We were at Smith’s Foods and they had the most beautiful roses smiling at us when we walked in. I didn’t want to take any home to watch them die a horrible death. I just wanted to take pictures of them.

We went to Park City for dinner on Sunday. We sat on the patio at Butcher’s and overlooked this building. My Canon had a run in with a banana in my purse, so it hasn’t been feeling well, yet we were able to get this lovely picture.

This building won an award…

Who knew they gave out awards for being old and unchanged?

More historical preservation in Park City.

I remember it vividly. I was sitting on the powder blue toilet lid looking at my mom putting on makeup. I probably was eleven years old and in the middle of grade school hell. It was a Peanuts cartoon that scared me.

“Mom, I was reading a Peanuts cartoon and Charlie Brown was talking about being a kid and falling asleep in the car.”

“Hmm…”

“Well, he said that he wanted to be a kid forever because when you grow up you’re the one that has to drive the car and no one is there to carry you into the house when you fall asleep.”

I went on to express my fears about growing up. I told her that if these are the best years of my life, then I’m not enjoying them very much. She stopped putting on her makeup and looked at me. I think she said something about how she was proud that I would understand that comic at all. I don’t remember the compliment, but I remember what her answer to my fear of aging was,

“Every year I’ve lived has been better than before. All those big birthdays haven’t made me feel older and I wouldn’t go back to being your age for anything. Growing older has been nothing but good for me and I look forward to each year.”

That was enough for me. I felt better. If my mom was happy being 33 years old, then I could be happy knowing that when I’m 33, I’ll be happy too. I thought that maybe the women of our family are late bloomers. Maybe the best years of our lives come when we’re in our sixties.

Because of that early morning conversation in the bathroom, I have never been fazed by those major birthdays. While my friends rejoiced at 21, I was happy that I could go to Wendover and dance clubs. I felt the same as I did before, I just had more privileges. Would I trade with being eleven years old and tormented by school peers? Hell no.

When my friends lamented turning 30, I had the same quiet birthday party as always. I was happy to add another year on my age. Would I trade with being a skinny 21 year old who was alone and confused about her future? Hell no.

I haven’t hit forty, but it is a mere four years away. I’m not scared of it. My mom was right. Every year has been better than the year before. Even when I’ve been in the middle of hard times, I would never trade with time from my past. Even my most miserable at 36 is better than my happiest at 19. And seeing my mom at her birthday this year, made me really look forward to my fifties.

Today is the one year anniversary of porting all my entries over to WordPress. Ironically, there are still major problems with those old entries. I really should go back and fix them…

Inside every tree is a sapling.

I created an avatar when I first signed up for Yahoo! IM. I kind of thought I would be able to use it for the picture that got sent to people, but I just ended up using my real picture. I really only talk to Mike via Yahoo! IM, so the picture isn’t really important, actually. I think he knows what I look like.

Now, you can export your avatar (as demonstrated here). That’s kind of cool, but I don’t really know what I’m going to do with it besides post it here on this entry.

• Export Yahoo! Avatars

The truth of the matter is that no matter how many choices they give me, the thing isn’t going to look like me. My hair is really curly, but it curls differently than this comic. This is the closest face shape I could find, but it still doesn’t look like me. And can anyone tell me why they don’t have different body shapes to choose from. I’m offended that I can’t make my avatar fat and I don’t know why…

Via: littler. yellower. differenter – by Ernie Hsiung

We just bought a new printer. After swearing that I would never buy another ink jet printer, especially from Epson, we bought one. The truth of the matter is, ink jets are better for color printing than color laser printers and Epson is the best of the ink jet printers. We ended up buying the R200 and it is so much better than the last one we owned.

The first night we got it, I printed up some of my favorite photos that I’ve taken over the last few months. I was amazed at how good they look. I wouldn’t be able to tell them from a professional developing job. Our old printer was the top of the line Epson back in 2000 and it never looked this good, printed this fast or ran this quietly. There was always the faint shimmer of horizontal lines.

The Epson R200 is very near the bottom of the line right now and we bought it for $49 at Office Depot. We paid over $200 for our top of the line Epson so long ago. It just amazes me how quickly the world gets better.

Don’t bother me. I’m busy printing up Haunted Paper Toys.

I have a painting in my basement that has been sitting there for almost two years. It’s not finished. It needs a white wash over the top and then it will be done. I started it for Stacey and Dan, but they don’t need it anymore. I personally like it, but there is not more space for any paintings in my tiny house. It is gathering dust.

I have two huge canvases that I got for an incredibly low price at the local art store. They smelled like some horrible solvent when we bought them, but now they smell like the basement. They are covered in plastic and clean, but they haven’t been touched. I had some great ideas for them.

Every few days, we walk past the art store. It’s on the way to many of the places that we go regularly. I linger outside, peeking in like a child who has no money for candy. I want to go in and buy a pile of oils and brushes and any other supplies they have. It’s not that I don’t have the money to paint. I just don’t have the time. I’m writing and reading and working and riding my bike and playing with friends. The thought of dragging out those oils and setting up to paint sounds like a chore to me.

But I miss it. I want to finish my painting. I want to give those empty canvases life, even if there is no room on my walls for them. I guess it’s time to drag out the oils and my blue lab coat.

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They’ve all moved away. They’re in San Diego, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Boston, and Eugene. They all come home to visit their families and when we see them, they nod. “Still here in Utah, huh?” I smile. Sometimes I feel left out because I’m not going off to seek my fortune. Not last Sunday. We took a drive up to Snowbird and remembered why we still live in Utah.

Laura: Are we still doing Pierogies for dinner?

Michael: yeah, I’ll start boiling the water in a few minutes

Laura: Yum! There is no “Hungry” emoticon. How can that be?

Michael: dunno.

Laura: It was a rhetorical question. I should ask Ernie.

Michael: It’s for teenagers. they’re always hungry so it would be redundant.

Laura: Plus, emoticons don’t have torsos.

Tuesday morning on my way to work, I drove along 2100 South, heading west. The traffic was kind of slow and I noticed a man looking into my car. He was standing on the corner. He wore an orange-brown t-shirt and he was in his fifties. He raised his right arm to me. I couldn’t quite tell what was in his hand. At first glance, I thought it was a long keychain, but the sun caught the symbol and reflected the sign of a cross on my eyes. A rosary. He held up a rosary at me.

I had passed him before I even realized what he held in his hand. I saw the dreadlocked man with the long beard walking toward the man on the corner. That dreadlocked man talks to himself and I pretend that I can’t hear him when I ride my bike. That day, I was in my car, safe. “I hope that dreadlocked man doesn’t bother the man with the rosary,” I thought to myself.

Why? Do I have a huge aura around me projecting an interest in religion? Can they tell that I categorize all humans? Gullible or Logical? He raised his hand to be counted: Gullible. The small, metal cross burned an image of itself on my eyes as it turned on the string of beads. I drove on, feeling jealous and thinking that he must have some sort of peace that I have never been able to find during my waking hours.

“I don’t have an entry for tomorrow.”

“Which one?”

“Pick Me! It’s Illustration Friday and the word is ‘Empty.'”

“Empty?”

“Yeah… I can’t think of anything.”

“If you can’t think of anything for ‘Empty’ then you’re thinking too hard.”

This is the second draft of your birthday message. The first one I wrote was a little depressing, so I’ll post it tomorrow, when it’s not your birthday. You won’t read this until we get back from camping this weekend, but I like the idea of a small little digital birthday card waiting for you when you get back to the drudgery of your computer.

I feel so lucky that you and I are such close friends. I see so many people who aren’t close to their sisters and I feel a little twinge of sadness for them. You’re better than a friend could ever be because you’ve been around me ever since I was five. I don’t have any other friend in my life who was my friend when I was five years old. You’re the only one.

I’m wishing many good things for you this year. It seems like your life is going so great that there isn’t much else that I could wish for you, but everything that you could ever want is right there in my hopes for you.

Do you remember when we played school in Billings? We got out Grandpa’s slide projector and put in the slides that he had taken of mining sites. I taught you the different kinds of clouds there are: nimbus, cumulus, stratus, and cirrus. Half those clouds have a car named after them now. I wonder if that makes it easier for children to learn them now. It took a long time for clouds to become just clouds to me. I had to paint with Bob Ross for years to change them back into fluffy whiteness from the scientific harshness of their names.

You were my only friend when we were shipped up to Billings. I can’t imagine how those summers would have been without you and I’m sorry you had to spend a couple of summers up there without me. I sent you as many letters and tapes as I could to keep you busy. I hope they were enough.

Happy Birthday, Sister!

Dear Stacey,

We never talk about the time we almost lost you at Raging Waters. I don’t even know if you remember it. Our family only went to Raging Waters once. I don’t know how old I was. I don’t remember how old you were. I remember thinking about boys and liking them, but I was far more interested in learning how to stay afloat on the raft when the waves were turned on. It must have been before I was fourteen years old, so you were no more than nine.

Mom and Carol took us to Raging Waters. I remember being surprised that Carol had come with us and equally surprised that she didn’t want to swim. Why would she come if she didn’t want to swim? Now I understand the desire to want to be part of a family outing without necessarily wanting to participate in the activity, but back then, I couldn’t fathom it.

Mom and Carol didn’t swim. They set up a base camp in the shade and let us slide down the huge slides and swim in Wild Wave all day. That was the plan at least. I remember climbing the stairs to get to the top of the slide: stair after stair after stair. It felt like we would never get to the top. The higher we got, the more nervous you got. We convinced the guy at the top to let both of us go at that same time. I should have known you would have never chickened out, though. When we got to the bottom of the slide and splashed into the pool at the end, we knew that the long climb up those stairs was worth it. We must have gone up those stairs at least fifteen times that day.

Before there was Raging Waters, there was Wild Wave. It was a big pool that periodically would start acting like the ocean with waves. Families could rent little rafts to ride on, or you could try to body surf the waves. Raging Waters bought Wild Wave and turned it into the water park that it is today. Dad had taken us to Wild Wave once, so the big wave pool felt safe and comfortable compared to the huge water slides. In a rare splurge, Mom and Carol got us each a raft to ride. I felt like a surfer in California.

It wasn’t long before Mom was calling me out of the pool. The waves were almost finished, but I didn’t want to leave them early. I got out and you were sitting by the side of the big pool. Next to you was a lifeguard and my heart fell into the bottom of my stomach. You were ok. The danger had come and gone while I pretended I was a surfer. I hadn’t even seen you go under. Luckily, the lifeguard had.

Mom and Carol tried to let us stay and play for the rest of the day, but neither one of us wanted to go back in. I remember trying to convince you to go back in, but you wouldn’t go. We left the park far earlier than any of us thought we would. Our family never went back to Raging Waters and we never talk about that day.

I pass Raging Waters every day on my way to work. When I ride my bike, I have to be careful because there is a huge crack in the sidewalk that could throw me from my bike if I’m not paying attention. I can smell the flowers at the entrance and sometimes the lifeguards wait for the bus. They smell like coconut oil and I send a quiet thank you out to the lifeguard who saved you that day.

Your sister,
Laura

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Stacey and Dan just bought a Hummer H3. Their other car is a Mini. They have both ends of the spectrum now. I am pretty stoked about this because they bought the car so the four of us can go camping together. It’s a pretty sweet ride with tons of room for camping gear.

We took the H3 camping last weekend. All four of us and the dogs fit comfortably in it. Stacey and Dan got a huge top of the car bag to hold all of their gear, which is a good thing because it would have been a tight fit otherwise. Mike and I brought a lot of junk, so we would have had trouble fitting all the gear.

They found a cool place to take the H3 off-roading. There was a trail that intersected with a creek bed. The creek was dry, so they took it on the creek bed. Any other car would have been stuck, but this thing just floated over those big rocks. Mike got out of the car to take the last two photos in the slideshow. We weren’t stuck. Nothing was broken. They just waited for Mike to take the pictures and we went on our merry way.

We’re looking forward to many lovely camping trips in this machine. I’m sure glad they got it. We had a lot of fun tagging along with them.

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We spent last weekend at a privately owned campsite in Duchesne (pronounced Du-shane with the accent on the shane). It was called Camelot and it’s easily the best campsite we’ve ever stayed in. The bathrooms and showers were immaculate. The grounds were well kept. I didn’t even take pictures of the most beautiful parts of their campsite. I was busy looking for broken, dirty and dead things to take pictures of. You can see the beautiful aspects of their campgrounds at their website: Utah Camelot Resort & Pinnacle Lodge.

This is how I know that I’m a complete nerd. I am currently fantasizing about spending the 300 bucks to buy this thing. I love the idea of constructing my own Death Star. You do know that even though it only looks half finished, it is fully operational. I could blow up my neighbors motorcycle with that thing, right?

“I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of motorcycles suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.”

I wonder how long it takes for one adult to construct that thing?

I was up at 5am. It’s a little later than I usually wake up, but I wasn’t worried about being late. I would just cut my Internet reading a bit and I would get to work just fine. At about 5:30 am, Sid went nuts barking at the door. I looked out and I immediately noticed that Mike’s bike was gone. I didn’t see anyone on the porch or along the road, but it was really dark out there and I hadn’t turned off the light inside to help look out there. I woke up Mike, hoping that maybe he had moved his bike into the backyard and I didn’t notice. He hadn’t.

The thief didn’t cut off the lock. The lock was nowhere to be seen, so he must have cracked the combination. I used to be a master at cracking combination locks, but this one seemed secure to me when I bought it in the store. It was a combination I could remember and it was compact. I thought it was the perfect lock. I guess the thief thought it was the perfect lock for him, too.

While we checked the street, Mike noticed a bike left on our lawn. For a moment, I was excited, thinking that Sid had scared away the thief and he had left Mike’s bike on the lawn. Unfortunately, it was a different bike. Instead of Mike’s immaculate Gary Fisher, a beat up Giant Boulder SE with shocks was lying on our grass. It was scratched and the name Bor Yueh was engraved on the rack on the back.

I felt sorry for Bor Yueh. His bike was stolen long ago and now it had been discarded in our front yard in exchange for our bike. I looked the name up in the phone book. There was no one in Salt Lake City with the last name Yueh. Then I Googled the name. Apparently Bor Yueh is not the victim of a crime. It’s a huge company that makes racks for mountain bikes. I felt foolish for not recognizing the name.

So, we have a bike in our possession that is not ours. Not only was our bike stolen, we no longer feel safe in our home. The kind of desperate person who would crack a lock and steal something was on our porch last night. Sid would have eaten the guy alive if I had let him out, but that doesn’t really make me feel safer. It just makes me worry about Sid eating people alive.

Ironically, the bike that the thief left was a little better overall compared to the one that was stolen. It looks like it’s beat to hell, but it has shocks. The chain is dirty, but the crank shaft is in good repair. The bike is even a better fit for Mike’s height. It was worth about the same as the Gary Fisher when it was new. Mike doesn’t want to keep it, though. I suspect that every time he looks at it, it will remind him of the peace of mind that we lost yesterday morning.

The pool used to be there. She could see the outline of where the pool and the hot tub used to be, both above-ground. The large fence was rusty and unlocked. There was no reason to lock it anymore. There was no pool there for young children to drown themselves in.

The swing set was still there. It wasn’t as strong as the park swing sets, but it was sturdier than Angela’s set in her back yard. Angela had all the cool stuff. This year, her family went to Disneyland. There was no camping at third-rate campsites for her.

She had stopped swinging and started slowly twirling. She twisted the chain while sitting in the seat until it was as tight and high as she could go. When she released her feet, the seat would swing around quickly, ending in a dizzy swirl. When the spinning stopped, she would slowly start the twisting again.

“I’ve never seen anyone pout using a swing set before.” She looked up. Jaime was old. Angela had an older brother, but he was only two years older, so he understood everything. Jaime was more like Dad than a brother. “What do you want, Jaime.” He shook his head. “You’re too young to be a teenager. I didn’t start pouting like this until I was 15.” He sat in the other swing next to her.

(Continue Reading…)

Years ago, Mike was in a car accident. He was rear-ended and pushed into the car in front of him, turning our lovely blue Acura into an accordion between the two. Thankfully, Mike was relatively unharmed by the accident. He had neck pain and headaches for a couple of weeks afterward, but he walked out of the incident without a scratch. When I considered what I could have lost in that accident, I felt selfish for lamenting our situation.

The insurance totaled the car and paid what they considered it worth. Unfortunately, it was substantially less than what we owed on the car. Suddenly, we had no car and we would still be paying car payments for over a year. That year, I cursed Key Bank so often that the office where we made our payments was closed. My Old World Italian curses have strange and unforeseen consequences.

That year, I decided that I was never going to spend a lot of money on a car again. The Acura was the coolest car that either Mike or I had ever owned. We loved that car. We drove it everywhere. The monthly payments had been a little out of our range, but we knew they were worth it because we had a really cool car. In a second, a slick rainstorm and an inattentive driver took away our car and we still had to pay for it. I decided that I would never be in that position again.

Having Mike’s bike stolen a couple of days ago brought into focus that feeling again. At any time, anything can be taken away from us: my bike, my car, my intellect. I could get into an accident and lose my entire personality to a brain injury. I could lose any of my personal belongings to thievery, fire or earthquake. I could lose the people that I love to a number of maladies. I am completely and utterly vulnerable.

There’s not a shotgun in the world that can stop an earthquake. There’s not a security system invented that could stop a car accident. There’s not insurance enough to give me back my loved ones. There is no security in the world and believing in it is merely an illusion.

I don’t remember taking the red pill. I’ve avoided all the rabbit holes. I want the illusion back. I liked that feeling of safety and security that I had on Tuesday night when I went to bed.

Sometime last week, I hit one million hits. I didn’t tell you, but my goal when I hit my one year anniversary last year was to get one million hits before the second anniversary of Pick Me! I made it with a month or so to spare, which makes me darn happy (I live in Utah. We don’t get much more happy than “darn” happy without breaking local ordinances).

A big thank you to all of you who have dropped by here to read and keep coming back. I really appreciate your continual support and patronage.

Sendin’ Good Karma Your Way!

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It was our anniversary last weekend, so we stayed in Park City. Here are the best of the pictures that I took. Stay tuned for one on Friday that had an unexpected result.

Yesterday morning I went to the gym to exercise. I don’t like watching the televisions at the gym. I don’t have control over what flashes at me on the screen and the most vivid example of that lack of control was my experience yesterday morning. I endured two infomercials without sound. Unfortunately, my eyes kept flitting back to the television. The first infomercial featured several male porn stars. I think it might have been a commercial for male enhancement. That one didn’t bother me much because I couldn’t hear a word they said. Aging porn stars ain’t pretty folk.

The second infomercial was for Girls Gone Wild. The same scenes flashed over and over again: young girls flashing their censored bits at the camera. There were so many thin bodies willing to expose themselves. The nudity and girl-on-girl action didn’t really bother me, but I couldn’t stop looking at it. Unlike the ugly porn stars, these beautiful girls were happily smiling at the camera.

I tried looking at my reflection at the far side of the gym. I concentrated on my running form and corrected my stride. I watched my fellow gym members, but in between each glace at the mirror or others, there were glances of naked crazy girls willing to perform calisthenics in the buff for the camera. Here I was, barely willing to perform them fully dressed.

After my workout, I headed out. I mentioned casually to the two trainers at the front, “You’ve got soft core porn on TV#9.” The male behind the counter, looked surprised and confused, so I added, “I think it’s Girls Gone Wild or something.” His look of concerned surprise transformed to jaded boredom. He shrugged and turned back to his coworker.

The thing that bothered me the most was the guy planted right in front of that TV. He never took his eyes off it once.

I forgot it for a moment. I don’t know why. Sometimes when we are acting from the gut, we forget what we know in our head. Fear equals energy to me. Being scared feels almost the same as being excited. I feel antsy. I can’t sit still. I want to act.

I’ve been feeling fearful when I leave the house in the early morning to go to the gym. I’ve avoided walking outside if the sun is even close to setting. Because Mike’s bike was stolen in the dark hours of the morning, it’s understandable. The thing is, I forgot that fear equals energy.

For some reason that fixes it for me. Knowing that I’m scared and that I have an extra energy reserve waiting to be used during this time is very helpful. I can use it however I want. I could use it to start a neighborhood watch program, but I’m not. I could use it to volunteer at the homeless shelters, but I’m not. I could use it to find the scumbag who stole Mike’s bike, but I’m not.

I’m going to use the energy for entirely selfish things. I’m going to run a little bit extra every day. I’m going to write a little bit extra every day. I’m going to read a little bit extra each day. Until the fear goes away, I have additional energy at my disposal and I’m going to use it for myself.

I suddenly feel so much better.

I’m ready to spit nails at Telegraph Online for allowing this article past their editors. I have no idea how they chose the women they interviewed and surveyed for this article, but I can tell you it wasn’t me.

• Telegraph – It’s music to her ears – Rachel Forder

Short-Sighted Quotes (based on faulty information):

“Would you rip files at a high or low bit-rate? Do you prefer AAC, WMA or MP3? If you are completely baffled by these questions, you are probably a woman.”

I rip at a high bit-rate and I prefer MP3. In fact, when we digitized our entire CD collection, it was me that did 80% of the ripping.

“I think a lot of girls are nervous that downloading will be too complicated for them.”

I don’t download from illegal sites because they are illegal. I don’t download from iTunes because their DRM is a bother to deal with and it doesn’t really feel worth the money. If I pay a couple dollars more, I get the real CD. I actually prefer to own the music. I want the CD stored in my collection just in case the computer crashes or the RIAA comes knocking at my door, confiscating my property in the name of protecting artists.

“However, the fact is that most women prefer to spend their lunchhour browsing in Chloé – not Comet. They refuse their boyfriend’s offer of a two-player PlayStation bout of Mortal Kombat, even if it’s the only way to get some quality time with him.”

Mortal Kombat? What year is this?! Last I heard Halo 2 was the last big thing in first person shooters. I don’t like that kind of game and I’ve commented extensively about how the gaming industry is losing out on a huge market. I don’t think the problem is with the girls. I think it’s with the gaming corporations.

“Women are less patient than men: they haven’t got the time or the inclination to read a 90-page manual and work out how to operate a camera or DVD player.”

Ninety-page manuals for a camera or a DVD player are a sign of poor design. Hire a usability expert.

“Apple launched a mini version of the iPod in pastel pink last summer, and this season’s desktop must-have is a Hello Kitty mouse.”

Making it pink doesn’t appeal to me. You can dress every character in Halo 2 in bright pink armor. That doesn’t make me want to shoot at things.

“If I’m honest, most of the time I deliberately act helpless, because I know there will always be someone who can help me, whether it’s my husband or a male colleague at work.”

Intentional helplessness. I’ve seen it a hundred times with women AND men. The problem with this article is that they are interviewing women who intentionally act like they can’t figure things out, when in reality they could. It’s a game that women play to make their insecure men feel big and strong. I don’t need to play those games.

Accidental self portrait in the reflection of this door…

I went to a wedding over the weekend. The only subjects that would stay still enough for pictures in the low light were the broken things, forgotten in the corners of the property.

I don’t know if I’m sick, if my allergies have been acting up or if Kristen wore me out more than I realized last week. It doesn’t matter. I’ve been going to bed at 8pm and waking up in a late rush at 6am. I’m usually up at 4am with plenty of time to write. Instead, I’m a walking zombie at work despite all the sleep and my writing is a rushed and hurried ending to my day.

The Ford Taurus in front of me was a strange metallic gray. It was almost lavendar, but not quite blue or pink enough to be classified as anything but gray. There were no bumper stickers or license plate holders saying anything but the license plate read:

UBR-SCLY

At first glance, I thought it meant, “Uber-Silly.” Super Silly. Kind of like Woody Woodpecker or Daffy Duck. It took me a few seconds to realize that there was a “C” in the mix, ruining everything. “Uber-Sicily?” That doesn’t make any sense. Super Italian. That didn’t work because Uber is a German-based prefix.

I’m at a loss…