A Big Thank You to the Continental Vowel Shift

If you didn't get this email from me, it means I respect you too much to forward on youtube videos. But, sometimes I get a reply that is so great, I have to post it.

I sent out this this video with the comment: "Why does everything sound better with a British accent?" 

We can thank the great Continental Vowel Shift for the beauty of this message (and the honorable Daniel Hannan, of course). 

(Wow, that's a big window--still trying to figure out blogger.)

Amy Martinsen, my brilliant English professor friend, replied:

(posted with permission)

The British have such a mastery of the English language. I often wonder what has happened to us--have we just become so casual in all ways that we are no longer taken serious? The true power of communication is the the marriage of content and form--but truly this man could have been reading the phone book and his message would have had power. He was not, though, reading the phone book, but was, in fact, describing our situation as well. Soooo, since I am an undignified American, I will just say that he opened a Big 'Ol Can of Whoop-Ass on the Prime Minister! :)

Lovies,

the other Amy

(If you hadn't noticed, I'm trying here to simultaneously thank the man for his lucid and thoughtful commentary on our predicament even as I avoid the nerve-wracking topic.)

Ciao!

"Lie to Me": My New Favorite

I hate to promote TV programming in any way, but when my 9 year old tells me, "There's a new 'Lie to Me' today, does that mean you're going to do the laundry?" . . . I know I'm a true fan. . . . I also know, that is one of the most pathetic things a mother has ever heard. Absolutely tragic.

Let me explain. I had dragged myself--kicking and screaming--into my laundry room to dig it out. I took my laptop and started by watching Elder Uchdorf's talk from the last General Relief Society Meeting (*sigh*), but his talk was only 20 minutes, which didn't even see me through clearing the floor.  So, I sent David a note, asking if he had any suggestions thrilling enough to keep me in the laundry room. I watched the first 5 (and only) episodes. It was one of my better laundry days.

Here's the premise: crazy expert on micro facial expressions and body language combines his expertise with asking the right questions to figure out who's lying, who's hiding, who's telling the truth.  Best part: when they explain the universal meaning behind some expression, they'll back it up with footage of Richard Nixon, Bill Clinton, Blagogivich, Obama, Bush, every-freakin-somebody you've ever heard of. It's a riot! All public figures are fair game.

I wish they still had the pilot online at hulu, but you can see the last 5 epsiodes.  Here's the most current: http://www.hulu.com/watch/63291/lie-to-me-the-best-policy

Trust me, it takes some powerful entertainment to keep my in my laundry room.

Enjoy!

Mother of the Year--NOT!

I will never be a MOY--Mother of the Year. Among MANY reasons, I don't have the voice for it. Not a drop of sweetness in my voice. The best I can do is 'authoritative,' and even that is rare. I once called into a radio program, said my 2 cents, and tried to make a graceful exit before I said something stupid. The host must have been desperate for callers, because he wouldn't let me hang up.

"Wait, wait, can I ask you something?" "Sure." "What's your day job?" "Mother." "Really? Well, in another life, will you consider a career in radio, because your voice . . . it's like loaded with authority." "Really? I guess that comes from trying to get everyone off to school: 'EVERYBODY GET IN THE CAAAAR!'"

But, now I'm really off topic. Here are some other reasons I will never be a MOY. Glancing over my desk, I see a paper that my darling 7 year old left here. It's a math paper, turned upside down. She drew a martini on the back. A martini! Complete with olives on a toothpick and the little umbrella. Did I mention, we're Mormons? We don't drink martinis. (Anyone know the the plural for martini?) This girl lives a seriously sheltered life. We have no TV. She goes to a school that requires a signed permission slip from every parent before you can share a "commercially produced food product" (aka "Valentine's treat"). She wears a uniform. Where did she learn how to draw a martini? But, wait . . . there's more. For 2 weeks she's been reminding and begging me to come to "Immigration" at school today at 1:00 (whatever that may be). Yesterday, I assured her that I would be there. Today, at 1:10, I remembered. After working out a small babysitting crisis (thanks, Jodie!), I got there 30 minutes late. I slithered into a room full of commotion and asked, "Have I missed it all?" "No, no welcome to Ellis Island. Please start at the medical station where a doctor will certify that you're healthy enough to enter." There sat Joanne, overjoyed that her flaky mother made it. She quickly started making grand gestures of checking my ears, eyes, heart, and throat. Thankfully, she declared me healthy. I moved to the registration desk where I answered a few questions and had my name "Americanized" to "Rose Ford." (Not bad for second graders.) Then on to the Ferry, after which I was sent back to "The Pen" because I had declared that I already had a job lined up, and apparently, that was illegal. (Wow, have times changed!) Once I was out of the Pen, I took the ferry to New York (a gathering of desks in the center of the room where other parents were sitting). Here, the teacher announces that we will now share the immigration stories of one of our ancestors. Thanks, Joanne, I guess you forgot to mention that part. I shoot her a look of dismay. She shrugs back, Sorry mom. Looking around at the other parents, I notice that the lady next to me is wearing a full Austrian derndle--her hair is up in braids. Another woman is wearing a hat and shawl. Two other mothers have prepared remarks--typed and with photos. Ah! No MOY awards for me this year. Thankfully, I happened to wear a long black skirt with a frumpy sweater and boots that, all together, create a look that reminds me of Froiline Maria's traveling clothes. The principal begins with his story. Oh good. The principal is here to witness. I quickly decide I'm going to tell Harriet Paynter's story of joining the Church at 13 and getting kicked out of her home, working as a maid for 5 years before she could save enough money to pay for her boat to America. Thinking about Harriet, I start to tear up. Oh, good grief! I absolutely can NOT cry for this thing. But wait, . . . was that Harriet or her mother? Or someone else completely. Incredibly, I have time to worry about my long-deceased grandmother who is going to hear me mess up her story. I am shamed! The lady next to me--the one in the derndle--starts to talk in a perfect German accent. You've GOT to be KIDDING! She's acting it all out in first person? Then I realize, she's actually talking about herself. No pressure, I get to follow a real immigrant! I get up, tell my story, cry a little (the only crier, of course), and sit down. The kids are unphazed. The parents look horrified. Oh, well, it's a good thing I'm almost 40. That would have been excrutiating 10 years ago. Just another reminder, I will never be a MOY.

The Emperor's New OFFICE

Have you seen The Office? My children and husband love this show. Of course, we have no TV, but they watch it online. It takes a certain amount of initiative, beyond just thumbing through the remote, to watch a TV show online, which makes their interest in The Office even more mysterious. I've tried to watch; really, I have. I can't get past everyone sitting around, doing nothing. It's painful. I guess I'm envious. What would I give to have some office space where I could just go and get my work done. I can't enjoy watching these ungrateful, pathological people. . . that is, . . . until . . . last week. When I saw Episode 13. (Enjoy it here: Season 5, Episode 13, "Stress Relief.") I heard this conversation between David and Jonathan.

Jonathan: "Dad," uncontrollable laughter, "Did you see The Office?" David: "Which one? . . ." Sudden recognition, again uncontrollable laughter from David. David, barely able to speak: "Where Dwight sets the office on fire?" Jonathan, nodding yes, unable to speak.

This was too much. I had to investigate. Now, I think I've seen the beginning of this episode 4 or 5 times. Favorite line: Michael says, "Well, we learn from our mistakes, and now Dwight knows not to cut the face off a real person."

Probabilities of Ski Gloves . . . OR . . . Conversations with MOE (Mothers of Eight)

My sister Elizabeth, another MOE, just sent out this email:

I have just gone through all of our snow gloves and despite statistical improbability . . . I have 8 left-handed gloves with no mates! Seven of the them are Head brand (from Costco) 1 is a Hotfingers glove. If any of you seem to have a plethora of right-handed gloves, we need to get them back together!! Please let me know!

Maybe a room full of monkeys can produce War and Peace afterall! (Some things just have to be documented for posterity.)

"Age, be not proud, though some have called thee mighty!"

I turn 40 this year. I'm anticipating it as a death and re-birth, which causes me to look at the metaphyiscal meaning of some of the strangest things. Take this video for example. This lady is more than twice my age! I have another 47 years to get this good at salsa dancing! I will, however, skip the sexy strip down to spaghetti straps! Enjoy!

"Like New Grass in the Spring."

For Christmas, I gave David a new bedspread. (I know that's as bad as Homer Simpson giving Marge a bowling ball with his name on it, but it was Christmas time when I found it, what could I do?) Here's a picture (minus the groovy, hyper-coordinated room). You wouldn't believe all the conversation that a new bedspread will generate in a house full of girls. "Mom, I LOVE your new bedspread!" (No pretense whatsoever that this is David's bedspread.) "It's so silky. Let's go swimming on the bedspread." "Is this a bedspread or a comforter?" I just wanted to share my personal favorite; Marguerite said it: "Your bedspread is like new grass in the spring. Sigh." Where did this girl come from? In the last few weeks, I've also heard her say (after reading the new Fancy Nancy book): "I'm the only fancy one in my family." And: "If there's no air in outer space, what do we breathe?" And tonight, I heard: "Can Superman breathe in outer space?" I just wanted to document that.

Postum, Anyone?

Just in case you were wondering how to make Postum from the grain . . . here's a recipe. Thanks a lot, Kraft, for discontinuing it a few years ago. I need it tonight for Lizzy's mother-daughter book club. "Ostumo," in Gail Carson Levine's book Fairest, is described as being a warm drink made from grain and molasses; it shows up all over the book. Smart girl, I am, praising Postum to the skies, telling Lizzy it will be the PERFECT drink to serve to her friends . . . it goes with the book perfectly. . . THEN finding out it can only be bought for $85 a jar on ebay. The recipe below is for the dried grain mixture: once it's made, you have to steep it and run it through a coffee filter--no such thing as homemade INSTANT postum. If you're curious, stop by for a cup. I keep thinking of Grandma Shill--it's made my house smell like hers--that's the fun part. I combined 2 recipes and made it like this: 3 c. wheat germ 1 c. corn meal 2 c. cracked or ground wheat (cream of wheat) 1 c. molasses Mix in your hands until the molasses is evenly distributed; looks and feels like damp saw dust. Spread thin on cookie sheets Bake 300, stirring every 20 min for 5 hours. (Wish me luck on that part.) I'm actually baking 275 with convection, hoping the convection will speed it up. Woah, that was too hot for convection. I turned it down to 250, but it definitely sped it up. It's already dried out. The pans in my regular oven are way behind. ENJOY! Here are the original recipes: http://ouc1.com/another-homemade-postum-recipe/ http://www.cooks.com/rec/view/0,1630,149185-250198,00.html

Last Year's Christmas Letter

I came so close to sending out Christmas cards last year . . . soooo close. I even got this fine picture taken--nice theory with a three week old baby, but the picture production must have drained me dry; I couldn't quite get closure on the letter. (And I call myself a writer!)

Here's my draft; you can tell it's a draft because it's all so unbalanced. I got really carried away with the hamsters, and they got more coverage than the children. In defense of my motherhood: I was going to give my bid kids some room to write their own stories, which explains their skimpy paragraphs. I'm posting this just in case I get around to this year's letter.

Merry Christmas and all our love!

Christmas 2007

Hello friends, It looks like every fourth baby or so we finally get a Christmas letter out, so here's a quick five year review--born: Joanne, Marguerite, Eden, and Alice (one month ago). We finally caved to peer pressure from our kids (or is that subordinate pressure?)and decided to have just one more.

If you were counting, that totals seven girls and one lone Jonathan for us. I spent most of the year pregnant, therefore lying around groaning and complaining, which explains why every surface in my home acquired grafitti: Sharpie in all colors on the walls, the woodwork, table tops (all of them), window sills, shower walls, and carpet. Not even Rapunzel Barbie's braid was spared. (See my favorites below.)

We had a wonderful beach trip with most of the Shills this summer. It was all part of my mom's Christmas theme: "the 1960s." We spent a blissful week on the beach in San Diego, enjoying the most perfect weather I've ever seen and unusually warm Pacific waters. It was a landmark adventure for the cousins. My kids even got to experience a true "hoot-n-nanny," I thought Annette Funnacello might materialize in a yellow bikini. DAVID Occasionally, people mention that they have a hard time finding David in the choir, so I feel obligated to mention that he quit 4 years ago (about the time I was expecting Marguerite). There's a reason all those choir members have grey hair--their kids are grown. Between the Olympics and the touring schedule, he decided that it's not really meant for the man with many small children. NANCY spends her free time on Powerschool, checking her grades and squeezing extra credit points out of her teachers. On any day, she can tell you the exact percentage she has in any class; and she takes wild pleasure in tipping over the 100% mark. It's amazing! She bought herself several pairs of impossibly high-heeled shoes and discovered hair dye this year. ("Angels and ministers of grace, defend us!") JONATHAN Jonathan went to BYU lacrosse camp this summer, and we all learned just how much he keeps us entertained. The little girls all moped around complaining the whole time that there was nothing to do. And, I had to agree. SARAH is another PowerSchool addict, checking grades, but she's quieter about it and not so shameless about begging for extra credit. She embraced lacrosse this year. LIZZY (8), my sweet Social Planner is all about relationships." She got baptized this year after several months of threatening to wait for her Linford grandparents get home from their mission (still more than a year away). Relationships mean a lot to Lizzy, and she couldn't bear the thought of crossing this important threshold without them. But, after two months of EVERYONE needling her about her baptism and having to explain to people--like the primary president and bishop--that she had decided to wait, she thought better of the idea and decided that October was a good time. We went to Las Vegas so she could share her special day with her cousin, Adam. As we left the church after the baptism, we got a double rainbow which we count as a real miracle in Vegas with its three inches of rainfall a year. JOANNE (6) Fireball. Very, very feminine looking, but she loves to play with her boy cousins and has learned to do the more shocking things that boys do. (I'll leave it at that.) Joanne is Jonathan's honorary brother. In Jonathan's words: "Joanne is the closest thing to a brother I'll ever have." This girl knows how to play and dance and be especially goofy and, most importantly, laugh at Jonathan's antics. MARGUERITE is our diva. This girl is going somewhere--we're not sure where, but wherever it is, she'll be dressed well! She won't even come down for breakfast before she's showered, dressed, and accessorized--from hair to shoes. Favorite accessories include: headbands, scarves, tiaras, boas, and all of her mother's jewelry. (Much of it bit the dust this year), She's three whole years from the onset of her shoe fetish, (when she used to wear shoes to bed every night and hold another pair in her hands while she slept), with no signs of remission. She remains an avid shoe collector. I offered to take her on a "Mommy Date," and she asked if we could go to the shoe store: "It will be so fun, we can look around at all the shoes and stuff." --no kidding.

She also wins the prize for asking the most incomprehensible questions: I saw her take a tape measure, spread it out along the kitchen counter and ask, "Dad, guess how much the counter weighs. . . . 100 degrees!" (This, with her million dollar smile, of course). Give that girl some Math! EDEN: The Narrator. Eden narrated every event--no matter how small--that occurred in our house this year in full, exacting, descriptive sentences. I'm sure she tripled the average number of words spoken per day by any grown woman. Sometimes, just listening can be exhausting. She talks so much, that as we were preparing for her third birthday (just a couple of weeks ago), David lost his brains for a minute and thought she was turning four. It took a bit of convincing before he conceded: "Do you mean to tell me she's still TWO! She can't be two! No two year old talks that much." She's still cute enough to get her way virtually all of the time, even with Alice threatening to usurp. I'm sure this stage will end. ALICE: Absolutely perfect. It's the one thing on which we are all in complete agreement. She recently added "smiling" to her repertoire of tricks.

Well, that's it for the Linford kids.

ME: I'm busy with all of the above. I spend a lot of time in the car. I still write for ikeepsafe.org and that takes up all my hobby time, so I really don't do much else, which makes writing my paragraph here pretty simple. I had a couple of short business trips this year, so I started a new policy of taking a kid with me whenever I have to travel. This has seriously increased my popularity at home.

In February, I had meetings in San Jose, which were timed perfectly so that I could join my sister, sister-in-law, and niece playing with the Temple Hill Symphony in Oakland. It was so fun to dust off my violin (literally) and play again. It took about two weeks of scales for me to remember how to work my fingers, and still I barely survived the 2nd violin part, but the music was sublime and so nourishing.

I also had a fun trip to DC with Nancy. We stayed with my sister in Arlington and saw some of the DC sites. My love of George Washington still grows.

Hampster tragedies: Hamlet & Horatio

We acquired 2 hamsters, Hamlet and Horatio, born on the 4th of July last year. It turns out, we tempted the fates with those names. Hamlet died this summer at the worst possible moment--DAVID WAS OUT OF TOWN. So I had to conduct the funeral and bury him myself, accompanied by the plaintive wailing of 5 wretched little girls. In my world, burying an animal is a man's job, and I was very bitter about having to do it. I'm a disgrace to my pioneer ancestors.

At the funeral, I tried to offer a few kind words about Hamlet: "He was a good hamster, he never bit us." But, I was corrected by Sarah, "Actually, he bit me once, but it was only after he went insane because we hadn't changed his hay, and water had spilled all over the cage." Everyone had a bite story, modified with a comment like, "But it wasn't very hard." I started wondering about their vaccinations.

Marguerite suggested that we get a rock and write on it, "Hamlet Is Dead," which we did. If you come visit us, be sure to stop by the pet cemetery in the back corner of our yard, and you can admire the memorial (black sharpie on granite). This was one of the few occasions in my life where I knew exactly what to say: "Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest." (Thank you, Shakespeare.) But, the girls were unimpressed; they blasted me with a mishna full of questions about the afterlife for hamsters and whether or not they get resurrected, who takes care of them in the meantime, are they with Grandma Nonie, etc.

Hamster Epilogue: Lady MacBeth

Nancy and Sarah decided to buy another hamster--a girl this time--with high hopes for offspring. They named her Hero after that buoyant character in Much Ado about Nothing, but , we had to change her name to Lady MacBeth when she turned into a vicious biter. We all fear Lady MacBeth. Her unfortunate name turned out to be even more appropriate when Joanne woke up one morning to find that Lady MacBeth had eaten--yes, eaten!--Horatio. Oh the humanity! There were only remnants of him left.

Since then, only Lizzy--ever tenderhearted--has the wherewithal play with her. Several times, I heard Sarah mutter, "murderer" under her breath as she walked by the hamster tub.

On that happy note, I'll leave you with a Merry Christmas. It's been quite a year!

Responsible Women: Going on 24!

In March, the Responsible Women book club will celebrate it's 24th anniversary. (And we look so young!) I became one of the "new" members when I joined in 1995. We were ALL together for our December gathering, so we snapped a photo. I treasure these friendships so much. We're all so very different--we often disagree--but I value every opinion. Thank you, friends, for showing me how to be responsible!