Guns and Beer

There are two reasons to go to Idaho: for the guns and the beer.

Here is Roo with a gun:

And Dad Phillips with a gun:
And Annie with a gun:
This is not actually me. I never tie hankerchiefs around my neck. And I could never kill whatever varmit that is dangling from her grip. In fact, I don't even like guns. About a year ago, we had been living in Taylorsville long enough for Roo to realize that he ought to arm himself. Gradually he convinced me that we ought to own a gun, so I gave my hesitant consent. He bought a handgun. A black, serious looking thing. We, the gun and I, are leery of each other. I prefer it to stay locked in its tight safe. When Roo took me shooting the first time at an indoor shooting range, the pounding jerk of the bullet being thrust from the chamber was emotionally jarring for me, having seen too many war movies and read about too many mass graves. Roo fitted me with goggles and ear plugs and showed me how to handle the gun. But when I shot it, it wanted to jump out of my small grip, and I wanted to let it go. Since then, I have politely declined shooting it. The good thing about Idaho is that A) Dad Phillips is there with his gun and his willingness to go shooting with Roo, and B) there are lots of dirt piles and old milk jugs to shoot at. I'll take a shot or two, then sit back and watch. Guns scare me, just like they scare Lando, here, who found the most secluded place to hide and pant and wait it out:

So I guess I don't go to Idaho for the guns. But the beer...

Roo's parents live across the street from a small brewery. Once we had finished shooting our guns, we came back to find the whole street closed off and set up for Oktoberfest hosted by the brewery. Roo's parents thought the festivities looked like fun--and when I say festivities, I mean everything that didn't involve drinking beer, since we don't drink. Oktoberfest in Pocatello consists of country music, red plastic cups of beer, and hot dogs. So we non-drinkers spent the evening milling about listening to the country music and eating the hot dogs. I watched Natalee meticulously picking the blackened crust off her hot dog and muttering to herself, probably out of frustration and embarrassment at having to spend the evening at a drinking festival with her family.

So I guess I didn't really go to Idaho for the beer either...

But the one thing I know I did go for was the view:

This is the amazing dream home Roo's parents are building on the foothills in Inkom. The house is amazing, open and panoramic, full of what will one day be excellent nooks for reading and watching the sun go down across the valley.

While I played fetch with Lando in the family room, I looked out the window and wondered if we will ever build a dream home. I thought about what I would see from the windows of my own dream home.

I think this is the view I would choose:

Or this:

What about you? What is the view from your dream home?

New Age

I have an age complex.

What I mean by that is that I am overly self-conscious about how old I am. I am constantly aware of how I think others perceive my age.

I guess this mental stumbling block can be traced back to my having gotten married at a young age. From the moment I said, "yes" and Roo got up off his knee, I have been aware of my age, or lack thereof, because everyone was always very quick to point it out. I had to steel myself for the inevitable surprised faces that people would try to stifle when they found out my age or that I was already married. I grew used to the blank stares and long pauses and the incredulous, "wait--how old are you?!"

Coupled with my actually being young, I also look young and sound young. It's like I hit 14 and nature leaned back with her hands behind her head, propped her feet up on her desk, and said, "What the heck, let's just stop there." Consequently, every waitress calls me "hon," the clerk at the grocery store calls me "sweety," and security guard at the concert venue has to check my ID twice to make sure I'm old enough to get in. I took this all in stride until one day when I noticed that the waitress who had just crouched down to take my order and call me a motherly, "honey" was probably born in the early 90s!

A few years ago, Roo and I were flying to Great Britain for a study abroad program. Before takeoff there had been a minor problem with some equipment on the plane, so the attendants were ushering everyone off the plane while the issue was resolved. Of course, they invite all families with small children and children traveling alone to disembark before everyone else. The attendant moved down the aisle helping these people. As she came towards us, my fellow classmates chatted with each other while the attendant looked at me, stopped, and kindly touching my arm asked, "Are you over 12?"

I was 19.

Not only was I the only married person in our study abroad group, I was also apparently the only one who could pass for a pre-teen. This and many humbling experiences like it made me long for the day when I would be a legitimate, old adult--with an unassailable, average age.

I expected that to come with my 20's. That day has yet to come, however. Age 21 then 22 came and went without any measurable change in my perceived age. A few days ago, I was buying lunch among all the business lunch crowd, and I was doing my best to make my 5' 2" frame appear taller, holding my grown up woman purse prominently and making my small voice sound authoritative as I ordered my food. The male cashier handed me my receipt and said a sugary, high-voiced, "here you go, hon." He looked as if he wanted to lean across the counter, pat me on the head, and help guide me to the kids' table.

Call me overly sensitive if you want, but I've had it! I've been waiting too long to feel like a grown up! So I've decided to take some drastic measures to make me seem older.

So far this is what I've come up with:

-Get this haircut:

-Wear these jeans:

-Bake
-Say "gadfreys!" more often
-Ask a teenager for help using my phone
-Store my phone in a holster on my belt
-Use the word "holster" more often
-Reminisce about the Reagan administration
-Eat at more buffet restaurants
-Eat less Kraft Macaroni and Cheese
-Forward more emails
-Call everyone "sweety" and "hon"

Any other suggestions? Please--I need all the help I can get!

Fun and Fair Times

For Labor Day, Roo and I went to California (of course) to continue our long tradition of seeing John Williams' concert at the Hollywood Bowl. We bribed our friends, Sarah and Drew, into letting us stay at their house and befriending us for the weekend by bringing them to the concert with us.

The Hollywood Bowl:

Roo, Drew, and Sarah at the Bowl. They aren't that blurry in real life--they were just really excited to hear John Williams play all their favorite movie hits.
We had an excellent time!

On Saturday, we talked our friends into visiting Solvang, a small, quaint little village about two hours away from L.A. that is authentically Danish--the buildings, the food, the tourist trinkets...we thought it would be a fun little getaway. However, we failed to take into account L.A. traffic on a holiday weekend. Overall, in the time it took us to get there, we could have driven to actual Denmark! But, it was still pretty, quaint, and fun once we eventually arrived.

On Monday, Roo, Sarah, and I made the pilgramige to the L.A. County Fair.

I didn't take any pictures of the fair, so I have rendered a representative collage of the event:


I think it is quite a good likeness. Not only were the mountains actually on fire, but the day of the fair was at least 118 degrees. My hand-dipped ice cream bar lasted 0.4 seconds before it melted, collapsed, and instantly evaporated off the black asphalt. The heat, combined with the sheer mass of humanity in the park, reminded me of how the Hell County Fair must feel. Except at the Hell County Fair, they only sell cold corn dogs and you have to ride The Zipper for eternity.

We meandered through three or four convention-size arenas full of devices to make your jewelry shinier, your hair bigger, and your steaks more evenly grilled. It was like walking through a giant, crowded, seemingly endless infomercial, minus Billy Mays and Ron Popeil.

We were in awe of the colors and comotion of the fair. The amount of snacks, desserts, and entire meals that could be eaten off a stick was outnumbered only by the vast array of spaghetti straps and uncomely cleavage we were exposed to.

As we weren't in the mood for any STD's, we avoided the carnival rides. So, after the infomercial buildings, we trekked through what was essentially Tijuana (as far as heat, colors, food, and junk goes) to get to the farm animals. Now, I love a good blue ribbon hog as much as the next girl, but my impending heat stroke sort of hampered my interest in the hog and his barnyard friends. So after a valiant effort, we all definitely agreed it was time to go.

I didn't show a picture of our car in my collage because it was at least six miles away. We reminisced about the good times at the fair (and how lucky we were that it was free) on our arduous trek back.

The rest of our time together consisted of: (Card games, I mean--not magic tricks.)

And:

And not just the first movie--we're talking all three in the trilogy, extended editions.

We had such a great time. Thanks to Sarah and Drew for coming with us to the concert, letting us stay at your house, and for putting up with all our ill-conceived plans and making them fun!

Thank You!

Thank you for all the kind words you have given me. I am a big believer in words, so even a few kindly given ones mean so much to me.

I'm doing fine, by the way. There have been some times of inconsolable sobbing, to be sure. Poor Roo stands by, supportive but a little bewildered by my emotions, while I feel like I'm mourning for every sad or disappointing thing that ever happened in my entire life. I blame part of it on the hormonal changes, but I suppose I don't need to rationalize my sadness--after all, I went 10 1/2 weeks anticipating a new life and a new person to love.

But those times are greatly offset by an amazing feeling of peace and comfort, derived largely from your kind words, both spoken and written. So thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

They are saving me.

A Personal Story

I’ve never been one to share many personal details about myself. If we were to sit down and talk, you and I, I would probably ask you about yourself and be content to listen and say little about me. I have a hard time being any other way. But I want to tell you about my weekend. I need to share it with someone.

This weekend, I took my very first trip to the ER.

I got my first hospital wrist band.

They put my very first IV in my arm.

I laid in a hospital bed for the first time.

I had my very first ultrasound.

And I had my second miscarriage.

And while I was sitting there being checked into the ER, I read a painted sign above the nurse’s door that told me, “The times of greatest change present the greatest possibilities.” Though at that moment, I felt like nothing was possible, I decided that life could not just be a series of random events, varying in degrees of the tame and the traumatic, just meaningless and unconnected. I’ve been clinging to that belief for a few days. And so life actually feels meaningful, thanks to the comforting power of a little faith.

I just wanted to share that. It feels good to tell you.

Why Roo Rules

This afternoon, I received this email at work. (For background, see the second half of the previous post below.)

Hi Annie,

I know that it was stupid of me to delete the photos without having backed them up first. I'm sorry. However, even though I am stupid often, I wanted to remind you that you are married to me, and with that comes some good things too. To illustrate I wrote a formula:
Nerd + Computer Geek + Don't Give Up Easily + Star Wars Rules = These attached (and 10,000 other recovered) pictures.

I love you!
Roo

He recovered all our pictures from the netherworld of cyber-limbo!

To sum up my response: cheering and smiling and love.

Lessons to be Learned

On my first day back to work, I was getting settled back into my workspace and but kept noticing an annoying smell that was difficult to locate. It smelled like pee—and as I looked around, I was mystified as to where the stench was coming from. Had a dog been in my office, or a drunk person, or did I have mice? Awhile later, in [what I thought was] an unrelated event, I looked at my shirt to find a large, light stain which I hadn’t noticed before. I was mildly annoyed to think I was wearing a dirty shirt. A few hours later, I was getting extremely frustrated by the stench. Where on earth was it coming from?! And then in a stroke of brilliance, I looked at the stain on my shirt and hesitantly held it up to sniff it. Yep, it was a pee stain courtesy of Chase the dog. I don’t know when he did it, probably at some point during the move when it was out…And so for the whole day, I reeked of urine.

Lesson 1: Don’t leave your clothes out where your potty-challenged dog can mar them with his urine unless you want your boss to think you are a slovenly, hygienically-inept bum.

Next, yesterday we decided to re-format our hard drive. We saved everything we thought mattered and erased everything else. And then we remembered we forgot to save our pictures…all of them. Except for some which had been saved in other locations, most of our pictures from the last five years were lost in the netherworld of cyber-limbo. To sum up my response: crying.

Lesson 2: Don’t forget to back-up your pictures somewhere else. Do it now! Stop reading this and go do it.

And be thankful you have me to teach you these lessons rather than learning them yourself the hard way.