Fireworks

If the pioneers were to visit our day, I wouldn't be surprised is they mistook our loud and explosive Pioneer Day celebrations for loud and explosive declarations of war in their honor. Especially now that aerial fireworks are legal and have turned the whole of Utah into pyromaniacs.

Not that I'm complaining or anything. The bangs and sparkles of last night pulled me away from my movie watching and cross-stitching on the couch to my July-roasted balcony where I had a good view of multiple firework shows. Soon after I stepped outside, the sprinklers started up, which did what the night sky couldn't--cool down the air.

(I may as well join the "I don't know how the pioneers survived that" club: I don't know how they survived without air conditioning. I'm pretty sure it didn't make their trials any easier.)

As the sky lit up with multicolored fire and smoke drifted lazily in the feeble breeze, I kept thinking how glad I was that we have so many reasons to celebrate: holidays that warrant time off work, anniversaries (even the ones that celebrate the first time you ate at a certain restaurant with a certain someone), rites of passage, changing seasons, sports, accomplishments and promotions, survival of another school year, paying off a car, birthdays, weddings, pointless holidays like Halloween and Valentine's Day. Some celebrations call for loud explosions, some need only a dark, peaceful night, and others require lots of people and cake.

Years ago, Tiffany said something in fast and testimony meeting that always stuck with me: life is a gift. Even though we've been promised something immeasurably better in the next life, the one we've got holds innumerable blessings. Every time I see a row of tulips or smell the air after a rainstorm, I can't help but feel extremely lucky to be here; this life was meant to test us, but it was also meant to bring us joy. God could have sent us down here to suffer endlessly, but he equipped us with far more blessings than we could ever count.

Sometimes, though, it is hard to celebrate life, because sometimes life just sucks. Sometimes life because a vortex of time, passing us by while we struggle to find our place in it. And while I think it's unnatural to be happy all of the time, it's a bit of a waste of a pretty awesome gift if we don't take the time every now and then to smell the roses or spend a fortune on something that you're just going to blow up later. We only get to live this life once, and this life has so much to offer.

It sounds like Communal Firework Show round 2 is starting. I wonder how long this one will go on.

It's a boys!

So, it looks like the first grandkids in the Carter family are going to be boys, so the name speculation has officially begun. Since I rarely take anything seriously, I've come up with a list of awesome and completely legitimate duo names, although I'll admit that Jeremy has been a bit more creative on that front. Must have something to do with serving a mission in New Orleans.

Anyway, coming up with names for twins is like 27 times more fun than coming up with names for just  one kid. Such as:

• Jimmer and Jackson. This idea sprouted long before we even knew Tiffany was having twins, so clearly, fate must be telling us something.
• Jackson and Carter. If Jimmer is a bit too much, Carter would work too--then we could get the mom's and the grandma's maiden names in there. Too bad a cousin already snatched up the Carter idea. Ruined my fun.
• Or, we could go with Cooper and Jackson, and get the grandma and the great-grandma in there. Too bad Cooper's been taken already too. Sheesh.
• Fred and George. You knew that one was coming.
• Voldemort and You-Know-Who. If for some reason I ever have two cats, these will be their names.
• Chip and Dale.
• Nephi and Lehi. Or, if you want to start some intense sibling rivalry, go with Laman and Nephi.
• Alma the Older and Alma the Younger.
• Frodo and Sam. I just made the connection that Nephi's faithful "sidekick" was named Sam too. Interesting . . .
• Gimli and Legolas.
• Gandalf and Dumbledore. I have a hard time imagining either of them as babies, mostly because I can't get rid of the beards.
• Romulus and Royal.
• Marco and Polo. You've gotta admit that would be cool.
• Elijah and Isaiah.
• Calvin and Hobbes. I hope I have a nephew like Calvin some day. :)
• Batman and Robin. The thought of naming a baby "Batman" cracks me up.
• Spock and Kirk. That one's for Shannan.
• Beethoven and Mozart. We could call them Be and Mo for short.
• Beavis and Butthead. Sorry, had to throw that one in there.
• Billy and Joel.
• Cory and Shawn.
• Kwan and Steve.
• Jack and Sawyer. Okay, enough with the t.v. shows.
• Tom and Huck.
• Mike and Ike.
• Melvin and Marvin.
• Simon and Garfunkle. No idea if I spelled that right.
• Lamoni and Mahonri.
• Thing 1 and Thing 2.

I could go on for pages and pages, but I've gotta stop some time. If nothing else, I think I've come up with a pretty good list of Halloween costumes.

A long time coming

I'm sure you're all wondering why I haven't said a word about Harry Potter over the past few weeks, especially considering that the final movie comes out in just a few days. The 7th movie inspired a weeks worth of HP-related posts, which culminated in a long, entertaining wait in line with a host of other college students, many of whom had to wake up early for classes and janitorial jobs the next day. (I, being unemployed at the time, didn't have to worry about that). I had spent months reading everything I could about the upcoming movie and watching every trailer and interview that came out. By the time I was finally sitting in the theater at 12:19 or whatever, I was starting to feel the effects of an intense adrenaline rush, i.e., headache and wired jitteriness.

I'm not feeling any of that now. Sure, I'm excited to see the movie, but I think that is largely because I am seeing it at 3 in the morning with my mom and sisters in a D-Box theater. Talk about crazy awesomeness.

I also exercised better discipline as PR for this movie started coming out, mostly because I wanted to experience the movie without knowing about all the little changes beforehand. (I couldn't entirely screen myself though; Mugglenet.com is my home page on my laptop, and it's hard not to scan the headlines and pictures when they're popping out right in front of you.) However, I'm thinking that this wasn't such a brilliant plan, because reading up on movie tidbits greatly contributes to my angst to see the movie, and seeing the movie with no warning of changes beforehand may have a negative affect on my first viewing of the movie. And with this being the awesome conclusion to it all, I don't want that to happen.

The main reason for the lack of insane, health-questioning excitement I usually feel, though, is that this ending has been a long time coming; the real ride ended 4 years ago. I said good-bye to Harry Potter (sort of) when the 7th book came out, and everything since then, while partially filling the void inside of me and allowing me to live in denial a little bit longer, has been a bit anti-climatical.

I've been to my fair share of midnight releases (both for the books and the movies), but the hours leading up to the release of the final Harry Potter instalment will sit forever in my memory: sitting on the warm blacktop surrounded by fans and Harry Potter paraphernalia, watching fans reenact Dumbledore's death, listening to fans discuss their theories on what the 7th book would entail, reveling in the static electricity in the air that came from thousands of very eager fans, and talking hard with Shannan all night while Kin did all she could to remain conscious (she eventually gave up and went back to my car to sleep while Shannan and I waited for midnight to roll around). That night was special on a lot of levels, and while I think the final movie will induce some of those emotions, it will be nothing like that night.

When midnight finally rolled around and the first lucky fans were able to lay their hands on that precious book, I almost had this feeling that the world had just changed. My world, at least, had changed, and so did the world of many other decade-long Harry Potter fans. People walked out of the store with their noses planted into the books, and rather than going home, many fans plopped down on the ground or leaned up against their cars to start reading. There was an odd hush around these people, as if they were holding something sacred that demanded respect. That didn't stop some of us still waiting in line from asking how many pages it was or even barreling out of line to simply touch the book.

If I were to make a list of the top 10 best moments of my life, holding the 7th Harry Potter book in my hands for the first time would definitely make the list--probably even the top 5. Even if I had falling in love, getting married, and having my first child to add to that list, Harry Potter would still be at the bottom of that list somewhere. Moments like that are supremely bittersweet: the joy that comes from knowing that you are about to embark on a new exciting journey is almost overpowered by the sadness you feel because of what you had to leave behind to get that new adventure. I almost couldn't bring myself to read the book at all that night because the familiar comfort of being inside an active, changing Harry Potter world was just that strong. It had been a huge part of my adolescence, and I ached to think that that part of my life would be ending.

But of course, I couldn't just sit there while the world changed around me. Despite my attempts to take my time, I finished the book in 2 days no sweat, even with the open and close shifts and worked at Domino's. At least I had the comfort of knowing that I could read the entire series over again after I read "All was well" on the last page.

So I don't think that the final movie of the Harry Potter franchise will leave me reeling with major life changes, but I think I'll feel something of those emotions again this weekend as I participate in another closing chapter.

But, alas, it is past time to move on, I think. Maybe in another 30 years or so we'll get another "Jimmer" of the book industry, and I'll be able to experience a ride like this all over again. You never know.

The pillow

At first glance, pillows seem to be merely bits of fluff that complement the bedroom set. Their main function is to "finish off" the decor. Certainly the pillow pales in importance next to the mattress and bedding.

I'm not sure why that stigma has established itself into my mind of the hierarchy of sleeping accessories, because I know very well that, being the picky sleeper that I am, I need a good pillow if I want to have a relaxing, peaceful night of sleep.

This concept brutally reinforced itself into my brain several times over the past couple of weeks. I was first reminded of this when I spent a weekend at home a few weeks ago. The pillow currently occupying my room was paper thin and rock hard, and seemed to take up negative space, causing my head to sink into a black hole, my neck hanging off the edge of the chasm, as I tried to get comfortable.

I didn't want to repeat this experience for the 4th of July weekend, so I came prepared with my own perfectly shaped pillow. I slept much better all three nights I was home (though the double mattress pad may have had something to do with that).

However, my brilliant plan sort of backfired because, despite my meticulous efforts not to leave anything behind, I forgot to grab my pillow before I headed out the door, loaded down with more stuff than I probably needed for one long weekend. I realized I had abandoned my pillow during my 60-mile-long firework show commute, but neglected to turn around because I had other pillows sitting on my bed at home.

It took me about 2 seconds after I laid down that night to realize that sleeping on my cuddle pillow wasn't going to work. The pillow was soft and smushy and perfect for cuddling with, but proved to be far too fat for my head to endure 6-7 hours on. So I spent most of the night tossing and turning and alternating between fatso pillow and no pillow at all. When I finally got out of bed the next morning I had a headache in 3 different parts of my head. I think that's the closest I've ever come to experiencing a morning hangover.

Waiting to be reunited with my beloved pillow was no longer an option, so that day I bought a new pillow at Walmart. I bought the smallest one I could find and took it home. To my dismay, the new pillow was at least twice the size of fatso pillow.

So that night I set humungo fatso pillow aside and slept on my body pillow instead, which is a tad thinner than fatso pillow. This worked better than sleeping on fatso pillow, but I didn't experience the warm-and-fuzzy sleep that I've grown accustomed to--I felt like I was an unwelcome guest sleeping on a stranger's bed. Not the most pleasant kind of sleep I tell you, and it resulted in strange dreams.

Now that I think of it, transitioning from pillow to pillow has always been a traumatic experience. When I was a kid--back when I slept with all 20+ of my stuffed animals, each with its own designated spot--I slept on my giant Free Willy. I might as well have slept sitting up; if I tried to do that now I would break my neck.

We used to have this rainbow pillow that me, Tiffany, and Kimberly always fought over. It was an ugly, thin little thing, but because it was multi-colored, we all wanted it. I for one was not above sneaking into someone's room, stealing the pillow, and placing it back on my bed where it belonged. I don't know what happened to that pillow, but I suspect Mom had something to do with its disappearance.

My next favorite pillow was ancient, but I loved it--the cotton inside the pillow no longer stuck together, which resulted in thousands of pieces of material that lumped wherever you prodded it. I usually shoved most of the stuffing to either side of the pillow and rested my head in between, giving me the illusion that I was sleeping on a big fluffy pillow without causing any physical damages. I was very sad when Mom threw that one away, but even I had started to get a little exasperated by its constant expelling of entrails.

Anyway, back in the present world of yesterday, I took matters into my own hands. When I got home from work, the first thing I did was cut open fatso pillow and pull out a layer or two of the stuffing.

And last night I got the first good night's sleep I've had all week, although my neck was still a bit kinked when I woke up this morning. But I think I'll survive until I get my old lopsided-but-shaped-to-my-head-perfectly pillow back.

So you see, pillows are not superfluous details; a good pillow that coincides with the delicate preferences of the individual sleeper can make or break a person's night of sleep.

There's seclusion, and then there's people

I have been looking forward to this week for pretty much my entire life. Well, not this week specifically, but a week like this week. You see, my one roommate is out of town, which means I have the entire apartment to myself for longer than just a few hours. And that means I can experiment with my cooking, listen to loud music, control the t.v., leave my stuff lying in the living room, and run around wild and crazy if I so desire. No one will be there to tell me what to do, to compete with my noise level, or to make me feel self-conscious when I'm singing along to my quiet music.

During those long summers I spent babysitting, I often imagined what it would be like to be on my own, to do things simply because I could, like buying a gallon of ice cream and eating it all by myself. Yep, I had big plans. From my journal, dated February 17, 2003:

You know what I decided? When I move into my own house I will always have apple juice, snacks, chips and salsa, good shampoo and conditioner, chocolate chips, and cereal. I will get it all to myself! and I must also have: a piano, a big bathtub, a waterbed, lots of good movies, and a cool deck. Oh--and lots of porclien dolls and cross stitch and cute stuff like that everywhere. It will be great!!

I am happy to report that I stayed true to most of those dreams. I don't usually have apple juice though (but now I'm going to crave it until I get some); I don't have a water bed, but I did buy an amazing queen-sized bed before moving in; my bathtub isn't really that huge, but I do have my own bathroom, which is AWESOME; and I don't have a piano yet, but some day in the distant future I will have a piano in some form or another.

So yes, it's really cool to be living the dream, but there's one thing I left out when I dreamed up this lovely scheme.

I need people in my life.

Being the shy individual that I am, I usually don't mind hanging out by myself. Honestly, my favorite way to spend a Friday night is in holed up in front of a t.v. somewhere with a small bowl of melted chocolate chips in one hand and a baby spoon in the other. I have a lot of hobbies that keep me occupied for hours and hours, no conversation required. It's a pretty good system that has mostly kept me happy throughout my life.

But however much I may (unintentionally) avoid people, I still need them in my life. The past week or so I've sat in my bubble at work for 8-9 hours and then I'll go home to an empty apartment, and the joy of being the boss of everything is dampened somewhat by the fact that I haven't talked to anyone all day.

And so the past couple of days at work, I've gotten unusually giddy when someone talks to me. I perk right up when someone says hi as they're walking by my desk, and when somebody actually stops to talk to me I feel so energized I could run a mile, or even walk up to someone and talk to them. Yesterday I went to a 10-minute meeting and I felt like Christmas had come early.

So I guess it all comes down to the "all things in moderation" motto. I probably wouldn't have been able to understand this when I was 13 and was surrounded by siblings and schoolmates, but I understand the importance of human interaction now.

And that's how you do a parade, people

One of the reasons why I love Gilmore Girls so much is because of the crazy townies and dumb town functions. I love the cutesie little shops and the small-town drama.

Now, Elk Ridge is no Stars Hollow. In fact, Elk Ridge is probably half the size of Stars Hollow and the only things you can do here are golf and go to church.

However, once a year Elk Ridge does throw a weekend of dumb town functions. It used to be the annual 4th of July celebration, but they've since moved it to the weekend before the 4th. It kicks off with a parade on Friday evening, and ends with the carnival at the park the next day. Residents can attend the mayor's dinner or the town breakfast, or even enter a race or sports tournament of some kind.

When we were younger, we usually made a point of going to the carnival so that we could watch the cotton candy machine in motion, play some lame games, and buy lame prizes with our lame reward tokens. It was lots of fun. Tyrel has gotten lots of whoopie cushions over the years, and the rest of us have gotten a variety of sunglasses, bouncy balls, and other cheap trinkets. In fact, I still have my lucky rabbit's foot.

So we took advantage of the carnival, but we never went to the parade. Never once, in the 19 years of living in this charming town, have we (except Tyrel, of course) gone to the parade, even though it is just a block from our house. Sometimes we would watch from our yard, but there was never much to see. And my last year of delivering pizza I ended up in the tail end of the parade because someone was mean enough to order pizza and request that we deliver it to their house, which was right smack in the middle of the crowd of people.

But this year, we went to the parade and I was quite excited about it. I wish I had taken pictures so that I could paint the picture more vividly, but I guess you'll just have to do with my bullet-point list of descriptions. So, some of my favorite parts about this awesome parade:

• The parade was all of 5 blocks long and took a mere 20 minutes at most.
• There were no parking headaches because there were not enough people to cause parking headaches. Most of us either walked or, those who came from like a quarter of a mile away, drove and parked in someone's driveway or, um, yard.
• There were no annoying "you can't park or sit here" signs. We all just stood where we pleased. In fact, me, Kimberly, and my mom stood in the middle of the road (not the parade road) and nobody thought anything of it.
• I had almost forgotten that parades mean candy. Nobody in Elk Ridge has sued anybody for hitting their precious child in the head with a tootsie roll, so the parade participants were allowed to throw out candy without getting arrested. And it wasn't all lame parade candy—the parade was so short that they didn't have to worry about merchandise melting and stuff, so they were throwing out legitimate prizes like toys, cold water, popsicles, and, wait for it . . . chocolate. It was pretty awesome.
• The adorable little boy next to us had a grocery bag strapped to his chest.
• We actually had a drumline with like 6 people in it! I tell you, the Elk Ridge parade is entering the ranks of actual parade-hood.
• The firetruck didn't deafen us all. And, the guy driving it stopped half way through so that his grandkids could pile in and ride the last couple of blocks with him.
• There are no requirements to be in this parade. In fact, to a lot of people I think it's just a way to show off how cute their kids (or grandkids) are. One of my favorite "floats" was a makeshift train, lead by Brother Shelley, in which 7 or 8 grandkids each had their own little "car." Half the people decided to join at the last minute because their kids had a sudden desire to walk down Park Drive in front of a few spectators.
• The Miss Payson royalty didn't get a real float—they had to stand in somebody's boat. And one of the girls was wearing a t-shirt under her dress.
• Then there were the traditional people driving around in their golf carts, bikes, and, in Tyrel's case, go-carts.
• And when it was all done, we walked back to our house with a bunch of neighbor kids who were still happy and not stricken by heatstroke or boredom or something.

And that's how you do a parade people—short, sweet, and intimate. No police monitoring, no shutting down the town for a half a day, no reserving seats. Just show up 5 minutes before with a couple hundred people and say hi to the people you haven't seen for a few years. Everybody wins.

Long summer days

I am not usually a fan of 80+ temperatures, but I have to admit I've enjoyed the heat of the past few days. It's been oddly refreshing to walk out into the legitimately hot world and not have to ignore the cool breeze or go through another pointless debate with myself regarding whether the balmy 60-weather required a jacket or not. Instead, I can enjoy the sun rays heating every particle of my body and bask in the dry hot air.

And, may I also add that I am quite glad the great internal "to turn on the AC or to open windows" dialogue will no longer cause me to (literally) lose sleep at night. Because that was quite maddening.

I never thought I would get all poetic about hot temperatures, but I guess the unusually long and wet spring got to my head a little.

Or perhaps it is just my love for changing seasons. I don't think I could be happy in a place that had the same weather all year round, even if it was nice weather. Maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment or something, because I like to suffer for my rewards. Suffering through the winter-spring battle is always a struggle, but it makes the arrival of summer all the more wonderful. With summer comes pleasant evening walks, sprinklers, family reunions and vacations, water activities, and long, lazy days. And this year we'll have the added benefit of seeing green stuff in July, assuming we aren't all swept away in a flood. (Though as bad as that would be, I would love to go fishing on state street like they did during the great floods of 20 years ago, but, unfortunately, Salt Lake seems to be more prepared this time.)

Soon the heat will become obnoxious enough to drive us into our cool houses, but for now I am enjoying summer for all the glories that it contains. All I need now is to play a good softball game in an emptying ballpark, wafting with the smells of greasy hamburgers, as the sun sets. That is the perfect picture of summer.