The G.C. {with update}

I know what you are humming thinking.
It’s that time of the year again. General Conference.
Three weeks ago, our family sat down after a Family Home Evening and discussed questions and concerns that our family could pray about in preparation of G.C. this April.
Together we came up with six.
More preparation goes into our conference weekend than you’d think. Sure, we don’t have our usual three-hour-block worth of church meetings, but still, at least in our family, we need to prepare. For us the G.C. weekend is all about the food and snacks… and spiritual enrichment. Mostly spiritual nourishment.

Typically we have on our menu for conference weekend…

• Waffles or cinnamon rolls for breakfast
• Frozen grapes, veggies with ranch, crackers and cheez wiz for snacks
• Cream Cheese Chicken (aka Crockpot Chicken) for dinner
• then while Mike is away at the priesthood session, I’d make cookies so we could eat and discuss the session upon his arrival home.
• Then Sunday is a day of chicken salad. We eat it for most of the day except for breakfast… not without effort of trying… on my part.

Two things throw a wrench in my traditional menu. First, the Priesthood session. Here, it starts at 8:00. Yeah, I’m not gonna be baking cookies that late at night, and forget waiting up for a conversation. Phish.
Second, um, Easter falls on General Conference weekend this year. . .
Do I disrupt my chicken salad binge of happiness (CSBH) for the sake of holiday tradition?
Do I carry on with my CSBH for the sake of G.C. tradition?
OR do I just serve the CSBH with a side of funeral potatoes and call it even?

What do you think, blogdom?

Do you support the CSBH? Or is it time to purge?

Comment and let me know about your G.C. and Easter traditions
and also your stance on the CSBH issue.

See you after conference.

PS I will pledge life-long friendship to anyone who writes a general-conference-themed parody to the song hyper-linked at the beginning of this post. Seriously. I will. Promises.
Void where prohibited.

General Conference
(a parody of California by Phantom Planet)
by April

Hymns are being sung
Conference has begun
Authorities are #1
General Conference here we come
Where we get revelation from

Listening can be fun
Chicken Salad on a bun
conference bingo 101
General Conference here we come
Where we get revelation from

General Conference!
Here we come!

On the satellite
Helps me choose the right
I can’t wait for it to start
General Conference here we come
Where we get revelation from
Kids on the floor
Beggin’ for some more
M & M’s will get us thru
General Conference here we come
Where we get revelation from

General Conference!
Here we come!

General Conference!
Here we come!

How cool is our Primary President?
Answer: Pretty dang cool.
Thanks, April! :)

Birthday No. 2

How do you start a good day? With breakfast, of course.

Just in case you aren't in the "KNOW"
these characters are Caleb's posse: Ah-yah-yah and Ducky.

As tradition, for birthday dinners we go out to eat.
We decided to dine high society-like, and went to Red Rowbin
where Caleb loves to slurp on dijon ketchup, bottomless lemonade and gets a free balloon.

MmMmMmMmMmM...

After a macaroni entree (complete with french fries and mandarin oranges) at Red Robin,
Caleb wrapped up the night with the unwrapping of gifts and cake.
He got a Speak n' Say and a toy tool box (the noisiest toys to date).

No, you aren't allowed to submit this cake to CakeWrecks.
All I had was a butter knife and plastic sandwich bag.
Give me a break. :) Overall, I'm proud.

(Excuse our tone, or lack thereof.)

We are so glad to have Caleb as a part of our family.
It was a good day to celebrate our son
and the past two years.

Happy Birthday, Caleb Elias.


Mention your favorite memory about Caleb
or favorite Caleb blog post
when commenting.

Good night Caleb, see you in the morning.

{Caleb's Song.}

Beautiful,
beautiful, beautiful,
beautiful boy.

Darling,
Darling,
Darling Caleb.

Borderless

This blog entry has been spinning in my head since Isabelle Delobel and Olivier Schoenfelder stepped out onto the ice in Vancouver for compulsory dance. I asked Mike, “Who is this?” (by which I meant, what country are these fine athletes representing?) and I offered, “France? They look French.”


The utterance of this gave me pause.


That’s borderline, if not completely, stereotyping territory I was chatting myself into. YIKES.

What does it mean to look “French”?

Part of me felt bad for saying such a thing.
Now that I have confided that, excuse me while I type with uncensored abandonment, possibly not P.C. nor P or C, and most likely to exclude other letters of the alphabet too, for that matter. :)



It’s pretty common for people to “place” another person’s heritage or nationality through appearances.

When I look at my husband, for example, I see his Danish ancestry. I also see clues of other ethnicities long concealed through the assortments of adoptions in his family tree.

(Maybe next time you see Mike,
you’d like to take a guess or two)

And me. What do I see when I look at myself?
Well. Oddly.

Nothing.

Essentially my pedigree breaks down into four European (surprised?) “mother” countries. None, aside from my pastey skin, leave a trace on my face.

Not only do people mispronounce my maiden name, they misplace it.

Italian? Greek? Hispanic?

No. No. No.

Probably doesn’t help my name is Angela. Sorry about that.
Very misleading.

After researching, whether general history or family history, you learn “French”, “German”, “etceteran” doesn’t mean, well, anything. Germany’s borders have been settled, invaded, drawn and redrawn.
Names tend to live longer than borders, and, often, bloodlines.
With that said,
I have been watching Who Do You Think You Are? on NBC. I can’t get pass the opening credits without crying. Mike thinks it is hilarious/endearing.
I’ll try to explain why I cry with as few words as possible: I’m happy.
More words? I’m happy to see people feel the way I have felt all my life. My earliest memories are asking my parents and grandparents about their childhoods. It made me content to learn that life existed before me, and I was a part of it. Most people won’t understand this concept until they have children- once they have a part of them, a tender part, alive outside and besides themselves. It is truly startling.

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints gives a name to the phenomenon that compels people to learn about their forebears. We call it the Spirit of Elijah. A desire of unity.

And it has no borders.

Sprung.

If blue is JOY...

{the bush near Emma's grave, click to enlarge photos}

then lavender is HOPE.

What are you doing sitting around and reading my blog for?
Go out and enjoy the true meaning of spring.
xoxo,
Ang

Spring Raking

Who knew a simple objective would yield such a mess.

Objective: rake out the flower bed.

Result: 5’ x 4’ x 2’ pile of leaves.

I wish I’d taken a picture; however, please enjoy this rendering I doodled:

Spring has sprung but if I didn’t know better… I’d say it’s still autumn at our house.
Here’s something you may have not known:

Snow is nature’s way of preserving frail fallen leaves.

Natural selection is a fluke, I swear.

Just kidding, Charlie.

If you don’t rake your leaves before the first big snow, you’ll be seeing those appendages of your arboretum come Spring.
There’s a lesson there.

Somewhere.

(Probably under the pile of leaves.)

It's for fun.

I'll save a

genuine blog post

for another day.

Today. It's just for fun.