Creature Bug

Me & Yellow Paint, Part 3

Even before the police officer opened the door, I was sobbing. I just knew that my life was over. How exactly it was over, I couldn't tell you, but being pulled over by the cops certainly was some sort of signal to the end of life.

The officer at first just leaned into the car, but surveying the situation and perhaps picking up a sign that I was distraught about the circumstances, he knelt down. As if to be friendly. Right. As if.

"Do you know what to do when the blue and red lights start flashing?" Clearly not friendly. Clearly patronizing.

I was too emotional to be offended. "Of course, I do. But you're not supposed to pull people over when they're just sitting at red lights. You're supposed to pull people over when they're moving." Surely he must see how unfair he had been.

He (thankfully) ignored my advice, and changed tactics. "How long have you been driving?"

"A year."

"Have you ever been pulled over before?" I was horrified that he would consider me a repeat offender, and since I was crying too hard to answer, I shook my head in protest.

"Can I see your license and registration please?"

Oh. my. gosh. My license. I didn't have it because it had been stolen that Friday before, and I wasn't going to the DMV to get a new one until the next day. I was off to jail, I knew it.

"I - I - I - don't have my license," I stuttered out between sobs.

"No license?"

And then in one breath I told him the sad, sad story of my life. "My car was broken into on Friday - you can see the window is smashed - I don't have a CD player anymore and I'm not wearing my coat either and they took my wallet but they left my gloves and it - my wallet - had my license and my dad's senior picture and please don't get me in trouble because I had to drive to school without my license todaaaaaaay," and then the sobs overtook me.

"Do you have any identification on you at all?"

I pulled myself together long enough to think. What in my car had my name on it?

"Umm...uh...I have...I have..." I looked frantically around my car, "I have my math book." I pulled the Algebra 2 textbook out of my backpack and whipped open the cover to show him where I had written my name, complete with a heart dotting the "i" and everything. "Does that count?" Oh please, Lord. Let it count.

To his credit, the officer took the textbook and the vehicle's registration back to his car to do whatever it is they do in their cars (play solitaire? check their Facebook account?). He could have been gone for hours or minutes; for my part, I sobbed uncontrollably for the short eternity he was gone.

He returned with my textbook and papers, and said, "Your tags on your license plate are expired."

It was as if he was speaking a foreign language to me. I had no idea what he was saying.

"My what? My license is expired?"

"Your license plate. The tags are expired."

"I...but...my license...it's...tabs...what?" I was so confused. And distraught. And confusedly distraught.

"Your license plate, it goes on the back of your car, and there are stickers, and..." he didn't really want to be spending his afternoon explaining the technicalities of car registration to me, I could tell. "You just need to get them. Tags. For your license plate. Tell your parents. Send in verification that you've got this fixed and you won't get a ticket," and with that he handed me a yellow warning slip that was as good as gold.

No ticket.

The relief hadn't fully sunk in, and so I continued to cry and cry and cry. I think the officer might have said something else, but I wasn't listening. He closed the door and walked back to his car. I wasn't going to jail. I didn't get a ticket. And yet I couldn't stop crying. I leaned my head against the steering wheel, shaking with huge gasping sobs. The door opened again.

The officer was back, concerned that he was sending me out onto the road, I guess. "Do you want me to have someone come pick you up? Want me to call someone?"

I could only think of one thing I wanted most, and between my tears I said, "I...just...want...you...to...go awaaaay."

And bless him, he did.

Except, not completely because I never forgot that experience of being pulled over, of being unprepared, wishing I was somewhere else where I wasn't getting into trouble. It stayed me--that feeling--and made me a conscientious driver.

That officer has probably long forgotten about me, but I never forgot him. So for that, he did his job.

Holy Widmore, Lost-fan!

Did you SEE last night's episode?! Widmore! An Other! Maybe Faraday's Dad! EEEK.

Insane.

Love Sawyer: "I hate to bust up your 'I'm an Other, you're an Other' reunion." He has all the best lines.

Love that we're seeing more of Desmond.

Definitely love little Charlie. Seriously cute kid.

That was some crazy Lost going on last night, am I right?

Me & Yellow Paint, Part 2

It had been a particularly miserable start to the weekend. On Friday, I had walked out of school to discover someone had broken into my car. A window was smashed in my precious 1986 gold Chevy Nova, and some local hooligans had ripped my stereo right out of the dashboard. Not just any stereo, mind you. A stereo that played CDs. Totally high tech for 1993. The local hooligans also ran off with my fabulously puffy green leather jacket and my wallet. Nothing much was in my wallet except my driver's license and my dad's senior picture. I cried the most over losing that picture of my dad.

So that was Friday.

Saturday and Sunday didn't shape up much better. Argument with my parents, stress over boys, not feeling well...the regular high school stuff.

It was no wonder, then, that half-way through classes on Monday I started feeling too ill to stay at school. Maybe it was a real illness, or maybe it was the kind of illness that overly emotional 11th grade girls get. Whatever it was I signed myself out, and started the 20-minute drive home.

And so as I was sitting there at the red light, on my way home, I was primed for serious drama when I saw those lights flashing in my rear-view mirror. Normally, when that sort of thing happens, people get nervous. I had so many other things on my mind that getting nervous didn't even cross my mind. What also didn't cross my mind was that the red lights were for me.

The lights flashed, and I sat there, at the red light, waiting for it to turn green. Then a deep voice spoke from the lights, "Pull your car over."

That police car wasn't talking to me, obviously. I was at a red light, waiting behind a string of cars. I hadn't done anything wrong. I wasn't going to cross three lanes of traffic just to get to the side of the road.

The voice, however, was persistent.

"Pull your car over to the right side of the road."

I looked in my rear-view mirror and made eye contact with the officer. He nodded at me, and pointed. "You. Pull your car over."

I was mortified, but I complied. Years of Sunday School--and 3 months of driver's ed--taught me that it never pays to disobey the law. Somehow I managed to safely get my car to the side of the road, although not far enough over for the officer to safely approach the driver's side.

He knocked on the passenger side window; I merely stared at him in terror. I could not fathom why on earth I was getting in trouble, but eventually I leaned over and unlocked the door.

The officer had no idea what he was getting into.

Me & Yellow Paint, part 1

Every day we drive the roads we practice a life of faith. Ultimately, on the roads, the only thing separating me from eternity is a four-inch strip of yellow paint. I have faith that the driver in the other lane believes that yellow paint matters.

*

Your comments (and questions) from the last post have made me smile, and perhaps check my ego a little for any particularly shiny spots. I'll tell you that there are a couple reasons why I haven't received any speeding tickets. Though my hubris in the last post may seem like I'm going to soon get what's coming to me (quite possibly), I do have a pretty good method for not getting speeding tickets.

I drive slow.

Like, almost painfully so.

I can't bring myself to ever go faster than 70 mph (what's that...110 kph?) on the freeway because (1) it feels like I'm wasting gas, (2) I feel like my car might explode, and (3) I constantly envision myself running into something going that fast and perishing in an unspeakable inferno. It's helpful that in Oregon the speed limit is 65, so I manage just fine. In Washington the speed limit in some places is 70. I suspect I will be permanently relegated to the right lane once we move to the Evergreen State.

As for going through town, I'm just a drive-the-speed-limit kind of person. The only stretch in town that I fear may be the death of my ticket record is that stretch along Pringle/Battle Creek, where the speed limit is an INSANE 25 mph. The road is wide, the stretch is downhill, and I have to ride the brake the whole time. It's ridiculous. So what that there's a school there? They shouldn't put such pretty, wide roads next to schools if they don't want people to drive fast on them.

The other reason why I drive slow is because I was pulled over by a cop when I was 16, and it scared me into safe driving.

Of course, the reason why I got pulled over wasn't because I was driving unsafely, it was for a different reason altogether.

Ask away

So, my birthday is on Sunday. Yay me. I'll turn 33, which I'm hoping will be better than being 32. Yes, I have great hopes for being 33. Maybe not as great as the hopes I had for turning 16, which was really quite a spectacular birthday, getting the driver's license and all. Being able to drive turned out to be a pretty nifty deal, even these many years later since I still have a record of no traffic tickets or accidents. Yay me again.

My spotless driving record aside (but not too far aside because seriously, that's some good driving), I thought I would open up this final week of being 32 to you, dear readers. I'm inviting you to ask me any of those serious/silly/random/life questions which perhaps you have wondered about all these days of reading my blog. I can't actually think of anything you might want to ask me, especially since I just revealed one of the grandest achievements of my life (that would be 17 years of perfect driving, ahem), but if there was something else...

Now is your chance to ask. Friends, relatives, countrymen, lurkers and all--ask away.

I'll post all the answers to your questions on my birthday, before the wisdom of turning 33 starts to sink in too deeply. Heh.

(Not that I wouldn't answer your questions if you asked me in a month or so, except that I'd probably forget to. My memory is not one of the grandest achievements of my life.

Except that I do remember not getting any tickets.)

Week 240: The magic of nine

Not very often do I actually learn something from watching the highly-implausible-yet-somehow-entertaining Numb3rs. But after last night's episode, I did a little bit of research and discovered that the show had indeed taught me something. Plus, according to their website, all the crazy math they use is real, so maybe I'm actually learning more than I thought. Who says watching tv doesn't make you smarter?

Not only did I learn something, but I learned something totally romantic.

As you may know, in Chinese culture certain numbers are considered lucky or unlucky. If you watched any of the Olympic coverage last summer, you may have heard that the reason why the Olympics started on 08/08/08, at eight seconds and eight minutes past 8 o'clock pm, is because the number eight is thought to be a lucky number. So hooray for eights. I can't think of any eights in my life, but I'm okay with that.

What I just learned last night is that the number nine is considered to be magical, especially for weddings, because it sounds the same as the word "long-lasting."

And even though I am not a superstitious person nor do I put any credence in auspicious or inauspicious numbers, when I heard about the magical loveliness of nine I couldn't help but smile.

• Jason's mom is exactly nine months older than his dad.
• Jason's grandma was exactly nine months older than his grandpa.
• Jason's great aunt was exactly nine months older than his great-uncle.
• My mom's birthday is nine days before my dad's birthday.

I don't know about you, but I thought it was lovely thinking about all these long lasting marriages that have a connection with the number nine.

The real reason why I thought about it at all, though, was because yesterday was Jason's birthday.

And his birthday is nine days before my birthday. Somehow that just struck me as romantic and sweet and the-stars-aligned-for-us kind of thing.

Of course, all the coincidences of nines are mostly just a nice story to tell, but if I were one to put any stock in fate and destiny and all that...well, I might just say that Jason and I were meant for each other.

Fate and destiny and nines aside, I still think we're meant for each other. So, happy birthday to my sweet husband, who is definitely going to be one of the most long-lasting figures of my life. *smooch*

Week 239: This day

I woke, not early, but early enough. My first decision was to skip MOPS, even though meeting with those other moms is a highlight of my week. My second decision was to record over last night's episode of House, even though we hadn't watched it yet. No matter. I'll watch it later, and what I most wanted to record was the event of the morning.

We sat on the couch, the girls and I, watching NBC's coverage that was fairly uninteresting for Sydney and Jules, but plenty interesting for me. As the Presidential motorcade wound its way through Washington, D.C., I read If You Give a Cat a Cupcake aloud to the girls.

As the former Presidents walked onto the platform, I taught the girls how to say President Obama.

As the inaugural address was given, I gave Sydney a brief version of history's events that made today so very significant.

And as President Obama walked off the stage, we three girls prayed for our new leader, Jules's hands clasped in prayer, her eyes shut tightly, reciting "Obama" every time she heard me say his name.

They probably won't remember this day, but I will. Not because of the why or the how, or the ends or the means, or the political winds of change. I'll remember it as the first inauguration that has made me cry. I'll remember it because of the who, and because of the many men and women who came before, believing that this day should come. A generation ago, one man had a dream. Many generations before that, another man had a dream. And for a brief moment this morning, as Obama's hand rested on Lincoln's Bible, I couldn't help but feel those dreams tying us all together.

   

That, my friends, is worth remembering.

 
(images from BBC.co.uk)

"So let us mark this day with remembrance, of who we are and how far we have traveled. In the year of America's birth, in the coldest of months, a small band of patriots huddled by dying campfires on the shores of an icy river. The capital was abandoned. The enemy was advancing. The snow was stained with blood. At a moment when the outcome of our revolution was most in doubt, the father of our nation ordered these words be read to the people:

'Let it be told to the future world...that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive ... that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet [it].'

America, in the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship, let us remember these timeless words. With hope and virtue, let us brave once more the icy currents, and endure what storms may come. Let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations." (from Obama's inaugural address)

A little Photoshop trick for Becca

I am not a Photoshop expert. My brother? He's an expert. He taught the course on Photoshop. Seriously. When he was a student at Western Washington, he taught the course on Photoshop.

Even though there's a lot I don't know how to do in Photoshop, I manage to do what I want to do. So when Becca asked me last week at MOPS to write a post about how to easily improve pictures, I had a vague notion of how to do that. I'm no Pioneer Woman (who has some great tutorials and Photoshop actions that I use all the time), but I can fiddle around with a picture until it looks better. 

There are lots of ways to improve pictures, but for sheer efficiency I do the following two things to improve photos in Photoshop: adjust curves and increase saturation by 15 points or so.

Just for kicks, here's how I do it.

First, I open up my photo. Here's one from our trip. It's when Megan convinced me to ride the teacups. I get dizzy thinking about it.

 

This is the straight-out-of-camera shot (or SOOC, if you prefer). I use a Sony Cyber-shot, and it's nothing fancy, but we've had some good times together.

Once my photo is open, I click on the little black and white circle at the bottom of the layers window. In Photoshop 7.0 it looks like this:

   

Click on "curves" and a window will pop up.

   

Sometimes you only need to put one little spot on the middle of that line and just tug it up a little. That'll do it. Sometimes you might need a few spot to get the lighting right.

As you tweak that curves line, you'll see your photo start to adjust. Depending on what you want depends on what shape that line is.

After adjusting curves (first step), I click on my background layer again and then click on the little black and white circle again and select Hue/Saturation. I bump up the saturation to +14 or so--more if the color was particularly washed out, less if it was already pretty vibrant (never happens with my camera). That's the second step and then you can be done.

Here's how my photo turned out:

  

There's other stuff I'd do to it (like eliminate that glare spot on her glasses), but for a quick improvement, it's not too bad.

Here's the before and after:

 

So, Becca, I hope this helps. If it's still too confusing, I'll come over one of these days. I need an excuse to see your new house again anyways.

PS: If you hang out in Photoshop pretty regularly, then you definitely should check out these free brushes and patterns. My only complaint is that some of the brushes don't work on my older version of Photoshop, which is a to be expected I suppose.

Project Done!

In my...um...free time, I freelance for a non-profit organization creating photo cards for folks who go teach English in China. I've been working on a pretty big project for them for the last few months, and hooray! I FINISHED it on Tuesday. I was so relieved to get it done.

I won't bore you with the specifics of the project, but it involved creating templates, and I got to choose the pictures to go in the templates. I therefore filled all the templates with pictures of my family and the girls. Because I could. And so here's one of my favorites.

 

The teachers customize the card in a variety of ways, so this may look a little stark, but I'm still keen on it. Maybe just because of that sweet little person in the picture. Isn't she just adorable? Yes, she is.

Attention 2009

 

"If the person you are talking to doesn't appear to be listening, be patient. It may simply be that he has a small piece of fluff in his ear." --Winnie the Pooh (Photo from our trip to Magic Kingdom)

Last year, I stumbled upon one of the most amazing ideas I had encountered about New Year's Resolutions. To quote from Christine Kane's article:

The reason most resolutions don’t work is that they address only one level of your life. The DO level. It’s the DO-HAVE-BE model. “I will DO this thing.” (i.e., Lose weight) “So I can HAVE this other thing” (Self-Esteem) and I can BE this thing. (Confident.)

The average New Year’s Resolution doesn’t address the core of the issue - the “BE” level.

The best order for creating positive changes in your life is the BE-DO-HAVE model. This means you start from the BE level. When you begin changing on the BE level of your life, then the DO level and the HAVE level follow more easily.

When you start only on the DO level, then all the blocks on the BE level will often become the obstacles you can’t overcome.

Last year I choose Gentleness and Acceptance as my words for 2008. Little did I know how important those words would become throughout the year. Be gentle. Accept what life brings. What your children bring. What you bring. Ultimately, I had no choice but to accept the changes the came my way, and I know I would have completely lost my mind if God hadn't given me the strength to accept those changes. I can say with certainty that I did better at acceptance than I did at gentleness. One word would have been plenty.

This year, I chose a new word. I scanned the list Christine posted for 2009, and the word immediately jumped out at me. I didn't have to think about it. I didn't have to sit and reflect. Well, probably I had been reflecting about it already and feeling convicted.

My word for 2009? Focus.

And two weeks into it? It's exactly the word I needed to choose. It's also really, really hard to do.

I can say with absolute certainty that my attention span has decreased since becoming a parent. I'm sure it has to do with not getting enough sleep; it also has to do with the impossible task of trying to keep track of everything. I cringe at myself when I walk away from a conversation knowing that I've alternately sounded like a rambling monkey and blinked too many times to look trustworthy. Trust me on this.

My attention ping-pongs around the universe, hitting everything I need to do (finish the construction loan papers, get the building permits, do the laundry, email someone) without ever landing on something long enough for me devote my full attention to it. Ideas roll around in my head like marbles, and boy are they loud. (And, yes, I'll spare you the pun about losing them.)

My new dialogue with myself?

Hey! Stephanie! Focus. Pay attention. Stop wandering around like you're lost in the wilderness of life. You can do better. Better at giving your kids your attention. Better at not giving the Internet your attention. Better at seeing what needs to be done and doing it. You are not helpless.

It may sound harsh, but really, I feel helpless a lot. Like I can't do it, whatever "it" is. This project of building the house--which seems like we have been working on for an eternity and still have so very little to show for it--could rip my mind to pieces, and I can either pay attention and focus on being connected and loving and praying for peace that passes all understanding, or I can watch the marbles come tumbling out, one loud plink at a time.

This is the year. The year I discipline myself to focus on what I want to be: a woman who refuses to be distracted by the things that don't matter. Death to distraction. Attention to life. Life in focus.

Amen.

Week 238: Princess Love

Here's the thing: I kind of like Princess stories.

Okay. I love Princess stories. Even though I cringe at some of the themes and the crazy commercialization of Disney princess stories, I love the classic Disney princess stories, even with their sanitized versions. I don't want to watch Ariel turn into sea foam because she disobeyed her father (which is how Hans Christian Anderson ended it). Frankly, it doesn't stir the emotions of my heart. But Ariel singing "Part of Your World"? Well, it was a highlight of my 8th grade year. (By the way, I just stumbled upon an amazing/odd version of the song. Seriously.)

I say all this to preface the fact that I had relatively few issues taking Sydney to see all the Disney princesses when we were at Disney World. When we were planning the trip, I wasn't really sure how Sydney would respond to all the princesses because she hasn't seen most of the movies. She hasn't seen Sleeping Beauty (too scary). She hasn't seen Aladdin (although I never really consider Jasmine a Disney princess). I don't think she's seen Snow White (also because of it being too scary). In reality, the Disney princess movies don't often make it in the rotation of movies--not like Peter Pan and Winnie the Pooh do.

Part of me wants to roil against the Disney princess movies. Some of the themes bother me. Step-mothers are never portrayed well (as Alida recently mentioned). Mothers are usually absent or dead (even in Finding Nemo). There's the whole needing to be rescued by a prince deal. These are legitimate concerns. Add to that the marketing of princess stuff to young children, and I get a little...squirmy.

But here's the other thing: Sydney loves Princesses. Not because of the stories. Not because of their charm. Not because of the prince. She loves the princesses because of their dresses.

Because they dance.

Because they sing.

Because they are just so pretty (you know, in a relative cartoonish way). Especially if there's pink involved.

She has little paper dolls of Disney princesses, and she makes up all kinds of stories about how they are friends and what they like to do. She can tell you what color their formal dresses are supposed to be. She can tell you the color of their hair. She's a fan. Yes, we like all things girly around here.

So when she asked to see Ariel, and I saw that the wait was 60 minutes, I didn't think twice. My girl was going to see Ariel. I don't think I would have paid money to go see Ariel (I can't even bring myself to buy Sydney shoes that have princesses on them), but I will gladly give of my time when I know it's important.

 

Sixty minutes is a long time for a little kid, but not once did Sydney complain. She was happy as a clam just waiting. If it weren't for Syd, I can honestly say I wouldn't have waited in line to see any of the characters. Okay, well maybe just for Ariel. After all, I do have all the lyrics for "Part of Your World" memorized and have been known to sing them for certain English classes. But otherwise. An hour? For a picture of a princess?

 

Well, in the case of seeing Aurora and Belle, it wasn't just a picture. Miss Sleeping Beauty made sure that the 70 minute wait was totally worth it. She spent 5 minutes oohing and ahhing over Sydney, declaring her as a younger sister because they shared hair color. You should have seen Sydney. She was in heaven.

   

Unfortunately, my camera didn't take the best pictures, but I'm calling it good enough (although I would be lying if I said I didn't consider buying the professional photograph for $15). Sydney doesn't even know who Sleeping Beauty is, but it was enough that this woman in a gorgeous pink dress made her feel like royalty.

Personally, I was hoping that Cinderella was going to be in the Princess Tent (I'm a fan), but evidently she was busy. So we visited Belle.

 

We had actually visited Belle the day before at Belle's Story Time (which is the more efficient way of seeing her because the line is much shorter, especially if you're sitting along the back on the right side).

 

It's possible it would have been enough if we had just seen Belle. Just heard the story. Just got to visit with Belle for a minute, whereby she said to Sydney, "Oh my! What beautiful hair you have!" That memory alone has stuck with Syd.

But I knew that Sydney wanted to see those princesses in their beautiful dresses. She wanted to be part of the magic and see what those fabulous dresses were like up close and personal. I had no problem with that. My mission was to make Sydney's dreams come true.

 

Because whatever you think about Disney, they do a pretty good job of letting you know that wishing and dreaming are important. And that's good stuff in my book.

Living on the 3rd Floor

Our downstairs neighbor visited us again.

It was the week before Christmas vacation officially started. It was cold and icy outside, and so Jason was keeping us all from going stir-crazy by wrestling around with the girls. At 4 o'clock in the afternoon. Which, in our neighbor's estimation, was evidently too late (or too early?) for such noises like children playing around. I wasn't home, but Jason relayed the conversation to me, and my stress level ratcheted up a level. Our neighbor said to Jason, "It's none of my business, but I don't know why anyone with children would choose a 3rd level apartment."

The answer is that it was the apartment available. It's probably the same answer she'd give if I asked her why she's living in a 2nd level apartment.

Other than being concerned about our downstairs neighbor, I don't mind living on the 3rd floor. The view is nice. The sunlight is nice. And the stairs really don't bother me, especially since my exercise has been approximately zero since we moved here.

I will say that the 3rd floor isn't ideal for some things. It's really hard to get the stroller down the stairs, so we rarely use it anymore (a leading cause of the "no exercise" routine). The stairs are also a leading cause of lateness because Jules hates to be carried down the stairs. "I do it!" She can do it, all right. One stair at a time. It's okay, as long as I have a lot of time.

The most nerve wracking aspect of living on the 3rd floor is the inevitable moment when I have to leave the girls alone in the apartment, mostly so that I can go down and get groceries from the car. I wouldn't panic except that Jules's search-and-destroy instincts are lightening quick. I leave, and probably something will get broken. The carton of eggs (twice, now), squished grapes, ripped paper...it's all just a little too tempting for her.

Beyond the broken stuff, there's the fact that the girls often come looking for me, and I meet them on the stairs as I'm hauling six bags of groceries back to the apartment. It's good for my prayer life, I suppose, this constantly praying that they will stay safe in those 45 seconds I leave them. I have become hugely empathetic for families who live in apartments with small children. It is not easy.

Thankfully, living on the 3rd floor means that we don't have the local population of homeless people wandering by our door. They pretty much stick to wandering by the windows of the first floor apartments (which would totally freak me out), and digging around in the dumpsters. Evidently our dumpsters are highly desirable, because they pretty regularly go through them. Yikes.

But at the end of June, we move out of our 3rd floor apartment, which ought to bring both my neighbor and me a little more peace, in every sense of the word. And at the end of June, I will say farewell to living in Oregon, and hello to living in Washington, where I will stomp my feet very loudly in celebration.

Oregon Quirks and Perks

I was reminded of all the quirks of being an Oregonian when I read Kismet's "You know you're from Oregon..." post. I got a chuckle out of so many of them because they are so true. My helpful word tip of the day: when you see the word "Willamette," it's will-LAMB-it. There you go. Now you can live here.

Also Oregon related...Jason and I have had to face to bitter reality of paying sales tax again for online purchases because we switched our billing address to my parents' address in Washington, ergo we lost our Oregon tax exemption. It's downright painful to pay that extra 8%. Really. It is.

I sometimes forget about the differences between Oregon and Washington, until I see Sydney acting very much like an Oregonian. Our daily life in Oregon--like not being allowed to pump our own gas--fit into Sydney's playtime the other day.

When Sydney and her cousin Clover were driving their kid-sized car through the kitchen, Clover tried to get out to pump gas. Sydney kept telling her to stay there, and as the "gas attendant" she held out her hand for the "credit card."

Clover was confused.

Sydney asked what kind of gas she wanted. "Do you want to fill it with plus? That's the better kind of gas than regular."

Clover remained confused.

Sydney spent a few minutes convincing Clover to stay in the car because she was going to swipe the credit card, lift the nozzle, fill the tank with gas, and then give her a receipt (using correct terminology and everything).

Clover tried again to get out of the car to pump her own gas. Sydney looked at her in exasperation. "Clover! You can't pump your own gas!"

You preach it, sister.

It will be a whole new experience for her when we move to Washington and--horrors!--we'll have to pump our own gas. Fortunately, I still do remember how to pump my own gas. But I don't have to like it.

Pray for Archie

My dear blog friend Gretchen had her baby yesterday, and today little Archie was admitted to NICU for breathing difficulties. Please pray for Archie, Gretchen, and the whole family. And if you have a moment, leave her a comment of support. I know she'd appreciate it.

Week 237: 10 Lessons From Disney World

~ One: Find a new perspective ~

 

Sometimes you have to put on those 3-D glasses to really get the full effect of what's going on. We saw two different 3-D shows, and the Bug's Life one was so entertaining. Who would have thought bug spit could be so funny?

~ Two: Learn from others ~

Sure, it's not entirely practical to act like a flamingo all day, but it can be quite entertaining. Beyond flamingos, I can watch and learn from others.

~ Three: Make new friends ~

 

I had the amazing opportunity to meet up with blog friend Megan. She hung out with us on Thursday, and convinced me to go on the teacup ride. I definitely would not have gone if not for her, but she made a persuasive case and Sydney was happy to have someone else on the ride help her spin the cup in circles. Jason was also happy to have someone wait in line with him for Space Mountain (I like roller-coasters, but stayed with Syd). It was very cool to spend the day with you, Megan. Thanks for meeting up with us!

~ Four: Read interesting stories ~

 

Hands down, in 2008 I read more non-fiction than in all my life combined. I just was drawn to it, and fiction didn't appeal to me at all (for whatever reason). But Belle reminded me during her story-time, that there is a lot of fiction out there that I'm sure I'd enjoy. I just need to get back in the habit of it. (BTW: Belle's Story-time is a great opportunity to get your picture with Belle, and the line is much shorter than it is for the other character photo ops.)

~ Five: I'll never outgrow hugs and kisses ~ 

 

Alternate lesson: I still think it's cool to meet Minnie Mouse. Totally worth the 45 minute wait.

~ Six: Hum my worries away ~

 

Beyond helping shape foreign policy, Winnie the Pooh's gentle humor and consistent good nature never go out of style. I think I managed to see ole Pooh Bear in all four of the Disney Parades we watched, and was tickled to see him every time. Plus, playing in Pooh's Playground was a highlight for Syd: lots of running around, crawling through tunnels, "fireflies" in the sky, and hooray! no line to get in. Just wander in and play to your heart's content.

~ Seven: Don't forget to ask for help ~

 

Fairy godmothers may not be too common, but fairy friendships are always floating around, waiting for you.

~ Eight: It really would take magic to keep the house as clean as I want ~

 

We got our money's worth for these brooms: a float broke down in front of us, and the brooms kept us entertained as Disney Staff scrambled to restore the parade back to its magical self. If only I could have brought one home to keep on hand.

~ Nine: Sometimes all it takes is faith, trust, and pixie dust ~

Jolly work, these little wands do. Even though we didn't get to meet Cinderella personally, Sydney waved her wand just as Cinderella's parade float passed by, and in return, Cinderella waved at Sydney and blew her a kiss. Best moment I didn't catch on camera.

~ Ten: Celebrate everything ~

 

The best fireworks show I've ever seen? The one at Magic Kingdom. The narration, the music, the timing of the fireworks...wow. It was...just...wow. Definitely the best way to end our vacation, and one we won't soon forget. In fact, with just the right amount of fairy dust, we might be returning this summer.

And to that I say, zippidy doo dah.

Where Dreams Came True

Just returned home a few hours ago from our week in Disney World, and while there is much to share, there is also much sleep to catch up on. A preview of the magic...

 

 

 

It was awesome. And yes, I cried during the fireworks show. I just love fairytales.