Dogs in Snow

The cutest.

Guess what I got for Christmas?!?

Not this pony, if that's what you were thinking. Although, Strawberry and I shared a deep connection at the christmas tree farm.

Allstar

This weekend McKay and I attended our very first NBA basketball game. We watched the Trailblazers barely hang on to a win against the Hornets, and best of all, I got myself a huge cup of frozen yogurt that was dee-licious. We had a great time.

At half time we were sitting there, enjoying the atmosphere and said frozen yogurt, when I had this flash of a memory long forgotten.

In grade school I tried just about everything. Softball (I ended up the equipment manager when coach finally tried to break to me gently that I stunk), drama (I don't mean to brag, but this was my one claim to fame. I was one of the principle's in Peter Pan. John, to be exact). student council (I lost the grounds commissioner race to the smelly kid), volleyball (I just wanted to get some of those neato knee pads), and of course--basketball. I was about 4'9" and maybe 80 pounds, needless to say I was not much of an athlete. Plus, I'm a wuss. Anytime I saw an object headed in my direction, it wasn't my first impulse to run up and intercept that object moving at high velocity. Unlike many of the other girls on my teams, I frequently tried to get out of the way.

Now, anyone who attended a Clovis Unified school knows that when it comes to sports, there's no messing around. Athletics are the bread and butter of that district, and there will be no losers. Which is why the team system they came up with was quite ingenious. You see, there were three teams. A, B, and C Teams.

The A-team was the cream of the crop. The girls who at 12 years of age were already 6 feet tall and in contract negotiations with the WNBA. The A-team girls were a class all to themselves.
"That's Ashley...she's on the A-team." A hush would fall over the crowd. It was serious business.

Now the B-teamers, they were pretty darn good, too. Not quite at the caliber of the A-teamers, but still nothing to scoff at. They could hold their own. And best of all, they got the real deal jerseys just like the A-team. A REAL team.

And then there was C-team. Now, I can't say anything disparaging about the C-teamers because I was one of them. We were the riff raff. We knew we sucked, we knew to be branded with the C-team name meant social suicide, but gosh darnit, we were gonna play some basketball. And so what if we didn't have jerseys. We had...uh...well, they gave us a ball! And court time! Right after the A-team and B-teams had played all of their games, we had the prime courts! Yessiree. And despite the fact that that usually meant our games started somewhere around sundown, when the school was practically deserted and our cracker-jack coach was somewhere by the snack bar drinking soda and taking a cat nap on the bleachers, the C-team was too legit to quit. We stayed until every last game was played. And usually lost.

While I respected my C-team sisters, I found myself growing restless after my fourth and fifth grade years. I decided that sixth grade was going to be different. Oh yes. I had one last year to get it right, and I wasn't going to screw it up. Or so I thought.

Turns out, the extra practices, the "perfected" jump shot added up to a whole lot of nothing, and for the third and final year, I ended up back on the C-team. This was most discouraging. Disillusionment set in, and I became the most jaded and bitter C-teamer Mickey Cox elementary had ever seen. Maybe.
Game after game I played half-heartedly, as I dreamed of what could have been. The blacktop is always blacker on someone else's blacktop. That's for sure.
As the season drew to a close, and despite my pain, I decided for the final game of my elementary school basketball career, I would give it all I had. I would try my best, and I was sure that there would be some life's lesson I would learn from all of this. Perhaps I would make the winning basket. I would prove to be an asset to my teammates. The A-team and B-team coaches would look on and scratch their heads, wondering how they could have let me slip through their fingers that season. This was going to be my game.

I waited and waited for our team captain to let me in the game. It felt like an eternity, until I finally had my chance. My moment to shine had finally arrived. I took my place and played my postition like nobody's business. Amazing defense, smart offense. I was on fire. I recall like it was yesterday what happened next. My opponent, who I should have been defending but by some miraculous phenomenon had gotten past me, was passed the ball and was heading for the net on the opposite side. I scrambled after her, with the whirlwind of frantic little girls trailing behind us. We got to the net, she took her shot and, I swear, I saw it go in. I thought to myself, "Don't let it get you down, Manda! Get back to your position! Be ready for that next opportunity!!" I made a mad dash down the court to the opposite side. When I made it back to my position on the court, I turned quickly to find the ball. As I turned I felt instant, searing pain. I had twisted my ankle. Really, really twisted it. Paaaiiiin. And just as I was coming to the realization of this pain, I came to another realization. Everybody else was still on the opposite side of the court. The ball was still in play and I was all by myself, on the other side of the court. I had twisted my ankle all on my own. I couldn't even blame it on the chaos of the sea of girls around me... seeing as how I was far, far away from the action. There was no escaping this humiliation.
I hobbled off the court in shame, looking up to find a perplexed look on my coach's face. "What were you doing?," he asked in genuine confusion. I don't know. I just don't know.
Needless to say, I did learn a great life's lesson that day. Sports are definitely not for me.

As I sat with McKay at the Trailblazers game on Friday night and relayed this story to him, we both had to shake our heads. What is the deal with childhood? I guess it's a good thing memories like these usually only come back when you're old enough to be able to laugh at yourself.

I have a problem.

I thought moving to Oregon would pretty much squash any possibility of the continuance of my Disneyland addiction, but I was wrong. We went AGAIN. But to be fair, I must say that this trip was planned with McKay's family for quite some time, and was more or less a family reunion, so really, how could we not go? But the worst of it is I'm already planning our next trip in March.
Some people drink to escape their reality...I go to Disneyland. I work two jobs. I live in a new place. I deserve a bi-annualish trip to Disneyland, right? Right.
I'm just grateful for a husband who indulges me and loves it as much as I do.

Angry Voltage

Who knew that electricity was so hostile?

Just to add to the Oprah theme of my last entry...

New Favorites

Seeing as how I am going through about a book a week these days, it's a really good thing I got myself this gig at a used bookstore. There are definite days I feel as though this job was created with me in mind.
I looooove my little bookstore.

One of the beautiful things about my job is that I can read whatever I want in the store. If I'm restocking books and see something of interest, I take it home, bring it back when I'm done. It's fabulous. I have read so many new and interesting authors.
I'm getting smarter and more cultured all the time, I swear.

My latest discoveries, though, have definitely been the best. I avoided Poisonwood Bible for a while because it bore the emblem of Oprah Winfrey's bookclub. No offense to anyone who is an Oprah fan, but I definitely am not one. I have respect for the good things she has done, and props to her for trying to get people to read more, but there's a lot about her that gets under my skin. Putting her name on a book she did not have anything to do with writing being one of them. Anyway, I finally decided to read it because it came highly recommended by my well-read co-workers. It truly changed the way I think. About some things at least. Amazing, amazing writing. It's the story of a family moved to the Congo by their fanatical preacher husband/father, told from the point of view of his wife and four daughters. Reading this book made me miss writing lit papers. Rich and fat with metaphors and symbolism. It's a book about so many things--family, politics, forgiveness, culture, ignorance, humility, kindness...it's just an impressive piece of work. One of my all time favorites.

I just finished The Bean Trees yesterday. I liked this one, not as well as Poisonwood, but still very good. This one is the story of a woman travelling cross-country who ends up becoming responsible for an orphaned native american baby. Another wonderful character-driven story about people. I guess that's why I like these books. They're about real people, flaws and all. Really a great book.

Okay, so I'm officially an old woman. I'm learning how to knit and I blog about books I've read. I suppose there are more interesting things that I could have blogged, but I'm so into books right now. And Sequence. What a great game that is.

Bless You, Rent.com

I have these days where I can't even bring myself to get the mail. This is usually because I am too tired, or because I just don't want to see what could possibly be waiting for me in that dark, dank little box. One of the many reasons I have decided that after this whole school phase in our life, we need to become independently wealthy.
But I decided this evening, I would brave it. I would make the trek to my fortress of a mailbox. Does anyone else have to use a special, separate key just to get to the place where the mailboxes, secured by yet another lock and key, are kept? And do you also find yourself locked in the room that holds the mailboxes because the door locks behind you? I don't know what kind of mail my neighbors get, but apparently it's top secret high security business. That's yet another reason why it's so easy to talk myself out of getting the mail. I don't feel like playing McGyver. Anyway.
Amidst the annoyingness of bank statements and pointless paper-wasting products (that tidbit of alliteration was just off the top of my head, by the way) I found a letter from Rent.com. I'm sure you can imagine the elation felt when I realized that they were writing to inform me that they were giving ME money!! Because I used their service to find our apartment and alerted my leasing office that they were the ones who helped me to find this place, they sent me $100 bucks! I totally forgot that I had filled out all of the info and sent the emails to qualify me for that $100 bucks. It's like the feeling you get when you find a $10 bill in the pocket of the jeans you haven't worn in a while. Times ten. Literally.
So kudos to you, Rent.com. I will tell the world my story. And give copious thanks forever more. Or at least until this $100 bucks runs out.

Baby McKay

The latest addition to the Ryan Marshall (McKay's brother's) family...isn't he cute?
The name suits him. I think he looks like McKay.

Timmy and Me!

Here's a picture of me and Tim. I'm the huge face on the left. Tim is the tiny dot below. Nevertheless, I felt we connected. We're good friends now. In spirit.
Even though McKay is not in the slightest a country fan, I dragged him with me and we both had a great time. The show was amazing. It made me want to be a light designer.

Faith And Tim

I scored myself some FREE tickets to the Faith Hill and Tim McGraw concert this past Tuesday, and it was quite fun. We had a lovely bird's eye view of the whole performance, as you can tell by the picture. Or maybe you can't tell by the picture. Anyway, that's them.

The Day Has Come...

How fortunate that my long anticipated Ronco Showtime Knife Set arrived yesterday...just at my darkest hour. Well, maybe not my darkest hour, but I definitely needed some cheering up.
So here are the little beauties. I've wanted these dang knives for a really long time and I finally decided that it was now or never. And since now sounded a whole lot better than never, I got online and purchased an informercial product for the very first time ever.
I guess this means that we can finally throw away the two trusty knives we've been using for the past three years. A rusty butcher knife and a dull pearing knife. They served us well, but it's time to move on. Ronco style.

I keep having dreams about my family. We all meet together in one place, have a great time, laugh, catch up, and then everybody has to go their separate ways and I feel like I will never see them again.
I really miss my family. Especially when I hear that half of them have been in a seriously disturbing car accident where they have been hit by a drunk driver and I am not there to help and see for myself that they are all, indeed, alright.
And it doesn't help when you hear from your mom, "I try not to tell you how much I miss you...but I really miss you!" Heart. Breaking.
I love my family. And I love that the older I get, the more opportunity I have to become closer to all of them. I don't want to lose that. So I have come up with a simple solution: We all must live within 100 miles of each other when and if the transitional period in all of our lives finally ends.
I know that McKay and I are where we are supposed to be and we are happy here. But it is a lonely thing to be without family. And it is a loss that I truly hope is only temporary.

The Boys

While they can totally drive me crazy at times, I must admit that my puppies were a good investment of time, love, rent deposits... they make me happy. Sam especially. I think because we have history. I got Sam when McKay was working a lot and I was getting really lonely at home. He's my buddy. He has this sixth sense when I'm sad. He comes running in the room, sits about two inches from my face and looks at me like, "Are you okay?!"
Winston is the funniest little dog ever. His tail never stops wagging.
"Good boy, Winston! You went potty outside!" (Tail wags)
"NO, Winston! No chewing on shoes!" (Tail wags)
"Winston! Stop pulling Sammy's hair!" (That's not a joke)
And does anyone else talk to their dogs in complete sentences? The other night we were at my sister-in-laws and we brought the boys. Sam grabbed his chew stick and jumped up on the couch. I explained to him that there was no chewing on the couch and to please get down. So he jumped down. My sister-in-law thought it was the weirdest thing ever that I explained something to him instead of saying "SAMMY. DOWN." I guess I didn't realize that wasn't normal.
Anyway, I don't have kids, so I post pictures of my dog. Think of me what you will.

Moving Day...

Was about three weeks ago, but this is the first time I've had access to a computer since then. We're now official Beavertonites. Oregonians. What have you. The trip was long, but I was SO glad that mom and dad came along. They were heaps of help and it was fun to have them here. Sad to see them go...
It's a little strange being out here on our own, but we'll get used to it, I suppose. And the 70 degree summers. I can definitely get used to that.

Meet Winston

We are now "Those people who have two dogs." Who would get a puppy one week before moving out of state? Well, that would be us. But he's gosh darn cute and I think Sam likes having a brother.

As We Go On, We Remember...

As I watch little Jennie prepare herself for her upcoming graduation, I think back to a time when I was preparing for such an occasion myself. The week before graduation...when you are stressed out with finals and highly anticipating the day that you will be able to break free from the bonds of Clovis Unified. Days filled with tests and final essays, and trips to the learning director’s office where he informs you that you will most likely be suspended and unable to walk with your graduating class…or was that just me?
While I was not a “stellar” student in high school I was no trouble maker. That was until the day I decided to wear backless shoes to one of the last days of school. You heard right folks. BACKLESS. I know what’s going through your mind. What would induce such madness? Why would I trifle with something as seriously meaningless as the Clovis High dress code? I’ll tell you.
1. I was 17 years old and while I was no bad girl, I did, on occasion, like to push the envelope.
2. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that it was the last day of my finals and I woke up 30 minutes late for school. I literally jumped out of bed, changed my clothes, threw a hat on and some—gasp—backless shoes, grabbed my keys and a pencil and ran out the door.
As I was jamming to the N building (funny how the details of this experience are still so vivid) pencil in hand, I heard the clip clopping of high heels behind me and an “Ummm, excuse me, young lady??” in a nasal, desperate attempt at an authoritative voice. I turned around and began walking backwards, facing, what I had not yet realized, was Satan-- in the form of a 5’2” bushy-haired,tacky pant-suit wearing woman.
“Where do you think you’re going,” she asked at a decibel level not of this world.
“I’m headed to my final, I’m a senior, and I’m so late, and I’ve gotta take this test…,” was my frantic, disjointed answer.
“Are you wearing BACKLESS shoes?,” she asked.
“ Oh…yeah…sorry. I’ll go home and change, as soon as my test is over…”
“No, you won’t. You’re going to turn right back around and go straight to the office to call your parents. You’re not going to class until you are wearing dress code appropriate shoes."
At this moment I had two options. I could stop where I was, do exactly as I was told and walk to the office, where I would have waited for probably a good two hours before I could finally get a hold of one of my insanely busy parents to ask them to pretty please bring me some shoes that they would have had to go all the way home for. Meanwhile, I would miss not one but both of my finals, and have to postpone the day I could finally say I was no longer a student at Clovis High School.
OR
I could continue on my way to class, take my finals, and change my shoes after I was done with my tests, which I had offered in the first place and felt was a perfectly reasonable negotiation.
I elected to go with the latter.
I picked up the pace a bit and yelled “I’m sorry, I can’t do that. I’ve got finals that I can’t miss.”
I turned around and started running as fast as I could (which was hard to do in those all too hazardous backless shoes) toward my classroom. As I ran I heard Little Miss Pant-Suit yelling into her walkie-talkie, “We’ve got a Code 6! I need some help out here! We’ve got a student on the run!”
I turned the corner to the N building and into my classroom. I quickly apologized to Mr. Menendian (my most favorite teacher) for being late, grabbed a test off of his desk, and sat in the back of the class with my head down. My heart was totally racing. I was a fugitive. It was awesome.
I was just finishing my final when the phone rang in the classroom. I listened intently.
“Hello? Yes….Yes, she’s here….uh huh….uh huh…okay….I’ll let her know.”
I was then called up to the front of the class.
“Uhh…Webster, I’m told you need to report to your counselor’s office immediately. Though I should probably ask you to leave now, I’m going to let you finish your test before you go on your way…okay?”
I thanked him and sat back down. Caught. How did they find out my name?! How did they know where to find me?! And right before my second and LAST final. One more test and I could walk away from this place forever. The temptation was just too great.
I turned in my final to Mr. Menendian, and the bell rang for the next period. I scurried out the door and headed to my next class out in the P building. I took the long way, avoiding Learning Director offices and areas I knew were regularly “patrolled”. I could hear over the loud speaker, "Amanda Webster, please report to your counselor's office...Amanda Webster, please report to your counselor's office." I was aware of my surroundings but tried to focus only on the task at hand. I had to get to P-13. P-13 and I’m scott free.
I could see the prize in site. I power walked my way to the door of the bungalow, and just as I got to the door Mrs. Bennett was just getting off the phone. There I stood, like a deer in the headlights as she made her way over to me. It was as if it were all happening in slow motion.
“Amanda, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you come to class today,” she said. “I’m supposed to send you to your counselor’s office, with an escort, this very minute.”
There was no escape. An escort? What is this, Alcatraz? I need a guard now? An unnamed student suddenly appeared out of nowhere in the doorway and we were quickly on our way.
The unnamed escort said nothing to me on the long walk over. She looked like she could have been a prison guard. I asked her if she would consider such a profession after high school. She did not respond.
As the door swung open to the waiting area of my counselor’s office and I made my way inside, Mr. Counselor’s secretary snatched the walkie-talkie off of her desk and smugly reported to all those listening: “We’ve got her.”
Without a warning’s notice, my counselor came bounding out of his office yelling, YELLING at me. And at that point, I decided enough is enough. They wanted to get crazy? Well I can get crazy too.
I went on a verbal rampage. I informed him of how incredibly unprofessional I thought he was for yelling at me in front off all those in ear shot. It is absolutely ridiculous that I should be called out of class, OUT OF FINALS, all because I chose the wrong shoes that day. He, and pant-suit lady, and walkie-talkie secretary, were all the things that were wrong with the education system. You’re all more concerned with what’s on my feet than what I’m trying to accomplish with my mind. Toward the end all I remember saying over and over was, “WHY WON’T YOU LET ME LEARN?! WHY WON’T YOU LET ME GO TO SCHOOL?!”
There was a part of me that was laughing at myself and at how ridiculous it all was. But it felt so good to just let it all flow. Four years of pent up frustration. Four years of having to ask to go to the bathroom. Four years of needing a doctors note if I wanted to put asprin in my backpack. Four years of STAR testing and running in circles in a gymnasium dressed in mandatory and ridiculously over priced blue shorts and yellow t-shirts…Four years of the box. I needed to let it all out.
Mr. Counselor informed me that he had had enough and that I was to go to the RC (Responsibility Center—a room with no windows and one door. A room created specifically to remove students from a classroom, learning environment so they can sit and think about the sin that is wearing backless shoes). I told him I would first like to make a phone call to my parents. I was refused. I informed Mr. Counselor that even prisoners get one phone call before they are locked up, and that I was quite sure that Mr. Counselor could not deny me the right to call my parents if I said I wanted to call my parents. While I may be a subordinate of Clovis High School, I was still a citizen of the United States.
Nameless Escort Girl suddenly appeared again, and was instructed by Mr. Counselor to take me to the Responsibility Center right away.
I thought the first walk was bad. That was nothing. I began to plead with NEG on the way there.
“Listen, you gotta help me. This is crazy! I mean, you know this is crazy, right? You have to let me make a phone call!”
Silence.
At what I thought was my darkest hour, I saw it in the distance. Hope. In the form of a pay phone. I turned to my escort.
“Look, you can run back and tattle if you want, but I’m using this phone, and you can’t stop me!”
I ran to the phone and dialed my home number collect. By this time I was seriously praying that my mom was home. And by some miracle--honestly--she was there.
“MOOOOM!! THEY’RE TRYING TO STOP ME FROM GRADUATING! THEY WON’T LET ME LEARN! YOU’VE GOTTA GET DOWN HERE! THEY’RE SENDING ME TO THE RESPONSIBILITY CENTER!!”
Mom’s response was classic Janet ‘I’ll Make You Sorry If You Mess With My Kids’ Webster: “I’ll be right there.”
I then ran to the responsibility center, hoping I would beat my escort there. I signed in, sat down, and waited for freedom.
Ten minutes later my mom and Mr. Counselor appeared at the door. I was called out into the hallway for a chat.
Mr. Counselor informed mom that I was in complete defiance of this rule and that regulation. That I was disrespectful and disruptive to the learning process. And that he had every right to revoke any and all senior privileges, as well as the “honor” of walking with my senior class at graduation.
I began to protest, but was quickly silenced by my mother.
Cooly and camly, Mom told Counselor that she understood that I had done some things that day that had been out of line, and that she respected the rules and regulations that I needed to follow and that he needed to uphold. And that she would take me home, right that very moment, and have me change my shoes. But if he tied to take away any of my privileges, especially a graduation that I had worked very hard for, then he would have to deal with her.
Several times throughout my childhood I have witnessed grown men truly fear my 5’4” firecracker of a mom. This was one such occasion.
It was agreed that if I would change my shoes, and apologize for my “disruptive outburst” in his office, then all would be well and the world could keep on spinning.
I agreed.
As I watch Jennie up there on that stage in a couple of weeks, getting that diploma, leaving high school behind her, I am sure that I will shed a tear of gratitude for my little sister as I did for myself. Because while life is full of rules, regulations, and codes to live by, nothing compares to high school.

So I just went to The Cinnamon Roll Shop in Clovis to a.) get a cinnamon roll and b.) to get away from my obsessive compulsive, anal-retentive, micro-managing manager and who did I run into there? My daddy. It was a pleasant surprise. And it also made me very sad, because I thought to myself it will not be long before I will be living far away and the odds of running into my dad around town will be very, very slim.
Sometimes small towns are fun. Except when you run into people you went to high school with who you would have been more than fine with never running into again. But today it was dad. And I’m always happy to see him.

This is what late night television will do to you.

I don’t know what it is but I just can’t seem to get these damn Ronco knives out of my head. I want ‘em. Bad. And yet, I feel so foolish. I’ve never purchased anything demonstrated on an infomercial. But when I watch Mr. Ronco slice through that tomato like it’s nothing, I am completely mesmerized. If only I knew if they, indeed, are as good as they seem on TV.
After using crappy knives for going on 4 years now, I am more than ready to have some decent cutlery. It doesn’t seem like it would be that big of a deal. But truly, it is taking its toll. I can’t sleep at night. I feel like there is something missing in my life.
Okay, maybe not. But it would be nice to have good knives.
So here’s the question—can I justify three easy payments of $13.33 for what appear to be wonder knives? If I buy now I can get 8 additional steak knives!! While we rarely have company, and I don’t usually cook, let alone cook steak, perhaps 8 steak knives would be just the motivation I need to launch my budding steak cooking career!
So what do you think? Is Mr. Ronco a trustworthy fellow? If that is his real name...Maybe his first name is Ron??!
I just don’t know.

Thoughts for Today...

This past weekend I revisited the San Diego temple. The last time I was there was about 14 years ago when my family and I went for the open house. While I'm sure the special place I keep for this particular temple is partly due to the fact that it is one of the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen, it was more that this was the place I first asked myself some serious questions.
I can remember holding Mary's hand and walking through a mass of protestors as they carried signs and carried on about those crazy mormons... I didn't really understand what they were so mad about. I still don't. But I can recall asking myself what I was a part of, and if it was really important. And then I walked into the temple. I decided that day that temples were a good thing.
I would have loved to have been married in the San Diego temple. But alas, due to locale and family, it was not to be. The Fresno temple is a beautiful temple and holds many tender memories for me. I was happy to be married in any temple. But when I went back to San Diego this past week, I had a flood of feelings and memories and decided to just sit there with my camera and bask in it.
I've heard people criticize the church for the elaborateness of the San Diego temple, but I think it is everything that it ought to be. It is fine and unique and a thing to behold. It is a beautiful tribute.