Things, in a mostly pictoral format

First off, if pictoral is not a word, it should be. And second, somebody had a birthday:

He looks every bit of his 28 years, don't he? And yes, those are indeed hair "combs" in his hair. I've been wanting to get an early start on hair-doing, since we've got a bouncing baby girl on the way. We celebrated at Brick Oven.

A while back, Tom's mom challenged us to post a picture of ourselves in front of the temple on their family blog. Well, after several temple trips sans camera, I finally just so happened to have it with me yesterday, and I figured—hey—why not on my blog too?

Temple Square! I love living close. And if you'll take note of my semi profile stance, you can sort of see that little bulge that several of you have asked to see.

Second installment of "My Life: Simon Elf's Autobiography"

No clue what this is? Click here, and then here.

My Life: Simon Elf's Autobiography

Part II

On Christmas Eve, Santa announced who would be going with him. The reindeer were luckily better by now. I sat there feeling bad for myself and almost didn't here him call my name. I first thought it was a joke. After all the things that I had done, he still picks me? He had to be kidding. But then, I realized it wasn't a joke. Santa knew that I tried so hard to be picked and he probably felt bad for me. He was a great guy!

I expected it to be a relaxing night, but it wasn't at all what I expected. We got in his sleigh, he called out the reindeer's names. All normal. We took off and waved good-bye to everyone, all the other elves cheered. It was all what I had expected, for a take off.

We landed on the first house in sight. Santa gave me a list and told me to mark off all the house, streets, neighborhoods, cities, states, and countries we had been to. I told him I didn't know how to read, I thought he would be mad at me. But he wasn't. He told me that next year, I would learn to how to read. He marked the list. He got out of his sleigh with his sack and disappeared down the chimney.

I wanted to see if I could remember all the reindeer's names. I pretended that I was Santa and I called out their names just like Santa did.

Then they took off! They flew off of the roof of the house and started to fly away! I didn't know what to do! I screamed Santa's name, but he was still inside the house. I didn't know how to make them turn around or make them stop. I screamed for Santa again. This time he heard. He was done delivering presents and came out just in time to hear me scream.

He did some weird thing that made them come back. On the way back to Santa, I hid. He was going to kill me! Never again would he pick me to be his little helper. But Santa was nice. he told me that this had happened before. I promised I would never do that again, and just to be safe, I would come inside of the house with him.

Santa told me that he often gets stuck in the chimney of this house. Sure enough, he got stuck! I panicked. I didn't know what to do. Then, I had an idea. I brought Rudolph and the others over to the chimney. I got on Rudolph's back and jumped from his back right onto Santa. We tumbled down the chimney. We landed with a thud. I was on top of Santa though. Then Santa jumped up and sent me flying back up the chimney and on the snow covered roof. I started to slip. My arms thrashed wildly. I tried to grab a reindeer but I didn't in time. They just looked at me. They were probably laughing at me.

I slid off of the roof and landed awkwardly on my thumb. Pain shot through my body. I jumped up to examine my thumb and I heard something. A growl. I looked around. My eyes met another pair of eyes. It growled again. I realized it was a dog. A watch dog probably.

I've never run so fast in my life. But no matter how fast I ran, that dog was always close. Then, I didn't see the rock on the ground. I stubbed my toe so hard! I've never hopped so fast in my life. Then, the dog stopped chasing me. I turned around to see that it was on a chain. I rolled my eyes and sighed in relief. The pain came back in my thumb and in my toe. I had a headache from running and hopping.

Why had Santa jumped up like that so fast?

I found the front door, which was unlocked. These people were either living in a very safe neighborhood or they were plain stupid. I walked in to find Santa jumping around. I noticed his beard was on fire. That was why he had jumped like that. The people had left there fire going! I decided that the family was plain stupid. Santa motioned for me to come and help. I came over to try to stop the fire, but I didn't do much good with a hurt thumb. The next thing I knew, my hand was on fire! I ditched Santa and went flying out the door. Once I was out, I dove into the snow. Then I knew what to do. I took as much snow as I could carry and went back inside the house. Santa was still jumping around. I threw the snow and it hit him right where the flame was. It worked! The fire was out!

Santa's beard went from white to black.

We needed to hurry. We had spent a lot of time on this house. Santa had me do the stockings. So I took the candy and toys and started to stuff the stockings, but I didn't get far, because one whiff of that sock was enough to kill you. Luckily Santa had a handy Lysol can with him.

Once I was done with the stockings, I helped him unload the rest of the toys for this family. I grabbed a train set with the hand with the bad thumb. The pain came back and I dropped the train set on my bad toe. Then it fell to the ground with a loud bang. I jumped up and down holding my thumb and holding my toe and I lost my balance and fell on the table with the cookies and milk. The plate of cookies when flying across the room and almost took Santa's head off. The plate went crashing into the wall and shattered. Cookies flew everywhere. The glass of milk hit me in the head and the milk poured all down my clothing and onto the carpet. The glass shattered.

This time, I knew, Santa would be mad. But he did something I never would have expected, he laughed. He burst out laughing. And he was loud! I then joined in. We laughed for a long time and then we started to clean up. I examined the train, which was now broken. I searched for every cookie. Santa picked up each and every little piece of broken plate and glass.

Then, if anything else bad could happen, it did. We froze and listened. Footsteps were coming down the stairs. I gave Santa a, what now? look.

Then, I could no longer see the presents. I could no longer see Santa or myself. He must have made us invisible. Then, a little boy peeked out behind a sofa. He looked around, and then seeing nothing, he went back upstairs.

Once again I could see everything. We were finally done with this house. We quietly crept back to the roof. I was so exhausted from just that house that I fell asleep. I stayed asleep until we were back home. It had been quite an eventful night. It turns out I broke my thumb.

Well, now, I don't go with Santa on Christmas Eve unless he is desperate, because I do different things. I'm in charge of the Micro Machines and HotWheels and Power Wheels and so on. I train little elves or starter elves how to pack up the toys in catagories. I make sure that the naughty and nice lists are correct and sometimes I get to go to the other towns and watch the little children to make sure they are being good. I help Mrs. Clause bake cookies, only chocolate chip though. I would never help with sugar cookies.

From the stories you just heard, you probably think that all I do is produce trouble. I can also do good. I saved the reindeer from slipping off the roof one time. I saved the cookies from getting burnt. I stopped a Christmas tree from falling on top of a girl, and I've saved Santa from being stuck in the chimney many times. I make sure all the starter elves are doing a good job and are doing the job correctly. I have even turned bad little boys and girls into good little boys and girls.

There are some things that I cannot tell you about in this autobiography, like, how we get all the toys in the world to fit in just one bag. How we get around the world in one night. How old Santa is. How the reindeer fly. How Santa really goes up the chimney. How many elves Santa has all together. And more.

In conclusion, I would like to make a request, as I said, I'm allergic to sugar cookies. Santa isn't, and they happen to be his favorite. So please when you set out cookies, have a variety of cookies. And I really would prefer chocolate milk if you would. And Rudolph doesn't like carrots so if you are going to set anything out for him, set a grape out. I always end up eating the carrot. Remember, turn your fire off before you go to bed and always hang up clean stockings. And always, always, keep your dog on a chain.

THE END

First installment of "My Life: Simon Elf's Autobiography"

I know—real brilliant title. 

No clue what this lunacy is? Click here to get all the juicy details.

My Life: Simon Elf's Autobiography

Part I

*author's note: I haven't changed a thing. I wanted to preserve its "authentic" value. And oh yeah, I feel like a total nerd for sharing this with everyone. But onward anyway...

   Hi! My name is Simon Elf. I am one of Santa's elves. I am going to tell you a little bit about me and my life at the North Pole. You may think my job is relaxing and no hard work at all. Well, you're wrong. My life is a lot harder than yours. And I don't get paid for me work.

   No normal person can be an elf. You have to be born on Christmas day and you have to want to become an elf. I was born on Christmas day and I wrote a letter to Santa asking if I could become an elf. I was an orphan. I was born December 25, a hundred or so years ago.

   Elves never die. That is why he has so many of them.

   OK, enough with the history of how elves became.

   I guess anyone telling about their life should begin with the beginning, birth.

   As I said, I was born on Christmas days a hundred years ago or so. I weighed 8 pounds exactly. It was early in the morning, around 6:00 a.m. It was freezing outside, or so I thought.

   I was born in a little town very close to the North Pole. Nichles Town. It was decorated with a little tree in the very middle of the town. Wreaths hung from every lamp post. Yes, it was festive. For a hundred years ago it was wonderful.

   But I got tired of the same decorations every year. I got tired of the little town. Nothing against the people, for they were all so kind to feed me but, I wanted a change.

   None of my friends believed in Santa. I knew he was real though. I had no parents, who else would have brought me presents? Even though the town was sweet, they never would have come out of their cozy little home to give me a present, too cold! And there was a story told that if you came out of house, in the night, on Christmas Eve, in Nichles Town, the bad elf would get you. Now of course there was no bad elf, I knew. I slept in an old shack, hardly sheltered. It had no roof and one time I started a fire to keep me warm through the night and it kind of got out of control and burnt one side of the shack completely down.

   Anyway, what I'm getting to is, I wanted a change. So one day, (I had just learned how to write. But I couldn't read.) I wrote a letter to Santa, asking him if I could live with him. I would become an elf if I had to.

   I was sure that the North Pole would look even more grand than the festive Nichles Town.

   Right then I brought it to the nearest post office. They told me that they would not send a dumb letter to Santa. They soon changed their minds when I started to sob.

   I stayed at the post office until I saw them give it to the delivery man. When he walked off northward, I was satisfied. I waited a month or so and then I got a letter. It was addressed to me but there was no return address. When I opened it, it said to be ready and packed on Christmas Eve night.

   I didn't know what it meant but I listened to it and I packed all of my belongings, which wasn't much. Nichles Town always has a donation for the poor on Thanksgiving Day. That's where I got all my clothing. Three shirts, three pants and a hat and some stockings and a pair of shoes. I brought all of my clothing, a compass I had found on the ground, a book that I couldn't read, one coin that my friend had given me on my birthday, one car from a train set, and last, four of my favorite berries from some kind of berry bush. I packed them all in a small cloth that had blown into my shack from the wind. I sat out side of my shack in the cold snow and freezing wind. I was excited and sort of scared to see who was coming for me.

   I had decided that Santa wrote that letter. Maybe he would pick me up and then I could help him deliver all of his presents. Maybe he would let me ride Rudolph. That was the only reindeer that I knew about. I knew that he had eight others and that was it. I wasn't sure if I knew how Rudolph came about, but I was positive I would find out.

   I sat there dreaming of who would come to pick me up for what seemed  like forever, and then suddenly I felt very different. I don't know how to explain it really. I then, could have sworn that I was floating. Then, the next thing I knew, I was in a completely different place.

   Much bigger than the little town called Nichles. Definitely more decorated than Nichles, and with a lot more people out and about. Certainly there was no bad elf in this town.  Then, I noticed something, these people, were much different from any person I had ever seen in Nichles Town. Or maybe these were normal people and the people from Nichles were different, I didn't know, all I knew was they were different. They were little!

   I stood and watched as they all hustled around with presents in each hand. I saw a little boy walking very slowly. He was balancing five presents in each hand. If you measured how tall the presents were, they would probably be taller than himself!

   Then I noticed the clothing, boys went around wearing green little outfits with pointy hats and pointy shoes and bells connected together for a belt. Girls went around wearing red dresses with gold or silver bows in their hair and on their shoes. They had gold or silver tinsel for a belt. I saw they were wearing pins of Christmas trees, presents, stockings, snowflakes, and a whole lot more!

   Definitely more festive than the boring, dull, Nichles Town.

I stood there looking around, not knowing what to do or where to go. Finally a girl noticed me. She came over to me.

   "Hello, you must be the new one." She smiled

   "Um, I guess I am. Where am I?" I asked.

   "The North Pole of course!" she acted surprised that I didn't know where I was. "You are the one that wanted to become an elf aren't you? Did we have a mix up? Oh no! Santa will be so angry!"

   "Yes! I did!"

   She sighed in relief.

   So that was the beginning. As I mentioned before, I burnt down one side of the shack. I was quite a destructive child. I didn't mean to be.

   Each year, Santa picks an elf to fly with him. I really wanted to. I started to beg Santa to let me go with him. I begged day and night. I started begging in the month of June. I knew that if I drove Santa crazy, I wouldn't go. But I couldn't help it. There were other reasons that I knew Santa wouldn't pick me because of them. Killing the mistletoe. That's a whole different story! Getting tangled up in the lights and tripping on the tinsel and knocking the tree over. How was I supposed to help that? Eating two months worth of sugar cookies. I was hungry!  All of those things were on accident! Well, maybe eating the cookies weren't. But I learned my lesson. That's when I found out that I'm allergic to sugar cookies. I got real sick afterwards.

   I knew Santa wouldn't pick me this year or any other year. I stopped begging. I became sad. Then I knew how to get picked. I would do the best job I could do at my job. Except one problem, I didn't have a job. I was still new and unexperienced.

   I thought forever. Then I decided I would do something nice for Santa without him knowing. I decided I would take care of the reindeer. I would feed them, clean them, groom them, and give them water. Then Santa would for sure pick me.  So every day, I took care of them. Rudolph didn't like carrots. So I tried new things. I tried an apple, a banana, an orange, corn, beans, grapes, and cookies. He like the cookies and grapes, so that's what I fed him.

   Then something horrible happened! The reindeer got sick! And it was only a few weeks until Christmas! What did I do wrong? I had to tell Santa. I was afraid he would be so angry. I told him though.

   Come to find out, somebody already had the job of taking care of the reindeer, so they were overfed. I should not have been feeding them cookies either. Grapes were fine, but the cookies had to go. I started to cry. Now there was no chance of Santa picking me. The reindeer would be sick on Christmas. Would Santa have to cancel Christmas?

...duh duh duh. To be continued.............

13 years in the making

My sister-in-law recently commented that she hopes I write a book.

Well.

As a matter of fact.

*beaming*

I have a book. Well, more like a novella if you really want specifics. I wrote it when I was 12. Uh huh, and at the time I was just sure it was a stroke of genius. Actually, I wrote "books" voraciously as a child. I knew that I'd grow up to be an author and figured it'd be good to get a head start...or something like that.

...ironic plot twist...

But alas. I went to college. I submerged myself in bazillions of English, literature and journalism classes and became disillusioned by all the really talented people out there. Plus, it seemed to me that in order to gain any sort of real fame as an author, one would have to become utterly mad, adulterous, or drunk. And then the real kicker, I guess I just read one-too-many pieces by William Faulkner.

Okay, yes, I'm exaggerating. In truth I sort of like "As I Lay Dying." In a hating sort of way. But before I fall off the deep end in a world of Faulkner talk, let me get to my original point: In recent years I've done very little with writing. Well, other than this blog. Which I enjoy immensely, p.s. Overall though, my childhood notions of authorhood seem like—and are—a very long time ago.

However! I've still got my masterpiece from the wee age of 12. And it's quite fitting for this time of year—it's a never-been-told account of one of Santa's elves. A firsthand account at that. I composed it and proudly presented it to my mom one year as a Christmas gift. She's hung on to it for over a decade, either because she's a devoted fan of its literary value, or a devoted mother. Hardly a difference, I'm sure.

...dramatic pause...

Why—of course I'll share it with you.

If anything, I can at least promise that it's action-packed. I cannot, however, promise a hole-free story line. To my 12-year-old, overzealously imaginative mind, the plot flowed quite logically and it all made perfect sense to me. (Still does, who am I kidding?) So I'll say this (to any over-analyzing book critics like myself): feel free to fill in any gaps with your own creative thoughts.

And—as an extra treat for those of you willing to stick around to read it, I even got Tom to whip up a couple of illustrations. And they're darling. I gushed over them. Seriously.

So stay tuned, my dear friends, stay tuned. It's sure to be the hottest buzz on goodreads.

Snow: a complicated relationship.

I hope you'll bear with me (or enjoy...whichever...) as I use this post to reflect on a few memories.

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I had just finished my first year at BYU-Idaho, and was home for my semester off. A lovely Christmas had passed and a brand-spankin' new year was coming up. And I was peacefully sleeping. Which was a natural thing to do around 3 in the morning.

But I awoke when I heard my door slowly opening. My mother—in her robe—mischievously glided in my bedroom and excitedly whispered: "Season—wake up!" Her tone was that of a giddy beehive at a sleep over.

*One thing you should know about my mother: Wandering around the wee hours of morning in her nightgown isn't really an activity she is commonly known for. And by that, of course I mean never known for. Were it not for her bubbly manner I might have thought she'd come to relay a tragedy.

Then things got even stranger when I noticed my dad—also not known for gallivanting through the house at 3 a.m.—had meandered into my room behind her.

I groggily sat up and probably mumbled something along the lines of "huh?"

"It's snowing!" She triumphantly announced. And indeed it was. Big, fluffy flakes landing right on our Las Vegas valley. And my mom had awakened both my dad and me so we could play in it. In my barely conscious state, I couldn't figure out which was more baffling: snow in Vegas (which I hadn't seen since I was 12), OR the fact that my mom wanted to run around in it in the middle of the night.

So—outside we went. Our little terrain had been transformed:

For desert folk, this was a pretty amazing sight. Magical, even. After awhile we filed back into the house and ended up at the kitchen table, sipping hot chocolate and munching on Special K Bars as we enjoyed a scene of continued snowfall. Eventually my dad put his foot down and made us all go back to bed.

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Next we go to my junior year of college. One winter's evening it came to my attention that one of my room mates, Rachel, had never been sledding. How anyone makes it to their junior year of college having never sled down a hill, beats me. It was promptly decided between me and other friends that it was up to us to put an end to such a sledding drought. 

*One thing, perhaps the only thing, you should know about Rexburg, ID: It's a cold place. In my professional opinion, I'd say it's right up there with Russia and Antarctica. But since three of the four sledders originated from Las Vegas and weren't really "snow bunnies"—warm snow gear was a bit scarce.

So we did what any astute college students would do: Headed to D.I. Unfortunately snow suits in adult sizes were hard to come by. And more unfortunate, I got stuck with one that was probably better suited for a 10-year-old.

I think our ultimate goal in this picture was to simulate models from an L.L. Bean catalog. Feel free to validate our efforts.

I'm not sure which was more fun—the actual sledding, or the preparation for such:

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Perhaps I've been dwelling on these memories lately because it finally snowed here. And I've been a little put out. ...Having to cart myself back and forth to work while the roads are a mess has made me grumbly. And my feet won't warm up—no matter how many pairs of socks I wear at the same time. However, these two events serve a wonderful purpose to remind me that snow—sometimes—can be precisely what you need.

The stockings were hung by the heat vent with care

Apartment life isn't very conducive to the inner Christmas decorator within me. I mean—what's a girl to do when she just wants a banister to add garland to?

And here's where I pay homage to our stately tree—hitting the charts at just a twig above two feet.

Even if we had a larger tree, there're just no accommodations in this little abode.

But its puny despondency is really kind of endearing to me. I bought it, along with its glimmering get-up, in college several years ago with a room mate as an alternative for studying for a final exam.

Seriously, how could you not love a worn-down, battered little guy like this?

Someday we'll have a home that has a perfect location for a big, strapping tree that's bursting with needles. And someday we'll have an actual fireplace to welcome Santa.

But quite frankly, I couldn't be happier with our meager little set up just the way it is.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have a Christmas ham to attend to.

We're having a miniature one of these:

Or, in other words: a girl! A female, damsel, mademoiselle.

A little miss giles.

Here she is:

She was sufficiently wiggly during her photoshoot—which is probably to be expected if you're an offspring of Season and Tom. I thought it was especially cool to see all the movement while feeling it at the same time.

In light of such exciting news, I'd like to present a compilation of desirable traits—held by Tom Thomas and I—that I sure hope we pass along. We'll call it "Inheritable Hopefuls." Without further ado:

• Tom's ability to make at least 23 more facial expressions than the average human being. (Three samples of many.)

• My impeccable color-matching skills.

• Tom's (and I quote) "outstanding coordination."

• My darling toes. (Please note the phalanges on the left. Tom's foot is on the right.)

• Tom's sense of adventure, adaptability, and amusement.

• My mad dance skills. (Sorry, no picture available.)

That's really all. Whew. That took all day to think of.

Cheerio!

Postlude

This weekend, while visiting my dear home in Las Vegas, I really outdid myself and took a whopping two whole pictures.

However, I think they're just enough.

Here's a rundown on our Thanksgiving festivities:

• Added a professional touch (known as the Season Technique) to the whipped cream on the pies.

• Consumed my weight in stuffing.

• Consumed Tom's weight in mashed potatoes and turkey.

• Woke up the next morning to Mannheim Steamroller vibrating the walls from the downstairs stereo. Such is a a sign that the designated "decorating day" has begun.

• Spent a substantial and therapeutic amount of time "fluffing" Christmas trees, garland and fake snow while chatting with my mom.

• Secured myself a real-deal pregnant physique, which was undoubtedly pushed over the edge by the Thanksgiving holiday.

• Therefore: Tried on at least 85% of the maternity clothing available inside "Motherhood." The amount purchased was a significantly smaller percentage.

• Reluctantly packed up to leave yesterday evening. (Tom reluctant because it was right in the middle of the BYU—Utah game. Me reluctant because I just wasn't ready to leave.)

Semi-related blurb: Tom and I have discussed the abundant amount of pictures we've accumulated showcasing Tom in the above shirt. (View here, and here). Lest you become concerned that he never changes, I assure you that it's just a good case of happenstance.

Lesser-related blurb: After much thought and consideration, I have decided that I'd really like this baby to be a boy—or a girl. We find out Tuesday. And you'll be one of the first ones to know.