers.
99. Stars.
100. What a wonderful world.

Yurting

I could write about my yurting trip. I could write about the clear air and the peace and sunshine and the sparkly snow, and the pure pleasure of tiring ourselves out skiing and snowshoeing, and the stars at night that were so bright and thickly sprinkled and looked within kissing distance. Perhaps I could mention that afterwards I soaked the soreness from my muscles and mind in a steaming hot tub with friends out in the winter air. But why waste a few thousand words, when I can steal some of Julie’s fabulous photos?

New Year's Resolution

Write shorter blog posts.

"That is a right bastard."

I like to keep this blog pretty frivolous and shallow. Frivolity can be hard to come by at times (the shallow part comes naturally), but not impossible. As several of you know, my dad died Christmas Eve, but being a man with a sense of humour, I think he would have been amused by a couple of attendant occurences.

My brothers and I of course had to pass on the news to several people, including one of dad’s lesser-known cousins. All I’d heard about cousin Christopher from my dad and uncles was that he swears a lot. My brother called him, and after various “yes’s, no’s, and thank you’s,” he put down the phone with a thoughtful expression and gave me the recap.

He’d told him the news, and Christopher said, “Well, that is a right BASTARD for you, isn’t it?” He went on to eff and blind his way through the conversation, at one point saying “Excuse my language, it’s f---ing terrible,” and telling us what bastards doctors are. He called back a little later to tell us all to get blood tests and that he wouldn’t be coming to the funeral because he hated funerals and didn’t like seeing people be sad.

He was really very nice and well-meaning, and I am sorry to say that my brother and I for the rest of the week found great enjoyment in saying “well, that is a right bastard,” in a broad Somerset accent when any little thing went wrong.

Over the last couple of weeks I had to call lots of banks and other businesses, and everyone was incredibly nice (except for one total witch at Continental Airlines), with one or two little faux pas.

We came home the day of the funeral to a couple of messages on the machine. The first one:
“Mr D___, this is [Insurance company] calling about your car insurance--we haven’t heard from you, and as you know, your insurance renews at the beginning of the year. Please call us as soon as possible about this.”

Now, I had called them the week before to explain the situation and make arrangements, so that was a little irritating.
This was the second message, left shortly after the first, clearly after someone else in the office had updated her.

“This is [insurance company]--I’m calling to apologise for my last message. Er, very sorry about that. If you could call at your convenience, to confirm some details, we’d appreciate it. Again, I do apologise.”
You could tell the poor girl was totally squirming.

Really, everybody was very kind, and no-one said stupid things about “knowing exactly how you feel,” or it being “all for the best.” I think probably the biggest misconception is that the grieving process is a nice smooth downward exponential curve, and perhaps it is like that overall, but for me right now, it’s more like something you’d see on a heart rate monitor.

No one feels like they know just what to say to someone who’s lost someone they love. Our instinct is to try to say something that will somehow make it all better, and that’s not possible. I think, on the whole, it’s better to just say something than nothing. And saying “I’m sorry” is as good as anything.

Of course, the niceness can be hard to take. I kept getting to a point where I felt like I was getting a grip, and then someone would tell me how hard it must be, or how awful it was that it was Christmas. That would set the tears off again. My brothers and I talked about it --that we’d be ok until you see someone’s reaction, or someone says something that brings the feelings back. I told my brother that I’d be fine if people would stop being nice to me, like the official bereavement person at the hospital. “Yeah, you want them to treat it like just business -- like getting your car registered.” “Yes--except then we’d be complaining about what a cold-hearted cow she was.” A little later, my uncle called, and as I hung up the phone, I was in tears once more. “Is someone being nice to you again?” asked my brother. I nodded. “Bastard,” he said.