Can't get enough

My mom has sworn she doesn't like ice cream since as long as I can remember. The reason is a purported ice cream binge that took place sometime in her youth. She gorged, and now she can't stand it.

I cannot relate to the gorging-and-henceforth-hating of any food. I gorge and get sick, but always find my way back to the trough. At times, I've been convinced I'm missing the brain chemical that's supposed to trigger the "off" switch. When something tastes good, I just keep going and going.

Got a hankering for cookies? I've been known to make a batch and eat them all in one sitting. Dying for a diet coke? Pop the lid on that baby and it'll be gone in 10 minutes. Pacing myself is a foreign concept. I mentioned that ice cream thing about my mom off the bat as a way of justifying my behavior, basically. It's either genetic, or learned. Either way I can't be blamed, right? Whatever.

So my latest overindulgence - and they come at me so quickly this time of year! - is not edible. Thank goodness. My brother mentioned how much he likes The Unit on TV. I'd never seen it. So I got my hands on the six or seven episodes of the season so far and watched them in two sittings. That's basically seven hours of television, which I watched on my computer, reclined in my bed, rather than working out, reading, practicing my accordion, hanging out with friends or anything else productive.

Can't wait til my coworkers how I spend my four day weekend.

Eating leftover pie and watching TV. So inspiring.

Chim-Chiminey Chim!

When I bought this condo, I thought the fireplace was a cool touch. I imagined I'd light a fire and wouldn't need to use my heater most cold winter nights. Me and my cup of tea, watching TV in front of a roaring blaze. Except I wasn't sure when the fireplace was last used and I was more than a tad nervous I might die of carbon monoxide poisoning. So I called in a chimney sweep.



Disappointingly. He didn't look a bit like Dick Van Dyke. Nor did he climb up on the roof. But he was thoroughly impressed with the five gallon bucketful of soot and ash he suctioned from my chimney with his big vacuum.

(This isn't the greatest pic because I felt foolish snapping it - so I took it secretly.)

With a green light on the fireplace, I realized I had no firewood. It was always just there in good supply when I was growing up. I had to buy mine in bundles at the hardware store, which amounts to about $3 a fire. A lot more expensive than running the heater when you break it down like. Kind of takes the fun out of it, actually. I scrounged up an old phone book and used the pages for kindling. The fireplace was quickly becoming a lot less idyllic than I'd pictured it.

Not to mention the crouching and coal-blowing it required.

Had to get my toes right up next to it to feel the heat.

It only roared for about 10 minutes, followed by a few hours of smoldering until I could safely close the flue. But the effect was nice while it lasted. Perfect for a chilly holiday weekend on the couch.

Decking the Halls

You should smell my hands right now. It's like I've been making cookies out of pine needles and sap. I'm putting off washing them as long as I can manage. I carried this lovely new door decoration all around the grocery store, fondling it a bit more than necessary, I'm sure. But I'm very sensitive to smells - and the scent of pine trees makes me all tingly.

The tag said it came from the mountains of North Carolina. I'm pretending it came from the Wasatch Mountain range and is a tiny taste of home to greet me at the doorstep.

My favorite season has sprung. Next up, a blaze in the fireplace. And more pies, of course.

Trot Update

Survived the Turkey Trot and didn't fall once. Actually ran the whole five miles at about 10-minutes each. Not spectacular, but I didn't suffer a bit - I think the sea-level altitude helps and a pre-race can of Sun Drop definitely didn't hurt.

But let's be honest, my Thanksgiving skills lie elsewhere.

Say hello to Lemon Meringue, French Apple Tart, Pumpkin and Banana Cream.

You Care!

I think care packages are the best gifts of all. They're usually unexpected and land on your doorstep by surprise at just the moment you need a pick-me-up. And if you're me, you tear into them before you make it through the door, tripping on your coat and nearly slicing your finger off with the scissors.

This one I received yesterday rocked . . . even with the University of Utah T-shirt (blasphemy!) My good friend thought it'd give me a chuckle. But I laughed harder at all the "serious athlete" stuff she sent like IcyHot and Gatorade in anticipation of my little 8K Turkey Trot tomorrow. This friend used to run marathons, so a measly five miles hardly requires a full-night's rest, let alone blister patches and high-tech socks.

And here I'd been thinking about ditching out on the trot altogether - it's too cold and I haven't felt well lately. I'll feel guilty if I wimpy out now, though. But there will be very little trotting, I fear. Sauntering, maybe.

She also sent the makings of her magic candy mix - to which I am hopelessly addicted. Equal parts gummi bear, sour patch kid and swedish fish.

I imagine the idea was to eat the candy in celebration of a Turkey Trot well done and calories well burned. Unfortunately that kind of restraint is not in my genes.

Where the Sidewalk Ends

There's an elected official in my town who hates sidewalks.

How is that possible? What's not to like about a continuous concrete path to set your tennis shoes or skates or bike and turn your mind to autopilot? I especially love that rhythmic cluh-clunk, cluh-clunk, cluh-clunk the seams make when you roll down the sidewalk on wheels.

I've become sensitive to this lately, because large portions of my neighborhood are sidewalk-less. And it's irritating to be walking/jogging along and have to pause my daydreams at the end of a sidewalk to decide if I want to brave the uneven edges of lawns filled with leaves -or worse, dog poop - or if I feel tough enough to share the road with whizzing cars.

This elected official hates sidewalks because they give people a legal place to protest in front of his house. Apparently people threaten to do that quite a bit, since he takes some pretty unpopular positions and angry people have this irritating way of wanting to exercise their 1st amendment right. But since he lives on a suburban street with no sidewalks, the protesters have to get a permit to be in the street.

It's a remarkable example of taking logic to the extreme. And all I can say is this guy must not walk much.

CHAOS

Here are a few things of which I was (blissfully) unaware prior to last night's pie-making activity:

• Flour is both an ingredient and exciting body decoration.
• Rolling out a fistful of dough can be a boggling process for a young mind.
• Pie dough is made of cherries, blueberries, apples or pumpkin. At least those are the answers the girls yelled at the top of their lungs when I asked "Who can tell me what ingredients are in pie dough?" (Obviously, I was unclear. Tsk, tsk. Young minds demand specificity.)
• The decorating of a pie is far more important than the mechanics of making one.
• The world is equally split between apple pie people and cherry pie people.
• Pie dough does not come easily out of hair and clothes.

Bracing for the Big One

About an hour from now, I could be in the middle of a small-scale disaster involving flour, shortening, cherry pie filling and 17 hyper little girls.

It seemed like a great idea months back when I was brainstorming holiday activities for the church group. I have such fond memories of learning to make pie from my mom at their age. Brainstorming is my strong-suit. Figuring out how to pull a pie-making activity off without losing control of the group has me nearly paralyzed at this point.

Something is going to go wrong. The dough will stick. The girls will break out in a food fight. I'll be so worried about all of them having fun that we won't be halfway finished when their parents arrive to pick them up. Or, I'll be so worried about finishing in time they won't have any fun and will refuse to make another pie ever again.

I wonder if FEMA's otherwise engaged tonight? I may need some professional help cleaning up this mess.

Brrrrr

I know I can be fickle. When it's cold, I fantasize about the most insanely tropical place I've been - Vietnam in the monsoon season where everything steamed and the damp heat all but closed off my lungs. And when it's too hot, I hang out in the freezer aisle wondering how I might fit in the case between the Rocky Road and Mint Chocolate Chip.

But can you blame me for being irritated that it's 24 degrees this morning in "the-weather's-so-mild-you-can-golf-year-round" Charlotte? When I go out in a few minutes I'll have to scrape the car windows. Unacceptable.

Home for the Holidays

I'm feeling footloose right now. This is the first Thanksgiving in five years I will spend on U.S. soil, rather than hopping a discount flight to some exotic locale.

Money and vacation time are the main reasons. Plus, I'd rather spend a week stuffing my face with family and squeezing my nieces and nephews than sweating/freezing in Paris, Thailand, Istanbul, Vietnam or Prague.

Since the Utah trip's not happening until January, though, I'm working on filling my holidays with distraction. I plan to start Thanksgiving here. Not at all certain it's a good idea, however, since I hate running and can't remember the last time I survived five consecutive miles on foot.

But "Turkey Trots" always sound like such an appealing way to lead into a feast.

The rest of the day will be spent with a cool family from church - I'm bringing the pies. My Christmas plans are still fluid, but I've lost count of the invites I've received. Everyone in my church ward is SO friendly and generous, it pains me to choose just one family to spend time with.

It's not home or Havana, but I suspect my holidays will be happy nonetheless.


P.S. The pictures are: Me and my sis on an elephant in Thailand in 2004; A church decorated with human bones in a tiny town outside Prague last year; Pretending to summon the servants in the Forbidden City of Hue, Vietnam in 2006.

Follow the Yellow Mush Road

The streets are paved in gold this morning. Big winds knocked all the leaves from the trees last night and rain turned them to a monochrome amber mush that smells like pumpkin guts.

It's pretty to look at, but a real mess. Which I didn't fully grasp until I went out for a long walk and found my ankles covered in Fall slime. The learning curve in adapting to a Southern climate is much steeper than I expected for a girl from the desert.

My big mouth is gonna get me killed

So, I'm at church Wednesday night, trying to keep track of the 17 little girls I'm supposed to be mentoring and one of the other leaders - a friend of mine - introduces me to this really nice Polynesian man. He's really big, but seems like kind of a teddy bear.

My friend says "Sione here's a wrestler." And I'm like, "Oh really? In college?" (The guy's probably fifty or so, but I'm trying to be nice.) "Pro-wrestling," says my friend.

I think he's joking. I laugh and say, "Right, so what's your wrestling thing, huh? Do you have a big scary name or something?"

To this point Sione's done nothing but smile and shake my hand. Then he says, "They call me The Barbarian."

"Really?" I say, still not buying it. "So what, do you come out with like blood spewing from your mouth or something?"

"No, but that would have been good," Sione says. He goes on to tell me he still wrestles, but only on the rare occasions they like to "bring out the old guys."

The entire episode slipping my mind until just a few minutes ago. I googled "The Barbarian."

Apparently The Barbarian is a pro-wrestling legend. Back in the 80s he was known for his "diving headbutts and incredible strength. He could military press a 220 lb wrestler over his head with both hands, remove one hand, and hold him there for quite some time."

The photo above is a bit old, I think, judging from the Mr. T look. But this video shows him wrestling just last year. The music is cheesy, but look at the size of this guy!



The Barbarian lives right here in Charlotte and his wife goes to my LDS ward. Which is probably the only thing that stopped him from flicking a wrist and knocking every tooth out of my impertinent, disbelieving head.

Friday Food

I had gooey, chocolate Hostess Cupcakes for breakfast with a Diet Coke. Crazy healthy, I know. It's a conspiracy the way the cupcakes come in twos, by the way. Impossible to eat just one, though I did space them out by about 30 minutes. The rest of the day didn't represent much of an improvement on the food front. I haven't experienced any side effects yet, but I am a tad worried what it might have done to my karma/chi/aura/ying/yang. I'm off to a yoga class to restore some balance, so I can have a Twinkie for dinner.

Everything's Better the Second Time Around

It's raining here and all week long I've been getting compliments on my new raincoat.

"New," as in, eight bucks at Goodwill. I keep hearing that the bad economy is putting a pinch on thrift stores, but so far I'm still uncovering treasures.

But a coworker tripped me up with his reason for steering clear of secondhand shops.

"I feel like I should leave the stuff for poor people who have no choice," he says.

I never thought of thrift stores as a social benefit we should preserve for those who need it most. For about two seconds, I actually felt guilty. Then I remembered that with my limited closet space, I donate as much to thrift stores as I buy. And besides, I'm usually buying the stuff nobody else wants because it's missing a name-brand and probably belonged to someone who's long been dead.

I suspect my coworker isn't being altruistic so much as hiding an aversion to wearing clothes that have been worn before. I tend to think it's good luck.

Ho, Ho, Holy Rip-off!

I have high hopes for the holidays in North Carolina. The White House is getting its tree here for the second year in a row. And when I heard about "Candelight Christmas Evenings" at the Biltmore House, I set my heart on a holiday visit to Asheville.

The smell of spicy mulled cider and the glimmer of tree lights makes me weak in the knees. But the Biltmore will have to have a holly jolly Christmas without me. They're charging $68 for a visit! I thought $40 was outrageous when I visited back in January. Yeah, the indoor bowling alley and gazillion opulently decorated rooms are cool. But even with white lights and roaming carolers, $68 is a bit much.

Then again, I've considered Disneyland a royal gyp ever since admission crossed the $50 threshold back when I was 12. The Biltmore could throw in some figgy pudding and a photo op with Anderson Cooper (Vanderbilt's grand nephew) and I'd still turn up my cheapskate nose.

Now I'm considering a trip to the botanical gardens here in Charlotte. I hear they make a Christmas tree out of orchids. And it only costs $10.

All I Want for Christmas

. . . is an 18K diamond-encrusted Jesus pendant worth $23,000.


Wouldn't it look amazing with a nice t-shirt and pair of jeans?

The State of North Carolina is auctioning off the loot they seized in drug deals.

Among my favorites are this oh-so-subtle timepiece . . .

. . . and a gold gorilla pendant with diamond eyes.

I consider this concrete proof that drug dealers are scumbags, awash in ill-gotten gains.

And that they have very, very bad taste.

Still Chris' Sister

Since I'm the oldest of five, I got to do everything first. Learn to walk. Lose my baby teeth. Go on sleepovers. Start school. Leave home.

But my brother was close on my heels in 13 months, and and I don't think it suited him to be "Julie's brother" everywhere he went. So he changed it.

I had exactly one year of first-child stardom in school before my little brother came along and turned me into "Chris' sister."

"Oh, you're Chris' sister!" the girls would say, immediately eager for friendship so they could come over after school and get a close-up look at my handsome tow-headed sibling.

"Oh, you're Chris' sister!" the teachers would say, wondering if I could sing and dance as well as my brother, who had been selected for the district's traveling talent show with his plucky rendition of Oklahama! songs.

"Oh, you're Chris' sister!" the good-looking guys at the night club would say, hoping a date with me would land them a spot in my brother's band.

"Oh, you're Chris' sister!" the folks at church would say, starting into a long list of wonderful things my brother had done, including sing like an angel in church service and later serve an impressive mission.

"Oh, you're Chris' sister!" the neighbors would say, doubting - and rightly so - that I could mow a lawn as well as him.

"Oh, you're Chris' sister!" the kids on the block would say, wondering why I wasn't out building the coolest fort they'd ever seen out of trash scavenged from the dumpster across the street.

"Oh, you're Chris' sister!" everyone still says, envious of his beautiful, smart and independent wife and young daughters.

"Yep," I say. "And proud of it."

Happy Birthday Brother.

Ablaze in Color

I'm a dangerously distracted driver as it is. . . this riotous fall color lining the freeway might be cause to revoke my license.


If it's any consolation, I snapped these photos without taking my eyes off the road. . . much.

To the Littlest of the Little Girls

Growing up, my three youngest sisters were known as "the little girls." As in "Go get the little girls, it's time for dinner." Or "Watch the little girls while I run to the store for some milk."

They weren't much littler than me and only a few years younger. But they remained "the little girls" until they hit high school. And just this summer, the pet name nearly slipped from my lips at a family reunion.

The littlest of my sisters is 27 today. But all of her life, I've known that her heart was much, much bigger than mine.

To my knowledge, she's the only one of my siblings to have sat at the bedside of a dying friend and then come home quietly to tell my parents said friend had "gone home."

She befriended countless elderly neighbors with sincerity that had nothing to do with the treats they fed her or the freedom to watch TV in the afternoon. She loved their company and they hers.

When the dreadful little neighbor girl would say mean things and refuse to share her toys, my sister would come home crying, but be back at the neighbor's house an hour later, all forgiven and forgot.

Such guileless grace must be inborn. The proof lies in the same quick-to-love, quick-to-forgive, quick-to-make-you-feel-like-you-are-the-center-of-the-universe, nature of her son. She's passed on to him her greatest attribute.

And as her sister, I'm still hoping someday a shred of it will rub off on me, too.

Happy Birthday Laura. I love you.

New Beginnings

Yesterday my cousin gave birth to a baby boy.


And America took a chance on something new.


I love turning a new page. It's frightening and invigorating and makes me feel like the horizon is wide open.

Are you serious?!

Another cold.


And just in time for a really big week at work. Life's not fair.

Flying the Friendly Skies

Ladies and gentlemen. . .



Please remain seated with your seat belt securely fastened until the captain has turned off the "Fasten Seat belts" sign.