It's been nearly two months, so it's time to catch you all up on my recent adventures. If you didn't get the pun between the title and the first line, leave now. I'm in no mood to deal with people who can't read my mind. And you're all just going to have to live without pictures for the moment because I'm at work writing this while Adobe Acrobat is installing and I can't do much else.
August 9 and 10 (I think):
Tim and I packed our entire lives back into our '93 Rustbucket (just one of many benefits of having to pay graduate tuition on a writer's salary) and moved back to Provo. On a less whiny note, I genuinely love our new apartment. We got some new furniture from IKEA. When my mother-in-law and I finished our list of things we wanted to pick up and made our way to the "self-service area," I found myself in a massive warehouse that I have seen in my nightmares. I'm not kidding. I've had three or four nasty dreams set in that exact warehouse. Of course, none of them was as terrible as actually having to haul all of the crap I was buying from the shelves, through checkout, and all the way into the car in the tiniest little cart known to man.
A Few Weeks Ago:
I spent several hours of Tim's last free weekend before school writing a huge proposal for work. Fortunately he had some homework by the time I was in 15-hour-day mode. I lost a pants size writing that puppy. If that happened every time I worked 15-hour days, I'd get a more stressful job. As it is, I'm loving this one just fine. When I got back I moved into a different office. Now I share with Chris, whose only funky habits are groaning over things that don't work and . . . well, he's not the most entertaining officemate I've ever had.
A couple of weeks ago:
A wonderfully passive aggressive sign came down from our neighbor's road-facing balcony, but not before both Tim and I had memorized the stenciled words: "Brent Brown is committing fraud and criminal acts against his customers. My wife is very hurt by this. Proven in court." That last bit was written in marker as an afterthought. How precious.
I had to consume 10 ounces of "glucose drink." It was only slightly more disgusting than the Chilly Willy that turned my mouth blue Saturday night, but I felt a lot sicker afterward. It could have been worse. If they make me do it again, I'll survive. I hope they don't. Just so nobody asks, I'm NOT pregnant. For you technical folk, that's a negative on the hCG. My doc thinks I'm insulin resistant. I tried to tell her that I would never resist insulin—I'm not a very resistant person—but she wasn't buying it. Two days later I was chugging what I'm fairly sure was modified Orange Crush soda syrup.
18 Hours Ago:
Tim and I were reading The Host. We're both really enjoying it, though Meyer has a few writing idiosyncrasies that I hope she overcomes within her next book or two. I just can't stand how she builds suspense over things that don't turn out to be a huge deal, but she's so obvious about what they are, it's just no fun when you figure it out. It's like in Breaking Dawn when you find out *SPOILER ALERT* that Bella's pregnant *END SPOILER ALERT*. It couldn't have been more obvious what was going to happen, but leading up to it she wrote it like it was supposed to be this huge shock. It wasn't. Back to The Host, though. The story is pretty dang brilliant—probably the most stomachable book about aliens of all time.
Two Hours from Now:
Someone from the ward is coming over the give me a calling. I'll let you know how that turns out on Sunday, I suppose. My first guess would be ward greeter (they always ask the weird ones to do that). I'll be happy if they don't make me any kind of music person. My first calling in my Wymount ward was Relief Society chorister. I didn't even know how to lead music. If they were aiming for a way to embarrass me in front of twenty people once a week, they did a great job. Hiding out in primary was just what I needed after that.
Well, I hope you're happy with the ketchup. I'll probably do a picture post later. I know how much Sarah wants to see Denver and how much the rest of you miss my ugly mug. I wish I'd taken a belly picture so I could do the opposite of the pregnancy shots and show you all my weight loss over the next bit. Michael (my super-muscular body-building brother) made me up a diet and exercise plan, and I'm on my way to being fit. Or at the very least I'm on my way to being very tired of rice.