It took forever, but it was worth the wait.

On March 16, 2012 

Stephanie Elizabeth May

became our new daughter when she married Scott in the 

San Diego LDS Temple.

Lemme tell you about Stephanie -

Steph is a wash and wear beauty.  

She doesn't get caught up in fashion or wear designer clothes yet she 

could be a cover girl.  

Her wedding dress came from eBay but she looked as though she'd been

personally fitted by Vera Wang.  

She had me do her wedding makeup, but I suspect it was simply because

it's a given that women get fancied up for stuff like that 

and because she loves me.  

She doesn't wear chapstick because she believes it's addictive.

 Her biggest fashion statement is wearing one of her crocheted 

animal hats.  

Steph is brilliant.  She is one of those people who can still play while

acing all of her classes in college and pharmacy school.  

She is an amazing cook who googles Indian recipes and takes pictures of her 

favorites and posts them on facebook under 

titles like "Bread Porn."

She knows how to work hard and has spent summers sweating in the fields 

picking melons, and moving boxes in a warehouse 

with the big boys.

She is competitive and will take you apart as quickly and viciously in a 

game of Yatzee as if she was after a Super Bowl ring.  

She is funny and happy and quick and I miss her when she's gone.

But what I love most 

is that she loves my son with a fierce loyalty, and 

when I see the way she looks at him and the way he looks back

I'm grateful that she said 

"Yes."

Gone too soon.

The Remains of Halloween, a photo by pietroizzo on Flickr.

I worked so hard on my little pumpkin friend. Shaping his face with a carrot peeler and sharpened knife; sculpting cheeks and wrinkles, frowning brows, and a sneer.

Soon, a black spot appeared on his cheek and grew like a porous cancer. I thought that if I laid him on his side, the ventilation moving through his head might dry the tissue and slow the moldy growth. But alas.

As I picked him up, the skull started to cave in, and my fingers began to penetrate the fuzzy gray soft tissue beneath the skin.

I tossed him in the garbage. But first, I stuffed a kleenex into the hole on his face, dribbled on some bright bloody red hot sauce, and left his corpse for Mark to find in the morning.

Happy Week Before Halloween.

Punkin Guts.

30/10/10 - Pumpkin Carving, a photo by Bond Girly on Flickr.

Sid & I decided that this year we were going to actually CARVE our pumpkins rather than let them sit around the house until the Christmas season. So we put on one of our favorite movies, Harry Potter, and went to town - for hours. The worst part of carving a pumpkin is the fight with the messy, slimy, tangle of seeds that have to be scraped free in preparation of taking that first eye slice. Soon, the house was full of the musky-sweet scent of raw pumpkin and wet newspaper. Ya know, after doing all of that work and slopping up the goopy seeds, I find it incomprehensible that overachieving hippie earth-mother mommies (who probably give birth in the bathtub while canning peaches) will slush through that mess in order to pick out the seeds, soak them in salt, then roast them in the oven. No food is worth that. But I digress...

Anyway, I love this time of year. The trees slip on their gold, yellow and orange outfits in their last sunny fling before their brown winter strip-tease. I love the way the sheets feel when I climb in at the end of the day - cool and crisp with a hint of the cold feet to come by morning. The pressure on my toes is a reminder that the comfy-cozy warmth of the comforter is just a tug away. Soon, the smell of burning wood will season the neighborhood each evening, and the sweatshirts will come out of storage, bringing their own woodsy drawer-scent. The hot chocolate, cider, and camomile tea will be regular companions as we relax with a good book or movie.

Aaah. It's a wonderful time of year. Even if the pumpkins don't get carved.

Leilana's Peace

spring break a photo by stoneth on Flickr.

I've been thinking about "beauty" a lot lately. Maybe because it's what I do for a living now - try to help women feel pretty at a makeup boutique in Sacramento.

Women of all size, race, age, and status come into the shop. Some know who they are and ask for what they need to complete themselves: "I just need some more of my foundation," or "I ran out of Mineral Veil."

Others come in because they're curious; they walk slowly and study the shelves, wondering at the rows of tinted powders. Maybe turning the super-sized lazy susan full of glimmering eyeshadows, then carefully dipping a finger into a pot and scuffing it onto the back of their hands.

The shy and self-conscious, hopefully asking: "Is this really as good as they say?" No mention of the acne boiling from her forehead or the dark spots that betray years of fighting the battle. But there's hope in the eyes that maybe THIS makeup is the one.

And then there are the dissatisfied, frustrated, obsessed. Pinning their life's problems onto a freckle that only they can see: "Can you cover this?" But nobody can.

I want to forget myself. To pass a mirror and skip the disgust because I'm not a size 4 anymore. To get ready for the day and rejoice that for a girl of 54 I'm still doing okay.

Even with a few spots and creases.

Please click on the photo and ready Leilana's story. And give thanks for your own peace - your reasons to smile.

I'm Just Gonna Dump !

ice cream man at the garbage dump
Originally uploaded by baansok

I don't usually blog about how yukky I feel. I try to keep this blog my "little happy place." Another place where I pretend to be who I want to be - funny & happy & optimistic.

But I feel rotten. I can barely move my neck, my lip hurts because I have a cold sore, and I'm sweaty and exhausted.

Taken separately, I can handle these things - I'm pretty used to the fibromyalgia body pain stuff, and can usually handle it by using my favorite combo: massage and narcotics. Being sweaty and exhausted isn't particularly out of my league either. But the cold sore...

The cold sore pushed me over the edge. For most people, a cold sore is an irritating little blemish. For me, a cold sore is a potentially massive agonizing open wound that leaves a scar, as verified by the 1974 memory on my bottom lip. The first tingle strikes unimaginable terror in my heart. Really.

So today, in the midst of my ick, I naturally searched for a flickr photo of a "garbage dump." And again, I am humbled and embarrassed by what I found.

Pictures of Indian kids sorting through rubbish for scraps of food or stuff to sell. Proving that one can always find some good mixed into the bad - one man's trash is another man's treasure.

Photos of bagged garbage - once people's prized possessions - piled against flood-ravaged homes. The sign of communities coming together to rebuild. Optimism and hope.

And this photo "ice cream man at the garbage dump." Showing me that even though life can be full of crap, you can make a life in the middle of it.

But I still feel rotten.