The Goodies Themselves

Starting at left, and working clockwise: Ressa's almond Roca, Ressa's haystacks, Kristi's white-chocolate-dipped pretzels, Rachel's dark chocolate truffles, Kristi's (chocolate oreo) Balls, and (in the center), Rachel's caramels. They all turned out wonderfully. As novice candy makers, we were truly amazed. Our success was largely due to the advice of a co-worker more advanced in age (she must be over 30!) than ourselves, who told us to throw out the candy thermometers and instead use a cup of cold water to determine the "done-ness" of the candy. The trick is to occasionally blob a small amount of the candy into the cup of cold water. It should quickly coagulate. You can then test the consistency. When the candy reaches a consistency just slightly softer than you want the candy to be when it's completely cooled, the candy is done. Very simple. And so accurate.

Horrors!

I must admit, I was initially shocked and humiliated at this unabashed assessment of my blog's literacy level. However, upon further consideration, and also panicked testing of other blog urls, I have come to the conclusion that such a low rating is actually a compliment. Indeed, it is a statement that implies that you have a very clear writing style, and clarity is something for which I strive in all written communication (my friends will tell you that I make little to no effort in the oral realm). Anyway , I also discovered that I'm in good company: one of my favorite bloggers, Laurie of Crazy Aunt Purl fame, was also ranked on the elementary level. And she's a famous published author. So there. Pbpbpbpbpb to all of you so-called "genius" bloggers out there.

Elementary reading level indeed.

(So clearly this is still stinging a little, eh?)

Cousins

I love to see Soren playing with my sister's children. It makes him seem less like a baby and more like a little kid.

All dressed up and only cold places to go.

Shortly before Thanksgiving, Soren's Uncle Sue (because he is his Pseudo Uncle. Get it? Uncle Pseu? Uncle Sue? Hah! Nick's pseudonym is Uncle Sue. Anyway...) and I and Soren took a brisk early-morning walk across the countryside. While Nicholas and I began to fear lest our limbs turn black and fall off after a mere half-mile, Soren remained toasty warm--if immobile--throughout the journey. Yes, this little snow outfit is a wee bit large for him.

An embarrassing picture of my husband.

You'll probably have to look closely, but Abe actually has a mullet-esque ponytail in his hair right now. When my mother-in-law sees this, she will freak out. Don't worry, Brenda, we don't usually do it that way...

The Little Pumpkin (and his Bunny Auntie)

Uncle Sue is always sucking me into these dumb quizzes.

What Car Would You Be?
	You would be a Toyota Prius. You live life with practicality and innovation. You may not be the flashiest kid in town, but your quirkiness and smarts get you noticed.
Find Your Character @ BrainFall.com

It's dream-chasing time again.

October is waning and on the horizon a more significant month looms:I do not call it November. I call it NaNoWriMo. For those too lazy to follow the link (or those with dial-up internet and little patience), I'll tender an explanation: NaNoWriMo is short for National Novel Writing Month. It's been around for nine years now, and I discovered it last October in the library. A flier tucked at the top of the winding ramp caught my eye as I doubled over my bulbous pregnant belly and attempted to resume breathing after exerting myself so in the one-story climb to the second floor. Anyway, according to the NaNoWriMo website, the month is simply "a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing" in which participants begin writing November 1 and work towards the goal of writing a 50,000-word novel by midnight, November 30.

My life dream has long been to be a writer (I'm talking since at least the first grade), but fear has always held me back. The notorious Inner Editor often keeps me from even attempting to write, telling me before I even sit down at the keyboard that whatever words and ideas and characters and situations are inside of me are unoriginal, dumb, insipid, embarrassing, and/or poorly put together. So the idea of just sitting down and crapping out a whole bunch of unfiltered and loosely tied together thoughts and ideas with a press-forward-and-don't-look-back attitude appealed to me. So I signed up. And wrote, oh, about 30 double-spaced 1-inch-margin pages before collapsing into a heap of shame and giving up on the whole endeavor.

But a year has passed, and the sweet scent of rotting foliage is making me want to try my hand again at writing a novel in a month. And, for extra motivation, I've decided to go public with the goal. Would you all be my cheerleaders? I'll even buy you dollar-store pom-poms. Please? Pretty please?

To meet my goal I would need to write at least 5 pages a day. This I could do after Soren retires for the evening, though it would mean neglecting other aspects of my life, such as my marriage, housework, reading, documentary night, relationships, and church callings. I'm so scared. I think that there is nothing scarier in this world that pursuing the dreams that mean the most to you, especially when you feel so completely inadequate. My worst fear of all time is not remaining unpublished, but of producing the sort of mindless drivel that abuses adverbs, speaks of "honey-blond" hair, and tops the bestseller list at Deseret Book. I don't fear not writing; I fear bad writing. But fear only restricts and never frees, and so, by way of working to overcome my fear of myself, I have decided to post the first paragraph from my last year's attempt at novel-writing.

Here it is:

"The enormous hostility Sara felt toward the two ladies standing in the check-out line was mostly inexplicable. There was nothing wrong with the women, per se-- they weren’t saying anything even slightly offensive-- but there was something about the way they pursued their lips and lilted of their voices and leaned on their hips that just…irritated her. To the point of raising her blood pressure, even. She examined them, studied their faces and mannerisms for clues that might unlock the mystery of her great distaste. They both wore their hair in the way expected of middle-aged women: short curling-iron sculpted layers, hair-sprayed into place. And they both wore their jeans in the way expected of middle-aged women: pulled up high over slightly pooching bellies made round by years of having babies and eating hot white rolls on Sunday evenings. Their make-up was tastefully applied, obviously there, but not classless in quantity. They wore dressy blouses and matching jewelry and the one with the graying blond hair had to pull out her gold-rimmed reading glasses while she signed the receipt for her credit card purchase. They were cute. Chatty. Personable. But every word that came out of their mouths made her stomach churn and her jaw tighten."

The one and only

HowManyOfMe.com

There is 1 person with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

But it's not true. I know of one other Rachel Skousen. Hmmmm.

I'm always up for an excuse to make something cool.

I just learned about this fun little ditty on Karla's blog. Decided to try it out. Sure hope I find the time to make three things within the next year.

PAY IT FORWARD: i will send a handmade gift to the first three (3) people who leave a comment on my blog requesting to join this PIF exchange. you may not receive it tomorrow or next week, but you will receive it within 365 days! the only thing you have to do in return is pay it forward by making the same promise on your blog. (so, you must have a blog to participate.) i can't wait to see who I will be giving to. to join, just cut and paste and comment away. so get posting.

And They Called it Puppy Love

The above picture was taken on Aubrey and Soren's first official date. They went to Pillsbury park and were chaperoned by their mothers and their Auntie Loriann. They enjoyed time crawling in the grass, eating the grass, and swinging on the swingset. Aubrey even got a little fresh and felt up Soren's bum. The date was cut short when they both got a little fussy and needed some snacks and a nap. Dating is rough when you are only nine months old.
- Loriann

The fisherman.

I really like this picture of my daddy.

Teddy Bear

I recently crocheted this handsome little devil. Next on the agenda are a hippopotamus and a lion.

It's for the dogs.

I'm not a big dog person. I don't dislike dogs, necessarily, but I don't really seek them out either. This does not, however, prevent my entire neighborhood's crew of canis familiaris from seeking me out.

For example, there is a strange little mutt living across the street who bears a striking resemblance to a warthog. I do not know this dog's name, but I refer to him as "Nasty Warthog Dog (NWD)." NWD apparently keeps a vigilant watch on my front door, as he always seems to know when I'm heading out for a stroll. He'll race out into the street when he sees me emerge from my driveway pushing a stroller, then follow along behind me for a while, bumping the back of my legs with his wet snout. He then proceeds to spend the rest of our miles spent together wandering irresponsibly in front of oncoming traffic and nipping irritably at the heels of passing bicyclists. Nasty Dog instills in me a strong desire to acquire one of those three-sided triangular signs they post on the top of driver's ed vehicles, paint on it the words, "THIS RUDE LITTLE WARTHOG DOES NOT BELONG TO ME," and attach it to my head. I recently tried to photograph NWD for the purposes of this blog post, but every single time I pulled out my camera, he would turn tail and run.

Perhaps I should introduce to you to our neighbor's crazy dog, Dakota, an 8-year-old Noundland-Collie mix with the all the neediness and hyperactivity of an 8-month-old Dalmation. I've been babysitting Dakota this week while her owners attend a family reunion. And to be honest, I usually quite like her--when she stays at home. Unfortunately, she's realized that I'm her caretaker for the week and so has followed me to my house and parked herself outside my bedroom window. She curls up in the grass and pretends to sleep, but every time I so much as turn over in bed, she perks up, shoves her big soggy nose against the screen, and whimpers. Leaving the house means that I risk incurring multiple lickings to both myself and my child. A deflated lime-green volleyball has been relocated to front yard. Our visitors (and my dad) are now greeted by vigorous barking. Again, I would really like to acquire a sign absolving myself of responsibility for this uninvited visitor's bad behavior. It could say something like, "THIS DOG DOES NOT BELONG HERE. WE DID NOT ASK HER HERE. PLEASE DO NOT HOLD US RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY BARKING, JUMPING, OR OTHER MISCELLANEOUS ACTS OF WOLFISH ANTAGONISM DIRECTED TOWARD YOU."

And this is not to mention all of my friendly neighborhood dog acquaintances, like Duke and Daisy, the golden lab couple who lives on the corner and are currently "trying" to get pregnant; Shaggy White Dog, who will walk for miles without question; Retired Police Dog, who has a limp that will break your heart; and NWD's little friend, Dumb Dog, who always barks, no matter how often he has accompanied you on a pleasant morning stroll.

Because of Uncle Sue

52%How Addicted to Blogging Are You?

Mingle² - Online Dating

My husband IS hot, despite what others may say.

I was chatting with my little sister-in-law, Ivy, via g-mail today. I said something about what a hottie Abe was and she reacted with revulsion. This surprised me immensely. After much contemplation I came up with a probable cause for this most unexpected denial of the plain truth. "Well," I said, "maybe it's because his g-mail chatting pic isn't his best picture ever."

(Abe's g-mail chat profile pic.)

"Oh yeah?" challenged she, "Then what is his best picture ever?"

My answer:

There are several. For example,










Abe striking a pose that would put even Derek Zoolander to shame.










Abe the beach babe.










The beach babe throws a frisbee.










Abe the sexy hick babe.










Abe getting his hair
professionally styled

You'll note that these are all from last summer, when Abe was in his infancy as an Idahoan. I would now like to present to you the New Abe Who is Now Nearly Wholly Idahoan, At Least In Looks:



To the left is my brother-in-law Marty, also a good looking fellow, but a native Idahoan, born and raised. To the right? My sweetheart. Notice the similarities. He is now virtually indistinguishable from any other gun-wieldin', Republican-votin', potato-diggin' true blue Idaho Russet.

And I think he's pretty dang good lookin'.

Tag, I'm it!

Ginger "tagged" me, which means that I shall now be imparting trivial information about myself, then asking other fellow bloggers to do the same.

What was I doing ten years ago?
Babysitting my two Japanese cousins from across the street for ridiculously long hours (sometimes 12 + a day) for little pay (about $150/month). Running three miles a day.

What was I doing one year ago?
Just beginning my job as the office manager at the Family Violence and Sexual Assault Intervention Center, being trained by an extremely impatient Christian fundamentalist who liked animals more than I deem natural.

Five snacks I enjoy:
-Granola bars.
-Cold cereal.
-String cheese.
-Rice cakes.
-Cheesecake.

Five songs I know all the words to:
-"If Everyone Cared" by Nickleback (Yes, I am ashamed of this.)
-"I'll Make a Man Out of You" from Mulan.
-"I Am a Child of God"
-"I Am Overcome," by Live.
-"Cowboy, Take Me Away," by the Dixie Chicks.

Five things I would do if I were a millionaire?
-Buy a house.
-Hire a nighttime nanny.
-Spend a summer in Europe.
-Invest.
-Give a $20.00 bill to every bum that asked for some spare change.

Five of my Many bad habits:
-Counting compulsively. I don't count anything, per se, I just count. Up. Sometimes by weird things like 9s, or 13s, or 18s. Other times by 1s. Usually in in the thousands. But I'm almost always counting.
-Mild cussing. Yes, everybody, I cuss. I cuss! There are certainly worse things I could do, so BACK OFF. I don't want to hear it.
-Thinking that I know what other people are thinking.
-Hitting the snooze button.
-Second guessing myself.

Five things I like doing:
-Walking.
-Reading: blogs, books, e-mail, shampoo bottles, parenting magazines...
-Being drooled on by my very handsome baby.
-Snuggling my schmooshalie.
-Organizing things.

Five things I will never wear again:
-A short-sleeved t-shirt with sleeves so long they cover my elbows.
-Shoes that aren't extremely comfortable for walking.
-Shorts that stop above the knee. Sigh.
-My wedding gown.
-Anything "Hypercolor."

Five of my Favorite toys:
-Excel (I'm with you on this one, Ginger.)
-The library.
-My piano.
-My bicycle.
-My stuffed Ernie doll (no, wait, that's Soren.)

I now tag everybody reading this! Bwah hah hah hah!

Our mini Michael Jordan

Are you seeing a resemblance here?

Cat Dancing

At work today, my friends Shaylee and Meagan introduced me to this important and little-studied art. I'm still trying to understand it myself, so I won't say much more, but I will recommend that you visit www.monpa.com/index.html to learn more.

Thanks

Thanks everybody for posting! I just came home from a looooong day of school, and it made me weepy to hear from loved ones!