All Things Kendall and Carolina

Viva la France

2011-07-20T22:16:00.004-06:00

In the spirit of full disclosure, I must admit that I have never wanted to go to France. It seemed too obvious. Everyone wants to go to France. Foodies go to France. Museum vagabonds go to France. Cinema-adorers go to France. Hopeless romantics go to France. Camera-wielding, bus-riding retirees go to France. Even worse, Da-vinci Code fanatics go to France. See? Everyone goes to France.

This year, though, I developed an acute case of Francophilia from reading a couple of blogs (Stephmodo and DesignMom) that frequently feature photographs and descriptions of France. When we found some surprisingly affordable airfare, we booked plane tickets and departed just two weeks later. I now humbly confess: I love France. Even with two kids under the age of 4.

Our "Tour de France" began in Geneva. There, we piled two kids, two carseats, a stroller, two large suitcases, a diaper bag, a camera bag, two carry-on bags, and a portable crib (we forgot the partridge in the pear tree) into a rental car, a Citroen Picasso. (Americans would never drive a car named a "Picasso," would they?) Thus began a 16-day road trip through France.

Our first stop: Provence. Highlights included the best-preserved Roman aqueduct (and a bathroom emergency for Alex that involved running to the nearest bathroom only to arrive moments too late), medieval stockades (which gave a whole new meaning to the notion of "time out"), rain, and beautiful silver leaf maple tree bark that looked like oil-paintings.

Next stop: Carcassonne, famed medieval fortress city. Though the medieval architecture was fantastic, the crepes and ice cream may have been even more memorable. (Below: Please note that I did not grow an extra leg on my left side (though that sandal is cute!). Rather, Bianca spent a great deal of time riding on my back in the Ergo Baby carrier.)

We packed up and headed to the Dordogne river valley. There, we encountered breathtaking views of castles precariously perched on cliffs, experienced another bathroom emergency in which we arrived at the bathroom two moments too late, and reunited with our old friend, the rain.

It was in the Dordogne that Alex found an Italian girlfriend. The two lovebirds whispered sweet nothings in each other's ears (overheard: "Io non parlo francesi, io sono italiana"--"I don't speak French, I am Italian") in the romantic shadows of the Beynac public playground equipment.

After a few days, we headed to the Loire river valley, land of Rennaissance excess and opulence. Here, there were no bathroom emergencies. We instituted a "urinate on demand" rule. That is, Alex was required to urinate when we ordered him to, despite his objections that he didn't need to go.

Then we went to Mont St. Michele. The view from the top was excellent, but I could have done without climbing innumerable stairs with a twenty-pound baby on my back alongside countless tourists.

We enjoyed a solemn respite in Normandy, where we visited the American Cemetery and where I cried for all the men--boys, really--that died on those beaches so many years ago.

After spending the night at a lovely bed and breakfast in Normandy, we headed to Paris. Though Paris is the City of Lights, we lamentably never saw it lit up, as we were tucking our children into bed before the lights came on. Paris was the only place that was difficult to navigate with children. Here, we turned in our rental car, packed into an apartment the size of our bedroom in Utah, traveled in the subway with a stroller that does not fit under turnstyles, and encountered way too many tourists.

Alex's big take-aways from France were Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower. Since returning home, Alex finds these landmarks in his Saturday morning cartoons, picture books, mentioned on the radio, and everywhere else.

Paris is truly for lovers. Here, couples attach locks to the bridge railing and throw the key into the Seine below. I wonder what happens in the case of a breakup?

The stained glass in St. Chappelle was to die for:

More French friends for Alex.

My one regret for the trip: visiting Versailles. I have never, ever been as close to a profane Turret-like explosion as I was while being pushed and shoved through the opulent halls of this palace by hundreds and hundreds of sweaty tourists. The gardens, however, were refreshing, even in the rain:

Bianca napped while I took in the Louvre:

The Arc de Triomphe was a fitting last stop for our trip. We had indeed triumphed over Paris, and we were quite proud.

A word about food: France rekindled my romance with all things dairy, restored my faith in mayonnaise, and refuted the conventional wisdom that man cannot live by bread alone. Au contraire, one can live on bread alone in France. And it is a delicious existence. The French know food, and we enjoyed going along for the ride. Even Bianca, who rather appreciated pureed French cuisine, agrees. Forget Freedom fries--we want French fries!

I'm more exhausted after writing this post than I was after the trip itself. You probably need a vacation after getting through this. I certainly do.

Les Vacances

2011-06-14T08:49:00.002-06:00

We are on a mini Tour de France. We'll be back soon with a full report . . . .

Summer 2010 in Review

2011-05-17T16:19:00.000-06:00

It's supposed to be sunny and warm outside. Instead it is raining today, so join me in a parade of memories from last summer.

We played Beatles Rockband:

We watched (although some of us refused to listen to) fireworks on the Fourth of July:

We explained to Alex that we could not prevent the Fourth-of-July hot air balloons from taking off despite his wish that they remain on the ground. We also tried to convince Alex that hot air balloons are not scary. We were unsuccessful:

Until we bought him cotton candy. (Plus, because of an uncooperative wind pattern, the announcer later proclaimed that all of the balloons were grounded. Alex squealed with glee, as he thought that he had single-handedly prevented the balloons from taking off.)

We let Alex get his face painted at the Provo farmer's market:

Alex was later unsuccessful in re-creating the look at home:

We collected strawberries:

And we made pies:

And then we exercised to burn off the strawberry pie calories:

Oh, and I had a baby.

Miami Orlando Vice

2011-05-14T08:25:00.002-06:00

About a year ago, Kendall, Alex, and I (carrying a just-about-to-debut Bianca) joined my sisters, their families, and my father for a week of kid-friendly indulgences in Orlando.

Ah, Orlando: Land of minivans, not-so-inclusive all-inclusive resorts, and a giant pre-pubescent talking mouse. But don't be fooled. Underneath the gleaming facade lies a gritty, tourist-eat-tourist sub-culture of vice. When we stopped at a "discount ticket" booth on Orlando's main drag, we were referred to a man named "Charly" down the street, who then referred us to "Giovanni" a block down. Giovanni quickly became the most memorable part of our trip. Giovanni was a discount theme-park ticket vendor (perhaps "dealer" is the better word?) from New Jersey who only accepted cash and, at one point, brandished his weapon in front of us to assure us that he could protect his ticket stash. Needless to say, we advise that you not try to buy "discount tickets" during your next trip to Orlando.

Alex was so excited that, when we arrived at Disney World, he caught a glimpse of the flying Dumbo ride and wandered off toward the levitating pachyderms while the rest of us waited in line for Peter Pan. Upon noticing that my child was missing, I indulged in a brief crisis fueled by pregnancy hormones. We found him in short order. He explained he wanted to ride Dumbo. Why, of course.

Alex's most memorable moment (which he still remembers) was meeting Mickey and Minnie at their house in Toontown. Not coincidentally, my most memorable moment was waiting in line for one hour and forty-five minutes in Toontown to spend two minutes with two dis-illusioned actors dressed in mouse costumes:

My father and I were charged with keeping track of the five children that were too short to ride Space Mountain, Splash Mountain, and such:

And we also went to Sea World. There's not much to say about that. There were whales and dolphins.

Stay tuned for more very out-dated blog posts!

Happy New Year!

2011-01-09T20:50:00.003-07:00

2010 was a great year for us - it brought Bianca into our family. Here's a copy of our latest newsletter. Enjoy.

http://dl.dropbox.com/u/4871913/Kendall_2010.pdf

See How they Grow

2010-09-27T17:53:00.004-06:00

I put a little Miracle-Gro in Bianca's bottle. (Just kidding. She refuses to take a bottle. I had to use a medicine dropper.*) Look at the results.

She's a pro at smiling.

She has also mastered the art of "moody eyes." And Alex thinks he is a super model.

While I'm not a fan of pomp and ceremony, I agreed to dress Bianca in a christening dress my mom made for her granddaughters' baby blessings. Alex attended his blessing in a blue shirt and brown corduroys. This dress was much more complicated than Alex's outfit--the dress extended a couple of feet below Bianca's toes. I felt like I was holding Queen Elizabeth.

* The lawyer in me compels me to make this disclaimer: Come on, people. Of course I didn't give my baby Miracle-Gro.

¡Bienvenida, Bianca!

2010-07-14T11:38:00.002-06:00

Meet Bianca Sofia. Born at 7:54 pm on June 22, 2010, Bianca emerged from my body fiercely protesting her eviction from the weightless bliss of fetal existence. Three weeks later, she is still mad about it. I take part of the blame, since I agreed to have labor induced. Maybe Bianca wasn't quite ready.

But Bianca's due date had come.

And gone.

And I remained inconceivably and magnificently pregnant. Every day, I searched the universe for some sign, some hint, that labor was imminent. But a watched pot never boils. So I agreed to be induced with pitocin, and, sure enough, the pot boiled. I passed the time in the delivery room reading Us Weekly (so perfect for these occasions) and chatting with the nurses and my doctor about whether I should read the Twilight series or at least watch the movies. (End verdict: skip them.)

It was all very pleasant. There were ice chips to chew, a World Cup soccer game to watch, a middle name to pick out, and a new iPad to play with (a belated gift from Kendall, who had been out of the country on Mother's Day). Then it became unbearable. Every contraction came two seconds too soon, stayed four seconds too long, and felt eight times as strong as the last one.

Enter the epidural. Although it took multiple adjustments from the anesthesiologist over the course of an hour and a half, the epidural worked its magic (plus a little extra "magic"--I was completely numb from my rib cage down for nine hours after the birth) just in time for Bianca's debut. Three pushes, and an eight-pound, two-ounce Bianca was here, angry as hell about it.

I had no idea newborns could be so loud. The way Bianca acts, it must have been cotton candy, unicorns, and rainbows inside my womb. She often looks wistfully into the distance, remembering her prior charmed life, and then, shocked by the reality of her new situation, screams in horror. Nursing is her one consolation. Bianca nurses until she's delirious, even drunk. Hello, her name is Bianca, and she is a lactaholic. As a result, Bianca gained one pound in the three days after leaving the hospital, a feat the pediatrician could hardly believe.

As for Kendall and me, we are adjusting to post-partum life. Recovery has been much easier for me this time around, but I must admit to missing the hospital, where angels dressed in scrubs parade through your room with drinks, Lorna Doone shortbread cookies, blood pressure machines, and narcotics. In exchange for your dignity, you can even get help in the bathroom or getting dressed. (Dignity is overrated--it is for heads of state, Barbara Walters, and maybe Julie Andrews.)

Our household is a comedy of errors as Kendall and I figure out how to juggle two kids, which, for a split second, caused us to consider the advantages of a minivan. But we are not ready to grow up yet, so we will continue to stuff Bianca, Alex, strollers, etc., into our "family car," a cozy Toyota Corolla. (Kendall's Civic is the "date car.") Alex relishes being a big brother. He has a new room, a new bed, and a new defiant attitude to go with them--we have so much fun watching him grow up.

Despite the craziness and ordinance-violating decibel level, we love our little Bianca. We are intrigued by her examining eyes and can't wait to discover the mysteries that lie behind them. We think you'll love her too.

Bianca Sofia

June 22, 2010

8 lb 2 oz, 20.5 inches

Diagnosis: Adult-onsent Dyslexia With Hypochondrial Complications

2010-02-16T13:58:00.007-07:00

My latest self-diagnosis is adult-onset dyslexia. My rational self (who occasionally visits a small corner of my frontal lobe when not on vacation in Bora Bora) says I suffer from pregnancy-induced bad eyesight. I disagree with my rational self and offer into evidence Exhibits 1, 2, and 3.

Exhibit 1. A sentence in a Sunday school manual: "Prayerfully read the following passages."

Instead, I saw "Playfully read the following passages." I immediately realized my mistake, but I read the passages as playfully as possible anyway because I thought the story of Noah's ark would be much better that way. It was.

Exhibit 2. A New York Times headline:* "Cities Prepare for Life With the Electric Car"

Instead, I read "Cities Prepare for Life With the Electric Chair." I clicked on that link, giddy with horror, expecting the story of how rogue city counsels are purchasing used prison equipment to "persuade" local trouble-makers into compliance with recently-passed ordinances requiring individuals to sort their recycling into 37 different bins. I was perplexed by the actual text of the article, which described how business owners are installing electrical outlets in their parking lots. I thought long and hard about how the title might come into play (will the electric chairs be available for use just outside the local tanning salon?) but finally decided that the author of the article had consumed one too many packets of Splenda and was therefore suffering from a misfiring neuron. I realized the next day, when perusing the news, that I had misread the title of the article. Electric cars. Not as exciting, but much more practical.

Exhibit 3. Another online headline: "It's Not Political, But More Canadians Are Lefties."

I read "It's Not Political, But More Candidates Are Lefties." I scoffed. How can it not be political if political office is at stake? And how can most candidates be left-leaning? That's ludicrous. I didn't even click on that link. It turns out the article is about Canadians who use their left hands in hockey. (Is that still an Olympic sport? I prefer curling. Did you know I once considered putting together a Venezuelan curling team for the 2010 winter Olympics? I even found someone to coach the team. But then I conceived Alex, which put a crimp in my anticipated training schedule. I sacrificed an Olympic medal for you, Alex. But I digress.)

I will be monitoring my condition closely. I cannot afford to misread drug labels or street signs, even if it is more convenient to drive 51 miles an hour instead of 15. (Provo Center street, I'm talking about you.)

*I freely admit that virtually all my news comes from the "Most E-Mailed" list on the New York Times website. It's a populist approach to staying informed.

Maybe It's Because I'm Pregnant

2010-01-29T15:11:00.004-07:00

Or maybe it's because I love naked baby bums.

I need to see this movie.

Happy New Year!

2010-01-03T21:19:00.004-07:00

2010 entered with a bang as Carolina spent most of the night in pain and throwing up before we finally went to the hospital at about 5 a.m. After a few hours of tests in the ER, she got rehydrated and medicated to the point where she could start holding things down again. The diagnosis? Possibly a gall bladder attack, but they can't run more detailed tests to confirm while she's pregnant.

Yep, you heard right - we're expecting a baby girl in June!

Anyway, here's our annual New Year's Times newsletter to catch you up on our lives (although you probably already know most of this if you read our blog): http://dl.dropbox.com/u/4871913/Kendall_2009.pdf

We hope for great things in 2010. Happy New Year!

Happy Holidays!

2009-12-27T01:16:00.002-07:00

It's been a long while since we've posted on the blog, so it's time to blow the dust off and start afresh. Here's an electronic holiday card photo montage that we just had done by Justin Hackworth: http://justinhackworth.com/video/2009Christmas/20091217Nunez.html

Happy holidays!

Moonlight Confessional

2009-09-13T15:56:00.003-06:00

They come to the mountain to commune with the moon. At the bottom, they stand in line, their jovial outbursts of laughter subsiding into solemn uncertainty as their turn nears. The attendant beckons them toward the ski lift and onto the platform, where they wait for the floating bench to scoop them from the earth and swoop them into the sky.

The attendant is efficient. She is chewing mint-flavored gum. There are a hundred or so in line. Their lunar offerings and confessions must be processed.

Scoop and swoop.

A ten-year-old and her parents step onto the platform. She is listening to an Ipod. Her parents are not.

Scoop and swoop

Love birds (newly engaged?) prance onto the platform. He has his arm around her.

Scoop and swoop.

Kendall pulls me up to the platform. I tell him I'm afraid of heights. He knows. So is he.

Scoop and swoop.

In the cellophane darkness, we can see the returning ski lift benches gliding past us, back toward the attendant and the hot chocolate behind us. We examine each returning sojourner. And we see them turn toward us, analyzing us. But we all remain silent, as if our words might bounce off the darkness and fall to the ground. Instead, shrouded in the chiaroscuro anonymity of midsummer moonlight, the passengers whisper to each other and to the moon.

Kendall and I, suspended high over the slope on our parallel perch, hear the their secrets and confessions.

Three blanket-cloaked figures, each one just larger than the next--like Russian nesting dolls. An understated "oops," followed by a soft thud on the mountainside. A shoe? A camera? A copy of Nabakov's Lolita?

Swoop.

On one end of a bench, a woman turns toward a man slumped in the opposite corner: "Is it a fear of the unknown?"

Swoop.

A young man: "There's so much I regret."

Swoop.

"It's not a fungus," followed by nervous giggling.

Swoop.

Forgiven and absolved, they slide off the benches and back to the earth, resuming their regularly-scheduled programming. They jingle their car keys, re-apply lip gloss, and smooth their hair. Iphones and Blackberrys emerge.

"Do you have any cash for the babysitter?" I ask Kendall. The moon, swollen to capacity, casts just enough light for Kendall to count the dollar bills in his pocket.

*****

For our ninth wedding anniversary (!) Kendall and I forked over $20 to Robert Redford's minions at the Sundance Ski Resort to take a moonlight lift ride. I was apprehensive. The last time I rode a ski lift, I badly needed to use the bathroom, I was convinced that I would fall off the lift, and it was something like negative 57 degrees outside. (It never gets that cold in Utah? Fine. Make that negative 30 degrees.) This second ride was much more interesting, as you can tell by the things we overheard. The last moonlight rides take place on October 2nd and 3d, during the next full moon.

Investment

2009-07-29T20:28:00.008-06:00

The investment I made in a cake-decorating class almost four years ago finally came in handy when I helped my sister make a cake for her husband's surprise birthday party. My mom thinks I need a class in modesty. But what were we supposed to do? The Mattel-made bikini top with which she arrived, as classy as it was, didn't match.

How to Travel With a Chimpanzee

2009-07-28T10:03:00.007-06:00

I think I know what traveling with a chimpanzee would be like after taking Alex overseas. Unfortunately, tranquilizer injections for toddlers are not as readily available as they are for chimpanzees. Here are some photos from our last-minute three-ring-circus adventure in Europe.

Ring 1: Belgium

Behold Alex dancing in the middle of Brussels' main square. In pajamas. At three thirty in the afternoon:

Q: How do you coax a stubborn two-year old back to his stroller?

A: Offer him Belgian chocolate.

Ring 2: Germany

Where we stopped at every waterway and smelled every flower.

We visited what appeared to be Hamburg's greatest pride: the world's largest model train set, featuring replicas of several U.S. and European cities. Everything seemed quite accurate, except the miniature Bryce Canyon included a highway billboard advertising Planned Parenthood.

Ring 3: The Netherlands

Kendall and I, both embarrassingly afraid of heights, tested our phobia by taking Alex to the top of an old windmill. On the tiny platform at the top, Alex, who was suffering from time-zone-schizophrenia-induced madness, dropped to his hands and knees and spontaneously combusted into fits of meowing and purring, causing Kendall and me to reach wildly to toward the floor for his hand, afraid to abandon the security of the railings we so desperately grasped. We didn't climb any other windmills.

Happy cows do not live in California. They live in Holland and Germany, where I renewed my vows to all things dairy and discovered "quark," a food that, despite its Star-Trek-ish name, tastes like melted clouds glazed with rainbows. I plan to make it in the near future.

We survived Amsterdam, where trains, buses, cars, bicycles (so many!), and cannabis-smoking free spirits line every corner of the city. I don't even want to imagine what Amsterdam would look like if everyone had four wheels instead of two.

Since Alex never really adjusted to European time, we were exhausted by the end of the trip and ready for the wrestling match that lay ahead on the twelve-hour flight from Amsterdam to Salt Lake City. Alex won several battles, many involving his propensity for sudden feline transformations, but the ultimate victory was ours when we finally laid him down to sleep in his crib. He didn't wake up until 7:00 am--his normal waking time.

Peace in the Middle East

2009-07-11T17:34:00.009-06:00

To satisfy our pre-nuptual pact to see at least one new country every year, Kendall and I headed over to the Middle East for some rest and relaxation. We had already used one of our get-out-of-jail-free cards (Mexico) and are saving the other (Canada) for the year we are forced to retire our Corolla and spend all our life savings on a car that can accommodate more than a single toddler and his stuffed pet snow leopard named Meow Meow.

This year, we traveled with our parallel-universe counterpart couple, Chad and Amy, to Jordan. The nice thing about traveling with friends is that it emboldens you and provides a false sense of security. Once we knew we would be together, renting a car in a country where the writing on the road signs bears an uncanny resemblance to noodles thrown on a wall seemed like a great idea.

Renting a car, though, turned out to be a great way to see Jordan. Our travels took us everywhere from the northern most tip of the country through Irbid and down to Aqaba in the South.

We navigated Amman's seven rings of death (enormous multi-lane urban roundabouts governed entirely by drivers' testosterone levels) and performed numerous U-turns on the highway through Irbid as we each weighed in on what direction we thought was the right one.

We gestured our way through military checkpoints where the guards were puzzled by our insistence in driving through remote villages that never made it into any of our guidebooks. What they didn't know is that we would do anything to avoid driving through Irbid again.

We meandered on a narrow dirt road through mountainous sheep-herding land, following identical signs that nobody could read, until reaching the ruins of an ancient church. What church? We didn't know. We don't read Arabic.

Below are some of the more specific highlights from our trip:

1. Asking the women at a clothing shop in Madaba to dress us in full local attire, which turned out to be a double head covering and a floor length polyester dress (with silver glitter!). Thank goodness it was only like 180 degrees outside. In Jordan, fashion is not seasonal.

Now I know why the women in Jordan were masters of eye makeup. That's the only thing that shows. I desperately wished I had brought some eye-liner with me.

2. Eating packaged snack cakes and sipping cold fruit drinks with the Mount Nebo tourist police squad. The head of the squad had, just the week before, been the Pope's personal interpreter and guide for Mount Nebo. As he explained, he was the designated guide and interpreter for "official delegations," not mere tourists. His favorite English phrase? "I agree with you." He has clearly been learning diplomacy.

3. Braving the sweltering heat to see the Jordan River, including the likely site of Jesus' baptism, and being allowed into some ancient hermit caves (of the type that John the Baptist may have lived in during his ministry and famed culinary encounters with grasshoppers).

Baptismal site.

When we asked why these hermit caves were blocked off, the guide told us that tourists were not allowed inside, but then added, "But this is the Middle East" and allowed us inside.

4. Floating in the Dead Sea after earnestly believing that I would sink into the brine.

Look, Ma, no hands. Or feet. Just salt.

5. Wandering among the ruins of Jerash and enjoying a hands-on lesson on Roman architecture. Remember: Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian are three flavors of architectural embellishment.

Columns, columns, and more columns.

We joined an audience of giddy school children to watch underpaid Jordanian actors re-enact a Roman chariot race, gladiator fights, and military formations.

6. Being followed throughout Ajlun Castle by Ali "the Fighter," who we thought was overly eager to practice his English with us. Ali was a mysterious man: we couldn't figure out why he was hanging out at a tourist/field trip hub, and he had very few answers to our questions. But because all the Jordanians we had met had been so genuinely hospitable and nice, we accepted Ali's invitation to join him for lunch. However, we refused his request that one of us ride with him in his car. Alas, no lunch took place because Ali the Fighter was detained by Jordanian police as we walked out to the parking lot in front of the castle. We considered waiting for Ali to be released, but quickly decided that it was best to do lunch on our own.

The suspect is on the left.

Ajlun Castle was a Muslim fortress dating to 1184 AD. Think Lawrence of Arabia, Kingdom of Heaven, or any other of your favorite crusade movies.

7. Desperately ordering everything on the menu at the "Rest Room" (restaurant) at the ruins of Umm Qais to appease "Hungry Chad," who was turning colors and foaming at the mouth from lack of food.

8. Discussing the concept of marital fidelity, embraced by both Mormonism and Islam, with our guide in Petra, who believed that the requirement applied mostly to women.

Yes, I hummed the Indiana Jones theme song as we entered the city. Look at the facade in the upper right corner of the collage. Those dots in the doorway are people. The scale is unimaginable.

9. Scuba diving in the Red Sea and splurging on a nice hotel in Aqaba.

We don't have an underwater camera.

10. Crossing the border into Israel, where rifles and handguns are fashion staples.

A cigarette, a surf bag, Dolce & Gabana sunglasses, and a military-issue weapon.
What more could one want? Maybe a bottle of Evian.

Our two days in Israel included a third-of-a-mile-long jaunt through Hezekiah's Tunnel, an almost three-thousand-year-old aqueduct. While I'm sure it's usually very pleasant, I had the distinct sensation that we were mere mosquitoes flitting between two giant, merciless stone hands. Perhaps it was the fact that we were stuck behind a herd of slow-moving, song-singing, identically-dressed teenagers. Or maybe it was because the teenager directly in front of Kendall had a rifle strapped to his back that bounced on his hip with every step he took. Or it could have been the rather chatty Japanese tour group pressing up against our backs. But it was probably just the fact that I could barely get my thighs past the slimy wet walls.

Greenish Thumb

2009-06-14T19:37:00.001-06:00

I probably could learn a lot about faith, hope, and optimism from our first attempt at planting a vegetable garden. This is, after all, the stuff of parables and children's stories: plant a seed, nourish it, believe in it, and watch it grow and even bear fruit. Amazing!

I, for one, don't buy it. You're telling me that Kendall and I toss some little specks of genetic material into some dirt, add water, and in three months we'll be able to walk out to the garden, pour some honey mustard dressing on it, and have a salad? Naaah. So many things can go wrong--deer can come eat the leaves off the eggplants (check), a toddler could pull up the peppers (check), a caretaker could forget to water (inevitable), the seeds could have been accidentally exposed to excessive amounts of radiation if the farmer happened to have those seeds with him during his cat scan.

I prefer to remain skeptical. That way, if there's a single tomato on those sickly vines, the garden will have exceeded my expectations. My (surviving) houseplants are skeptical too. I thought I could hear them yelling from their perch at the kitchen window as Kendall and I watered our newly-planted seeds: "Don't germinate! Stay in your little shells! They're monsters. They'll kill you!"

BYU, We Love You

2009-06-10T20:53:00.004-06:00

For those of you have not been lucky enough to spend substantial time on BYU campus and for those of you who have forgotten what it's like, let me refresh your memory.

Highlights from a recent BYU Police Beat report:

I believe the children are our future.
"May 31: A 13-year-old male living in Wymount Terrace called police from his cell phone to report that his mother was being abusive. The male was in the bathroom for a 30 minute time-out session and told police that he felt that punishment was too harsh."

Provo: Where no one need feel uncomfortable
May 31: A phone call came in reporting a male alum and a female student had been kissing in the grass near a Wymount Terrace complex, making the caller and his family feel uncomfortable. The officer arrived and asked them to leave.

Drive-by shooting, BYU style
May 30: Occupants in a white truck were squirting people with water squirt guns in the Cannon Commons area around 11 p.m. The students were located by police and apologized.

And you thought that moose (mooses? moosi?) only roamed free in the opening credits of Northern Exposure.
June 4: A moose was loose on campus so police called the Utah Division of Wildlife Resources. Officials came and tranquilized the moose. However, before going down the moose damaged two vehicles in the parking lot across from the SAS Building.

The commencement of freedom

2009-06-07T12:29:00.017-06:00

I still feel like I'm walking on air after finally graduating from my MBA program on May 9th. No more weekends away from home and family, no more 10pm weeknight conference calls to work on group homework assignments, no more expensive flights back-and-forth between Utah and San Francisco, no more stressing over brutal exams, and no more feeling completely overwhelmed by the balance (or lack thereof) between work, school and family life. Yahoo!!

What can I say? This was a huge achievement for me - I managed to hold it all together for 2 years - to stay employed, stay married and still make it through school! I couldn't have done it without Carolina's patience and support.

And as for keeping up with Carolina - Okay, I didn't earn a juris doctorate or anything, but I did earn a graduate degree, so I'd say that about keeps me on par with Carolina's educational achievements (well, other than the fact that she graduated top of her class, which I certainly did not!). But I can always hold it over her head that I went to an Ivy League school, which will drive her totally nuts.

So what's next? Carolina thinks it's her turn . . . for medical school!?!

Salaam: Greetings from the Middle East

2009-05-18T00:12:00.003-06:00

Do Not Begin Until the Proctor Instructs You To Do So

2009-04-21T11:36:00.006-06:00

Having just finished writing law school final exams, please let me present you with the following hypothetical:

Suppose you are at an Italian restaurant and your group of six adults and one toddler are seated at a table next to an enormous window that puts out enough radiant heat to power a small potato chip factory. Then suppose that your waiter introduces himself to you. His name is Ion. Not Ian. Ion. Pronounced Ay-ahn. You hope he is not missing an electron or two, as his name suggests.

When asked whether the gnocchi or the tortellini is better, Ion assures you that the tortellini is. So you order the cheese tortellini. After Ion has finished taking orders, your group realizes that Ion forgot to take an order for your father, who is visiting from a South American country known for petroleum production, and who will be paying for the meal. After much signaling (everyone at the table waves his/her hands in the air), Ion returns. He takes your father's order. Based on Ion's recommendation, your father orders spinach tortellini.

Ion brings out the food. He triumphantly places a plate of tortellini in front of your father and various pasta dishes in front of everyone else, except you. It turns out he gave your cheese tortellini to your father, and the spinach tortellini is not ready yet. Fine. You'll eat the spinach tortellini. When the spinach tortellini arrives, you conclude that it is only 40% as good as the gnocchi, which your husband had the good sense to order despite the electron-deficient waiter's recommendation.

On to dessert. Your father orders chocolate tiramisu. (This restaurant does not have real tiramisu because real tiramisu has coffee in it, and this restaurant is located in a predominantly Mormon community.) Ion brings your dad a piece of cake with strawberries on it.

Because Ion is slow to bring the check, you go to the cash register and ask for your check. On the credenza by the register there are two small plastic figurines (likely from a McDonald's happy meal circa 1993) of Belle and The Beast from Disney's full-length animated film.

Discuss.

Hint: the Beauty and the Beast figurine bit is a red herring. So is the part about the country known for petroleum production. Those facts are true, hypothetically speaking, but they're only meant to confuse you and make you wonder why I put them there.

Disclaimer: This is merely a hypothetical. However, if Ion were real, and especially if he were reading this blog post or if you were to run into him at a restaurant in Provo, you should know that it was only Ion's fourth day on the job and that Ion was very pleasant and had a really great tattoo. You should also know that we gave him a 20% tip even though the check already had a gratuity included. Of course we didn't realize that the gratuity was included, but it shows that we were willing to tip him well and liked him overall. And the gnocchi really is the best dish at this hypothetical restaurant.

Something Old, Something New

2009-04-06T22:00:00.006-06:00

I don't know if I'm having a midlife crisis or if the economy has me convinced that I cannot yearn for anything available in a big box store, but I am suddenly drawn to other people's old junk. I'm developing nostalgia for a time period I don't remember, or, for that matter, never lived. Sadly, though, I'm finding that I'm not well suited to a bygone era.

Take my newly-acquired Royal HH typewriter (pictured above). This piece of dusty machinery was love at first sight. (Thanks to Craigslist.) I logged on, I saw, I bought. This--this--would surely turn me into poet or at least serve as a conduit for evening chats with Ernest Hemingway. Things haven't turned out to be quite as romantic as I'd hoped. First, Ernest seems to be incomunicato. Second, I've spent a great deal of time clacking my name, wishing I had something more substantial to say. Talk about writer's block. Try spilling your soul onto a blank piece of paper, using a machine that (1) betrays the hesitancy in your strokes by leaving mere ghosts of letters on the page and (2) knows no forgiveness. "Delete" is for cowards. "Tab release"? Now that's serious.

Which is why I return to the quiet tip tap of my computer keyboard. I can say anything I want. And then I can delete it. My self-esteem thrives on such artificial power.

In any event, my recent journey into antique shops, online vintage listings, and other antiquities has resulted in a plethora of tales to tell. In the coming days, please stay tuned for the adventures of Zobie Self, whose name was stamped on the inside of a vintage copy of Crime and Punishment that I bought and whom I have cyber-stalked. In the meantime, something old and something new:

Alex has taken an interest in building towers with wooden blocks, which, in my current nostalgic crisis, makes me extremely happy because there is something inherently retro about wooden blocks. Sadly, Alex spends more time with neon-colored platic toys.

Our darling Alex has found a way to make an old-fashioned oatmeal breakfast more efficient. I still use a spoon, which is apparently outdated.

This old picture of my father demystifies the origins of Alex's pot belly and squishycheeks (yes, all one word).

Ah, sisters. So much shared blood. So much rivalry. I'm on the right.

A Public Service Announcement

2009-03-13T15:41:00.000-06:00

Surprise--I am Hispanic!

Maybe you gathered as much from the name Núñez, as it's not exactly Danish. It's a Spanish surname that means son of Nuno. Of course, I'm not really the son of Nuno, but somebody was, way back when. And whatever DNA I've inherited from Nuno may be to blame for my dark skin, curly hair, freakishly long feet, and incomprehensible attraction to the coffee aisle at the supermarket (even if only for the smell, since I don't drink the stuff).

Well, I'm glad that's all cleared up. Phew.

The three experiences detailed below had me worried that maybe nobody knew.

1. Once, during a casual conversation, someone explained to me that he refused to to sub-let his apartment to Hispanics, specifically Mexicans, because "you know how they are." (Little voice inside my head: Well, I suppose I do, since half my family is composed of them.)

2. An acquaintance told me he wouldn't trust a Hispanic person to babysit his children. (Little voice inside my head: Do you trust me?)

3. More recently, seeming well-wishers have cautioned me that speaking Spanish to Alex at home might make people identify him as Hispanic. (Little voice inside my head: But he is part Hispanic.)

In every situation, I've been too stunned to respond or even acknowledge the comment. The immediate sting of the comments is obvious, but the more significant damage comes later, when I ask why someone would feel comfortable saying these types of things to me? Do I seem like the type of person that harbors racist sentiments? Worse, do I seem like the type of Latina who thinks of herself as better than other Latina/os?

Maybe a little late, and maybe to the wrong audience, but here's my response to those coments: I don't think it should matter if you are a daughter or son of Gonzalo or a son or daughter of John, Peter, or Hans. We can thank them for blue eyes, curly hair, short stature, cankles, and freckles, and even our last names, but not for our characters. I don't know if Nuno was trustworthy or not, or if he was a hard worker, or if he was a Casanova. But I refuse to believe that his character, noble or otherwise, passed to me by virtue of our shared ethnicity. Hispanics come in as many shades of virtue, honor, integrity, and kindness as Asians and Caucasians do. Please do not prejudge me or anyone else based on skin color, native language, surname, stereotype, or any other quality outside of our control.

That's all I have to say about that (although I'd love to hear what you have to say).

Amen.

My Funny Valentine

2009-02-17T15:42:00.007-07:00

It was my turn to take Alex to his much-dreaded (by everyone involved) "well-child" checkup. On the menu for Alex's ordeal: poking and prodding (in even the most private of body parts) with latex-covered gloves, a lighted magnifying glass in the ear, and a stethoscope (apparently straight from the fridge) on a naked chest. For dessert, a purported vaccination.

Anyone who's forced an 18-month old child to submit to the will of a strange doctor wearing squeaky gloves and ill-fitting spectacles knows that it takes coercion. Unfortunately, 18-month-olds do not respond to bribes, or I would have offered Alex the moon, if that's what it took. Alex responds to two things: physical force/restraint and affectionate words and gestures. Both of these coercion methods combined and collided to produce an inexplicable and unanticipated Valentine's surprise during the examination.

You see, Alex had taken the oft-quoted Mormon adage "My body is a temple, not a visitor's center" to heart. As far as he was concerned, his ear canal, which the doctor needed to check, was not open for inspection. Time for coercion. I tried affection. The doctor tried physical restraint. As the doctor raised his hand to hold Alex's head in place, I puckered my lips to offer Alex a kiss of comfort. We both aimed for the same spot on Alex's forehead without realizing the impending collision.

You can imagine the rest. I kissed the doctor's hand--quite tenderly. (Happy Valentine's Day?) No one said a word about the Incident, but the doctor and I did have a very pleasant conversation about Spanish accents after the examination. I think we might be better friends because of the Incident.

Then Nurse Ratchett brought in a loaded syringe and, without the slightest look of sympathy, emptied its contents into my then innocent, precious child's milky white thigh. Vaccination, schmaccination. In the few days since that vaccine, Alex has developed very unpleasant symptoms: repeated use of the word "no," refusal to go to bed, and high-pitched screams. Where has my innocent baby gone? I believe Nurse Ratchett injected a strain of Terrible Toddlerhood into Alex and called it a Hepatitis A vaccination. I'm looking for possible antidotes.

New Year's Nuisance

2009-01-28T19:37:00.005-07:00

"It's a nuisance!" - At least that's what Carolina thinks of our end-of-year newsletter, The New Year's Times, which we put together for friends and family. She may not love the time and effort it takes, but I think we both treasure the photos and stories that document our lives together.

Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy the latest edition!

http://dl.dropbox.com/u/4871913/Kendall_2008.pdf

P.S. - Carolina, you've achieved your first new year's resolution. Congrats.

New Year's Revolution

2009-01-23T19:36:00.004-07:00

I obviously missed the new year's resolution season: The Christmas tree undertaker already collected the limp Christmas tree corpses lining suburbia's streets (rest in peace); even the most resolute weight-loss hopefuls are trying to figure out how to sell the gym memberships that they only used once since purchasing them on January 1st; the Utah winter air tastes like exhaust pipes and cigarette butts; and taxes loom large.

But I saw a little flicker of belated new year enthusiasm during the presidential inauguration, and I couldn't resist setting some goals for 2009. Besides, Chinese New Year is tomorrow, so in a cosmopolitan, geo-political, multi-cultural sort of way, I'm right on schedule. And since publicizing your goals supposedly increases your chances of meeting them, please join me in welcoming the Year of the Ox:

1. I will* do my part to finish our blasted holiday newsletter ("The New Year's Times"), which we usually send out and post on this blog during the first week of January, but which I'll be grateful to dispatch any time before the end of January. And, for Kendall's sake, I will not complain (any more than I already have) about helping finishing it.

2. I will learn to cook fish. But this goal is limited to fish that live in the ocean; fresh water fish taste like mud. This goal also excludes crustaceans, because I don't like working with exoskeletons. I propose (to whom, I don't know) that I attempt a fish dish once a month, and that I report on my efforts here. If you have any fish preparation suggestions or recipes, please send them my way.

3. I will read 5 novels. I don't know what happened to me. I used to read a novel every couple of weeks, but now I mostly read Where the Wild Things Are (a special thanks to Alex) and the Immigration and Nationality Act (a special thanks to my immigration law class). Suggestions?

4. I will write a chapter for a novel. If that should prove too daunting, then I will write a short story and submit it to a magazine (I know. Wannabe writers are plentiful and delusional. But I just want to do it anyway, okay?)

5. I will floss my teeth more than ever before. Once or twice a week should do it.

6. I will eat five fruits and/or vegetables a day, and do my best to ensure that Alex does, too. Kendall, you're on your own. How does that saying go? You can bring water to a horse, but you can't make him drink it. Or something like that.

Happy Chinese New Year!!!

* While I liberally use "I will," these are merely aspirational statements, as all resolutions should be, and I will not be held responsible to anyone for any ill effects of my inevitable failure in one or more of these.