Summer Scrapbook, Round 1

I may have mentioned that I'm not a good scrapbooker. I've tried a little, but my skills end at writing in bubble letters. Even then, the page usually runs out before the word I'm trying to squeeze in does. Thus, el blog serves as the sole record of our lives. Pretty shameful, 'specially for a good little Mormon wife like m'self. Here's some fun stuff we did a long time ago.












We have about a million pictures of Megs and various animals at her request. There is a chance she's a bit of a diva.

Also, Jordan is cute. Husband is cute. Jordo and Husband together at the zoo? Super cute.

Megan and Jordan get a long just swimmingly, and this Hogle Zoo adventure was no exception. Right up until Jordan nailed her in the arm with a rock.

This was my favorite exhibit. The mammal in question wasn't super amused to see that I was taking his picture, but I figure anything inside a cage is fair game.

From the side lines to the front lines

I have come up with the perfect analogy for my current job. Prepare yourselves, all- I'm actually going to make a sports reference.

In this confusing game we call work, we in the Social Services department basically compromise Special Teams. Stay with me; it's true, and not just because the rest of the professionals think we're a little bit pansy. Mostly, it's because no matter how many interceptions are thrown, we come in at the end and still get blamed for losing the game. Oh, and I never get to tackle anyone. It seems the only meaningful difference is that my hamstrings are not nearly as limber as real kickers.

Without boring you with the details of the mounds of paperwork, Advance Directives, Adult Protective Services abuse allegations, and discharge planning I spend my time on, I'll move on to my new, much more interesting job. Happily, it more closely resembles Special Forces than Special Teams. Right on.

In what may or may not be a thinly veiled attempt to get my foot in the door for those coveted hospital social work jobs, I am now officially also employed as an on-call crisis worker in the ER at a local hospital.

It. Freakin. Rocks.

Well, at least the first 3 hours of training did.

I get to tackle (the second football reference was unintentional, though in retrospect, pretty much rad) drug and alcohol detox, psych referrals, and suicide assessments, plus whatever else the nursing staff wants to pass on. I can be found wearing the pager between 11 pm and 8 am on Wednesday nights. I'm pretty sure pagers are so dorky they've actually rounded the corner and returned to awesome- a little like neon colored fanny packs. Awe-some.

Maybe at 80, I'll suddenly be athletic, too.

M.J. is complaining about the lack of new posts. The thing of it is, I can't seem to think of anything funny/amusing/thoughtful/important to say. Also, the camera still won't connect to this computer for some reason so we are without visual aids. My brother hasn't opened a mission call, and since there isn't a baby in my tummy -- though that would legitimize the unsightly weight gain -- we don't really have anything to blog about.

Oh. I'm not sure how funny this is to people who don't wander halls lightly scented with scent-o-urine all day, but I giggled for a few minutes. My boss was taking the family of a potential resident on a tour of our facility the other day, which is a somewhat rare happening, when our of the clear blue sky one of our less oriented residents grew upset over something or other. Picture contorted old person fists lashing out from a little hunched body in a wheelchair, the resident-turned-boxing champ screaming vulgar obscenities at, well, whatever. Turns out that while he's usually fairly immobile, he can deliver a wicked kick in the shins from where he sits and those slow hands can whip out to inflict great pain on the more sensitive areas of the anatomy of a particular male nurse. From my safe plot of ground behind the wheelchair I could hear the chaos, see the barely controlled rage on the aforementioned male nurse's face, and the look of horror in my boss's eyes while he debated the merits of calming the resident versus quickly steering the visiting family down the opposite hall.

And the newly hired Director of Social Services? I just sat back with a jolly grin and enjoyed the show. Maybe old age will be cool after all.

Other than that, not too much that we haven't expected; after all, life without a few more outlandishly bizarre tragedies from Paddy's family really would be unusual. Ah, life.

Home is the sailor, home from the sea.

I know how worried you've all been about us. Never fear, we are home safe and sound, and we didn't squander away our life savings. Lupe made it through the longest separation since she joined our lil' fam without any diarrhea and without chewing anything that had sentimental value to my parents, so our familial accord is still in tact.

I'll post pictures and descriptions later, but until then I'll leave you with this thought:

I used to look at beautiful (if immodest) little black dresses on the hanger in stores. They had pretty sequins and tiny straps and whatnot, and I'd visualize beautiful women wearing these dresses to fancy parties.

Lesson learned in Vegas: There are no beauty requirements for purchasing and then wearing into public the aforementioned little black dresses. Whoa. I'll keep my Old Navy capris and flip flops, but thanks.

Oh, and what's the deal with girls holding hands with girls and giggling to look cute?

Library trips

I'm sitting in a beautiful little home office courtesy of Patrick's boss and his wife, and just though I'd give a quite update on the Santo Jorge/Las Vegas goings on. The weather is beautiful and the trip has been fantastic. We've eaten some great food, and had a lot of fun with Paddy's coworkers.

I'm just now remembering that I forgot to take a picture of this absolutely hideous piece of, well, art?, that was in our hotel room-- not once, mind you, but twice. The exact same painting hanging in two different places in the room. Ha!

Last night we saw a truly mediocre-bordering-truly-bad rendition of 42nd Street at Tuacahn-- the company and the beautiful surroundings made up for the performance, though. (Have hotpants, Wendy? Even for a game of shuffleboard? Neither do I. Some funny memories, anyway.)

While the person I am married to has attended his work meetings, I have had a glorious time shopping, exploring, and relaxing. I blasted my way through a thoroughly engaging book, and couldn't have enjoyed myself more. Which brings me to my next thought...

I spent the majority of the day in the Santa Clara library, which just so happens to be beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the beautifully stark landscape of southern Utah. I love the library. I wonder sometimes why I didn't structure my life more carefully so I'd end up there more often. I love that it is brightly lit and full of books and comfortable chairs. I love that it is quiet. I love that no one thought it was weird that I sat curled up in a chair, moving only when my legs cramped beneath me. I would love to wander around through the dusty shelves. Occasionally I wonder why I didn't choose to surround myself with this all the time. I am quite certain I would have been happy and content.

No one there would yell at me over whether or not a person has the right to choose how to die. (Amazing, my job. To satisfy your curiosity without violating HIPAA privacy laws, let me say that it didn't involve a patient, or other employees, or any family members. Oh, and also apparently I lie. And smirk. Remind me that I like my job.)

I suppose the library would have been a good fit. But I would have found myself researching child abuse and terminal illnesses. I would have missed my interaction with my bright and talented clients who struggle with substance abuse. I suppose the cheesy phrase from my undergrad really is true. Social work is a calling, and unfortunately not even the draw of smell of a new book can pull me away for long.

Viva Las Vegas

I'm out of the Stone Age at work with keys to my own office and access to a computer with an internet connection that would have been awesome circa 1998. I'm still without a name badge, but that's not an all together bad thing as I don't get stopped by families in the hall; they assume I'm there to visit my own grandmother or something. Anyway, turns out that the somewhat antiquated internet connection there does boast some sort of filtration system that prevents me from signing into el blog. Thus, we're a little backlogged.

We have pictures from the trip to the zoo with Jordo and the Monk. By the by, Hogle Zoo doesn't have a hippo, a polar bear, or any lions. It's a good thing they had that kickin' white alligator to make up for it.

We also have pictures from our trip to Dog Lake with Kimmi, Indy, and the Lu. I'm not about to admit how long it's been since we actually went on that hike, but the pictures are cute.

For now, though, we're packing for our jaunt to Santo Jorge (which sounds more exotic than St. George) and Las Vegas where we are hoping to luck out and meet up with Scott and Ashley and gamble away our life savings.

I'll give a report on all of the above when we return, but you won't be able to tell when I'm lying and when I'm not. As the commercials say, what happens in Las Vegas...

"No! Stop! I didn't even say 'shake', stupid!"

Scene I.

Kris is lounging on the newly purchased Siesta Sac (which happens to be much cheaper than a Luv Sac) and is mostly paying attention to a new episode of Survivorman.

Enter Husband.

Husband: Lupe! Lupe-- sit. sit. Please sit. SIIIIT. Good dog! Ok Lupe, shake. C'mon, shake. SHAKE.

This type of dialouge continues for several minutes, punctuated with occasional sparks of laughter from a proud Husband when Lupe complies and somewhat grudgingly places her paw in his hand to receive the promised Bac'n strip snack.

Husband: Kris! Kris, watch, please! This is awesome! Lupe, shake. Shake. SHAKE.

Nothing happens.

Husband: (Groans.) I swear... just give me a minute.

Scene continues as before. Several minutes pass.

Husband: This is awesome! Wife! Watch this!

Lupe now complies readily, gobbling up her treat with great energy.

SCENE II.

A day has passed. A couple is lounging on the aforementioned Siesta Sac, commenting on how it is easily as comfortable as a Luv Sac and how someone would be silly to spend half of a thousand dollars on the latter brand just to have that cool orange and black logo tag on it. Lupe is not lounging anywhere, but is fussing around with everything trying to draw attention away from the Sac discussion and the Chargers game playing in the background.

Husband: But, but, stop Lupe. STOP. I didn't even say shake. What are you doing?! I DON'T EVEN HAVE ANY TREATS!

As the wife laughs hysterically in the background, Lupe continues pawing at any part of the Husband she can get to, trying to elicit a treat as before. At one point, she catches him off-guard and drags her paw all the way across his face, altogether quite proud of herself for her excellent "shaking" though she seems a bit confused about why no one is grabbing her leg and bouncing it up and down as before.

Husband: (forlornly) Kris, I'm a bad dad. Look at her. I should never have even taught her that stupid shaking thing. It's not even cute, and now she won't stop.

Wife continues chuckling, thinking about how hilarious life will be someday when they have real kids, and not just an adorable yellow lab.

Curtain drops.