Tim and I were just discussing practicing some of the techniques we've learned at birth class so far.
Tim: We could go over some of that um . . . anal puncture stuff.
me: Anal what?
Tim: ACUPRESSURE! I meant acupressure.
Monday, January 23, 2012
A little while ago, we got together with our friends Kristen and Kevin and spontaneously decided to compose ten-minute stories based on a topic someone else in the group came up with. At first not everyone was enthused about the prospect, but in the end, we were all glad we did it, I think. It was fun and provided some interesting variety to our regular activities (i.e., eat food, talk, play games).
Tim spent a little longer than ten minutes on his story because it was taking him so long to regress his writing skills. But it was worth the wait. See for yourself:
My name is Richy I am 5. One time I road on an air plane it was neat. I looked out the window and saw cloud and the ground. A lady brought me some milk. She said I was a good boy. Her name was Pauline and she was nice. Later Pauline sat next to me on the plane. Her breath smelled funny. She said she was from Detroit and she lived with her mom like me and before that she lived with Steve with was such a sweety but is really a piece of good for nothing trash with that fluzy Candice and Pauline keept drinking something in a paper bag. Then she got up but kept falling down. Then a man named Marshall put bracelets on Pauline and sat next to her. Now Mom won't let me fly alone.
My story wasn't very funny. The topic Kevin came up with for me was "talking horse is about to be euthanized," and you know, euthanasia is a hard topic to make funny beyond saying that a talking horse is about to be euthanized. It's funny at first. We could've stopped there if we wanted the humor to live on, but instead I wrote a depressing story that made Kristen think about neglecting her innocent baby.
The veterinary clinic was dark and cold when Bobby, the talking horse, arrived on the morning of January 23 [oh hey, it's weird I'm blogging about this on January 23 . . . completely unplanned]. He didn't know what he was coming in for, exactly. But the ranchers who owned the field he grazed on were concerned about him and had decided to take him in to the clinic. Every time the ranchers visited the horses to stack more hay bales for them or to fill their troughs, they skirted around Bobby as if he were diseased. Bobby sometimes trotted over to engage them in conversation, but their reaction was always the same as the other horses—they'd eye him suspiciously and pretend not to understand what he was saying. Bobby was pretty sure he wasn't sick, but he was at least grateful to escape the ostracizing field. Maybe someone in the clinic would hear him out. When they arrived, though, the ranchers led Bobby inside and turned to exit almost immediately. The heavy doors clunked behind their disappearing footsteps. Bobby noticed the sterile smell and felt curious—what was going to happen to him? Metal instruments clanged in a muffled way from the next room. Bobby neighed and called "Hello?" uncertainly. Finally a vet emerged wearing a white lab coat. The vet greeted Bobby warmly and Bobby felt assured. He'd finally be heard.
Friday, January 20, 2012
The PhD applications are submitted! Actually, they have been for a while, but this is the first the blog's heard about it. Where we'll be come August is entirely up in the air at this point (no one has sent letters begging Tim to come to their school and offering him money to do so . . . yet), but it could be one of the 9 cities pinned in the picture above (west-east/north-south: Seattle, Washington; Eugene, Oregon; Davis, California; Berkeley, California; Santa Barbara, California; Los Angeles, California; Lubbock, Texas; Austin, Texas; Houston, Texas). And if the PhD thing doesn't work out, Plan B could place somewhere else entirely, maybe even plant us in Utah longer. The possibilities! The uncertainty!
If you could have your pick of any of these cities, where would you go to live for the next three to five and some-odd years?