Stationery card

Very Warm Noel Christmas Card

Create personalized Christmas photo cards at Shutterfly.com.

View the entire collection of cards.

Owen'sday, Week 4

In which Owen encounters a gorilla and learns to love tummy time.

Happy 4 weeks old, Owen! What a wonderful 4 weeks it has been. I won't have his official stats until his appointment on Friday, but last week he had gained a whopping 10 oz--enough for the doctor to stop worrying about his weight gain. He's still long and skinny, though, and the waistbands of most of his little baby pants don't fit. Do they make really tiny-sized belts? (Maybe not...changing his diaper is hard enough already!)

His grand adventure of week 4 was a day at the zoo with his little buddy Lincoln! Lincoln is two days older than Owen. Lincoln's mom Keely and I took the boys and showed them the manatees, the polar and brown bears, the sharks, all of which they slept through, and the gorillas, for whom they woke up. At the gorilla enclosure, we took a break to play with and feed the boys, and were asked by no fewer than five people whether the boys were twins. It would be understandable, since babies all kind of look alike, except that Owen is very Scandinavian/Western European, and Lincoln's features mirror his Korean mother's. Oh well--maybe they were sensing that Owen's Grandpa Dale served his mission in Korea.

When Owen's not at the zoo, he's eating like a champ--every 90 minutes during the day sometimes, and every 2 to 3 hours during the night. He makes "eh eh eh" noises when he wants something, and has worked his way up to a few full-body anger fits when his mom is (how dare she!) off finding a non-soaking outfit. He's also made peace with tummy time...or at least falls asleep when we put him down, thus defeating the purpose of practicing lifting his head. As far as milestones, this week he's really started tracking things (usually his dad), and has absolutely mastered puppy dog eyes.

Anyway, speaking of the "eh eh eh" sounds, he's starting in on them right now, so I'd better be off. Enjoy the pictures (two are from a photo shoot by my college friend Noelle--she's awesome. You can't even tell that Owen was throwing tantrums almost the whole time! The third is showing off this week's church outfit. His first white shirt Sunday! And his electric blue crib is in the background!).

Love,

Tasha

Owen'sday, Week 3

In which Owen and sleeps for six hours, loves to snuggle, and saves the world!

Welcome to week three of Owen's life! We have been delighted to enjoy at least one unbroken six-hour stretch of sleep, although slightly less delighted when his doctor told us that he's at the low end of weight gain, meaning that we probably shouldn't let him sleep that long without eating. We've also learned that our little guy loves to cuddle--or rather, hates to not cuddle. Any time he's awake, he demands loudly that we hold him. (If you insist, Owen.) This week he attended church at the Riverside Ward, where he enchanted the young women (more than one proclaimed their love for him, and at least one skirmish erupted about who is one true babysitter will be) and met the lady babies his approximate age (Owen is the lone boy in a summer full of girls--lucky guy!). He's keeping those beautiful blue eyes open for longer stretches, and at any given moment can be found snuggling with his mom, studying with his dad, or saving the world from evil! Observe the photographic evidence. Ignore the wrinkles in the sky--an apartment-sized iron can only do so much.

Captain Adorable, we salute you!

Love,

Tasha

Owen'sday, Week 2

In which Owen learns to eat and to cry.

Owen's had a big second week of life. Thursday started out with a trip to the lactation consultant, who taught him how to eat like a champ. He was so excited to learn this new skill that he demands to practice every 90 minutes. I now feel more officially like a mom, since Michael can no longer help out with the feedings. I felt very accomplished the other day when I managed to both eat breakfast and shower and get the mail.

He's also learned the power of crying. That darling boy who came into the world without so much as a peep has, it turns out, very well-developed lungs indeed. He has decided that he doesn't care for being alone--that is, if he's awake, he must have someone holding him. We have great hopes for his swing...now that he's a bit bigger (8 lbs already!) we're planning on trying him out in it.

Owen also has no shortage of admirers. I took him to meet my old coworkers, who abandoned all projects to coo over him for a while (especially about his faux hawk--completely natural, by the way). And Vilo, Michael's best friend James's mom, is in our ward and stops by periodically to see Owen and help me get things done around the apartment. She's especially crazy about Owen since James and his wife had a baby only five days after Owen was born, and seeing him helps her get through the next few weeks until she gets to see her new grandson in person.

And clearly, as evidenced from the pictures, his parents admire him too. Enjoy!

Love,

Tasha

Shabby Apple :)

So, a few years ago I found Shabby Apple, and guess what, fell in love with their dresses. See? I even blogged about wanting to win a Shabby Apple dress!

It was all about the Antiquated dress, this lovely, lacy incredibly classy dress. Aaaaand, I didn't win it.

However, I couldn't live without it, and my lovely husband surprised me with it. What a guy. Here it is, and it is the perfect dress to navigate those iffy occasions when you're just not sure how dressy to go. Check it out:

Yum.

Time I started updating again! Or: Owen'sday, Week One

Since Mr. O was born (SIX MONTHS AGO TODAY!!!), I've been sending weekly emails out to family tracking his progress. He was born on a Wednesday; hence, the title of each email is Owen'sday.

I'm going to start posting them here so I have them all in one place. Enjoy, then, Owen'sday, Week One.

A week ago, Owen made his entrance into the world not kicking and screaming as most babies do, but in complete purple terrifying silence. He's still not a screamer, but late last night (perhaps early this morning?) his squeaks and whimpers woke me up and for not the first time that night I left the bedroom/went down the stairs/found the milk in the fridge/hiked back up those stairs/and picked that baby boy up.

His whimpers stopped, he started to eat, and with each little suck his eyes batted rhythmically up and down and up and down and, to the great delight of his mother, every so often would stop sucking and look at me and siiiiigh.

We've still got some work to do--like getting him to stop relying on bottles or if we're really lucky keep one outfit clean for eight whole hours but our little guy is pink and loud and perfect, and man, those little moments when he looks at me like "thanks Mom, for running more than a hundred stairs today and doing two loads of laundry and thousands of dishes and pumping every two-point-five hours just so I don't have to endure formula and doing it all on not so much sleep" (or maybe just "hey, still more coming?") make it totally absolutely one-hundred percent worth it.

in honor of romance

It's officially our anniversary today, and in honor of it, I'm posting my favorite romantic poem. Enjoy.

"Litany," by Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass

and the burning wheel of the sun.

You are the white apron of the baker

and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,

the plums on the counter,

or the house of cards.

And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.

There is just no way you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,

maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,

but you are not even close

to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show

that you are neither the boots in the corner

nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,

speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,

that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,

the evening paper blowing down an alley,

and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees

and the blind woman's tea cup.

But don't worry, I am not the bread and the knife.

You are still the bread and the knife.

You will always be the bread and the knife,

not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow-- the wine.

the best two years

Tomorrow marks mine and Michael's anniversary, two years since we got married and three years minus one day since we met. It's sometimes interesting to think that three years ago on May 5, as I flew to Salt Lake from Portland, I didn't for a minute think that I'd be getting married one short year later.

I'm so glad that we did.

Michael and I met playing ultimate frisbee, or maybe home teaching, or was it over smoothies? Whichever story you subscribe to, it wasn't long before we were inseparable. I liked him because he made me laugh, we could talk all day and all night, he had that fantastic dimple. When six weeks later I left him for two weeks in Mexico and two months in Oregon, he came to visit me, driving 900 miles in record-breaking heat in a black car with no air conditioning. Then it was serious, and three months later we were engaged.

Our wedding was perfect, but I don't remember much of it. Just Michael's goofy grin and my face sore from smiling and an intense gratitude for waterproof mascara after all that happy crying.

Now it's been two years, and seems like we're starting it out much like we have each May since '07: one in school, the other looking for work, and both of us happy together.

Thanks for being sweet, thanks for being silly. I love you, Michael.

Shabby Apple Dress Giveaway!

A few months back I discovered Shabby Apple, and spent most of my birthday money on a gorgeous dress that reminds me of something my ever-so-stylish Grandma S. would have worn when she was my age. It's my favorite item in my closet. And now, Shabby Apple (via Mama Manifesto) is giving away a dress to someone who describes her dream date. There's a dress called Antiquated that I've had my eye on for a while, and probably won't get otherwise (one only gets birthday money once a year, after all!), so here, friends, is my dream date (with a smidge of back story):

Mom wore The Black Dress to Homecoming at Cowley, Wyoming's log gym, and Dad thought she looked so beautiful that he never let me wear it, even though Mom saved it for me, for fear that someone might see me in it and marry me on the spot, I suppose.

The log gym in Cowley is still there, and sometimes I daydream about going back there for a different dance. Mom's Black Dress was stunning, but that dress belongs to her and to that night. I'd wear my own Black Dress, more my style with lace and a collar, and sorry Dad, but it's too late for someone to marry me, since I've been there, done that, and Michael, my sweet husband, would be my date. Although I bet when he'd see me in that dress he would want to marry me all over again.

We'd clear a path in the crowd as we waltz around to Tonic and to Lifehouse, and boogie to Cake and to Muse, until eventually we slip-sneak out the back door and borrow Grandma's blue Ford pickup that I learned to drive on ten years back. We don't have to drive too far to see the lights fade out and the stars glow bright so we put the truck in park and lay out in the bed to trace pictures in the stars, and we wait for the fireworks to start going off right over our heads.

Then we'll drive back to Grandma's house and switch off the headlights before we turn in the driveway, and sneak inside like a couple naughty teenagers, and who knows, maybe someday we'll have a daughter who will see the pictures and ask to borrow The Black Dress I wore, and Michael will get to be the dad and tell her no, that's Mom's dress and not for anyone else.

I was just thinking that as rarely as I write here, I even more rarely talk about events actually going on in our lives. Part of that is because I spend about forty-five hours per week at work, and people have been fired for what they've written in their blogs; ergo, writing about work is out. And since most of my most delightful stories come from work, I'm never sure what to write about. But I can think of a few things:

1. I had a birthday (shout hurray)! (Okay, a month ago. It was a great one, though.) At work (just one work-related story won't hurt, right?), my coworkers brought in donuts into which they stuck--for lack of candles yet surplus of lollipops--the sticks from tootsie pops, and lit them on fire. I was impressed with the ingenuity. At home, though, we did a bit better:


Note the puzzle pieces scattered around . . . we never did finish that puzzle :(

Anyway, Michael and I ate lovely red velvet cake, opened presents, etc. I'm especially excited about one present in particular:

Yep, I will officially be the last person in the known universe to see Wicked when it comes through Portland next month. Thanks, Mom and Dad (and Michael for letting me leave him for a few days)! I can't wait!

Since my birthday, I have officially conquered my fear of snow driving due to the epic snow and ice we've had, been rescued by a man with a machete, reorganized our closet, and officially started counting down the days until Josh gets home from his mission.

I'll leave you with a picture of Michael and our snowy adventures.

If you can believe it, I was even less thrilled than he was about the snow that has now stuck around for ELEVEN DAYS.

"I am," Michael said as he watched me take a big old drink straight from the bottle, "an epic failure as a husband."

Undoubtedly that statement was influenced by my beverage of choice: hydrogen peroxide.

Because my dentist refused to remove my wisdom teeth ("You've got years before they'll grow in! No need to worry about them at 20!"), I got my first tooth infection two days before our 2007 wedding. A bout of antibiotics took care of the infection, and I didn't get another one for almost seven months. After the second infection, rather than treat with antibiotics and risk another infection, Michael and I found a sympathetic discount who would give us a poor student discount, and had the tooth yanked. I'm really funny, I've been told, on nitrous oxide.

The two top teeth grew in completely and without incident, but the remaining bottom tooth still gave me problems. The third infection happened less than a month into my new job in Ohio, when I was still in the "trial" period and had no idea whether I would have a job when that period ended. A kind dentist treated the infection for the cost of the antibiotics. And to keep the infections down, I was told to swish my mouth with hydrogen peroxide daily.

Which leads us to my poor sweet husband's pronouncement. To remedy his feelings (and to calm my fears of another infection), we finally decided to have the last troublesome tooth pulled. Because dentists in Ohio are much more expensive than in the dentist-saturated Utah, I forwent the the nitrous, and braved the drill and knife fully conscious, which was scarier than I thought it would be.

But now I am fifty percent less wise, and one-hundred percent happier with my mouth. And, of course, Michael feels much less like he is failing as a husband.

An Apology for Apathy

Dear blog,

I'm sorry I've been neglecting you. I've just been terribly busy, what with running away to Portland for a weekend, deep-cleaning the apartment, working, helping Michael study for his tests, and renewing my love for crime novels. And I'm even sorrier that this isn't going to be a terribly original post, since I am in a Christmasy mood and will just post an essay I wrote last Christmas season, as both a celebration of the coming season and as a place I can consistently locate it, so I don't have to search through hundreds of emails to find the latest copy.

I'll be better, really.

Love, Tasha

p.s. Does anyone know how to center the picture at the top of this blog? It's been driving me crazy!

House Lo-Mein

“Hey love, will you be home for Christmas?” Joel asked the other day. The kid forgets that I live in Utah and he lives part-time in Washington and part-time in Arizona and Josh lives in Thailand and none of us live in Oregon anymore. But yeah, I’ll be home for Christmas.

Joel’s as good as a little brother, being best friends with my brother-by-blood Josh for seventeen years, and he’s spent most of those years at my house in Oregon building blanket forts and chess sets out of Legos and whining “Tasha, cook me something!”

Usually it was ramen. He and Josh picked my house because my parents never fought and weren’t even home most afternoons because Dad worked and Mom went to school. I was okay to be home because even though I was a girl, and a big sister at that, I made the best ramen. Oriental flavor. I cooked it three packets at once, until the noodles were thick as string and they slimed around in the pot looking for more water. I’d open the tinfoil seasoning packets—which was a trick because if they got too close to the steam then all the flavor would get wet and sticky and not blend in—and then I’d dump them in, all three at once. The real secret, and this I never let anyone watch, was adding a teaspoon or two of sesame oil and a few shakes of Dad’s hottest hot sauce over the top.

Sometimes we’d crack an egg on the mix for protein and because we liked to watch it get scrambled up to pieces with the noodles, and it seemed more like we were eating lo mein from a fancy Chinese restaurant instead of a thirty-cent snack cooked by a thirteen-year-old big sister.

We all three ate with chopsticks until we got too hungry to eat one noodle at a time and started to cheat by using forks. Sometimes we’d slurp too fast and noisy and the ends of the noodles would flip on and smack our noses, and the spice in the sauce would burn and squeeze tears from our eyes, and then melt down our throats and into our stomachs. And Josh and Joel would whine, “Tasha, cook me something.” So I would pour them little shot glasses of milk—normal milk, not chocolate or strawberry, because Mom banned colorful liquids (and Josh and Joel’s friend Evan) from the kitchen after the boys had chocolate milk laugh out of their noses and all over the floor.

Joel liked Rasmussen-house food so much that sometimes he’d even stay on for dinner. And when he did that we could pretty much count on him staying for all night. One time he and Josh wanted to build a fort out of blankets in our living room for them to sleep in, and asked Dad if Joel could stay for a fort night. “I’m not letting Joel stay for a fortnight!” Dad said, and I laughed and laughed because by then I was sixteen and I knew that a fortnight meant two weeks to Shakespeare. But I bet that Dad would have let him stay for a fortnight if he asked. Joel was just family like that.

I left first, off to Utah. Then Joel moved to Arizona with his dad, who only eats apples and whole wheat and counts every calorie going in or out of his body. After that he flew to Seattle for school, where he doesn’t have any family, not even someone to pour him milk or feed him pretend lo mein. Josh stayed in Portland and then moved on to Utah and then all the way to Thailand, where he eats real noodles that he gets from vendors and not sisters, and the noodles slime around in his bowl all the way across the world from me and Joel.

So this year’s the first one without Josh at home, and even though Joel doesn’t live in Portland he’ll come out for Christmas before he goes to Arizona, and I’ll cook him ramen noodles for a snack and maybe cinnamon roll sandwiches, which we made once and never again. And Josh will slurp his Thai noodles, maybe the ones with mixed up with pig brains or tentacles, and they will burn his nose and then his throat and make his eyes water, and we will eat our ramen with sesame oil and eggs and with hot sauce tears in our eyes and pretend we are all together in the kitchen using chop sticks really badly. We will be thirteen and eleven, waiting for Mom and Dad to come home, and I will be in charge, because I’m the big sister, and I make the best ramen.

Corn Hole

Corn hole! In my preOhio days, I had never heard of such a phenomenon. However, since our arrival to Columbus, we've seen not just a few examples of its prevalence. Mostly at tailgating parties (which, by the way, eclipse any tailgating party anywhere else in the nation, I'm pretty sure). I look forward to the doping scandals.

toothpastefordinner.com

And speaking of funny subject lines . . .

Our illustrious CNN posted an article with the following headline:

"Obama to address change during speech!"

Wow. Really?

(note: I don't mind Obama. Really. It just struck me as funny.)

Victoria's Latest Secret

As I mentioned in my last post, I have grown to love--dearly--Victoria Secret normal clothing. Since they're only sold online (why don't they sell their pants, shoes, and sweaters in their regular stores? Might have something to do with the nine dollars that I'm still willing to pay to have their wares shipped to me . . .), I receive special email announcements a few times each week that alert me to sales, styles, and trends that they assure me only their paying customers are privy to. Typically, I ignore them. However, sometimes they have some pretty good advice. Take their latest subject line, for instance:

Fall trend alert: Pants.

Thank you, Victoria. Who knows, without your sage wisdom I may have traipsed about the falling leaves in . . . well, what are my other options? Wouldn't it have been more revolutionary for Vicky Dearest to suggest, say, a pants alternative? The anti-pant?

On second thought, I hope they don't. Their jeans just fit too nice.

And on third thought: if only their paying customers got the memo on pants, what are all those misguided trendsters who think pants are out of vogue going to be wearing?

I may not leave my apartment until winter.

Here are some things I have learned lately:

*Real frogs stink at Frogger.
*Bunnies chew a single blade of grass twenty-seven times.
*Despite quitting math, scholastically speaking, nearly six years ago, I'm not that bad at it.
*Victoria Secret makes fantastic jeans.
*Michael and I are officially addicted to crime TV . . .
* . . . and Saturday-morning cartoons.
*PT Cruisers are kind of awesome.
*I still want a tree house.
*Humidity is, if anything, underestimated.
*Painting is really fun.
*Craig's List is golden.
*This week it's been hotter in Columbus than in Bangkok, Thailand (take that, Josher!)
*Orange floors don't look that bad after you've stared at them for four months.
*I'm not starting school right now for the first time since I was five, and I'm really missing it.
*My husband makes an adorable medical student.
*I'm really excited at the prospect of having a woman vice president!
*I'm even more in love with Michael than I was when we got married.
*Or when we got engaged.
*Or even than that time he sent me Godiva chocolates for being a grump.
*(He's just that wonderful.)

To Lurk

Merriam-Webster's definition:
Lurk (v): a:to lie in wait in a place of concealment especially for an evil purpose b: to move furtively or inconspicuously c: to persist in staying.

Coworker's Definition:
Lurk (v): to sit around in a useless and creepy manner.

I hear this verb in use (you lurk, he/she/it lurks, they lurk) several times a day. I'm not sure that I've ever used it before, but it makes me smile a LOT.

Lurk.

In Memorium

Dear Groundhogs,

It's been almost a week since we have seen you, and we are having trouble accepting that you're gone. Our observations indicate that like Grimm's innocent Snow White, you were tricked by a deceitful apple. You must have thought it a such delicacy, appearing out of season and so conveniently near to your hole. In cruel mockery, the have-a-heart traps are still sitting outside your now-empty burrow, fresh-laced with apples in case you try to return. But where is the prince that will bring you home?

Oh, how your gamboling antics made us laugh. Dudders, remember how you would flee at the slightest provocation, leaving your wife and children to fend for themselves? Mr. Pinkerton, could it have only been last week that Francine refused to let you enter your own home? What caused your spat, and has it since been mended?

We hope you are all together, and have found some sort of groundhog Utopia, where apples are safe and abundant and the fields are full of clover.

Love,
Tasha and Michael.

Dear OSU,

How could you steal our groundhogs? They cause no damage, kept your grass short, and provided hours of delightful fun and whimsy. You've removed more than just the groundhogs from Buckeye Village--you've removed our JOY.

Devestatedly,
Crying in Columbus.

Tasha's first business trip

Early this Friday morn, I returned from my first business trip alive and well, which is a surprise, as I hadn't slept more than nine hours over the past three days. This was due to the unkind hours that we kept: 6:00 pm to 6:00 am.

Boss had assigned us (Meagan, Jeff, and me) to spend three days (and nights) in Pittsburgh applying RFID stickers to medical records. The late hours were meant to ensure that we didn't interrupt, and weren't interrupted by, the clinic workers. (In fact, we were only interrupted by one worker--a woman in billing who began her workday at 2:30 in the morning to avoid phone calls from those she billed.)

The late hours also allowed for some interesting conversations.

Mormons aren't common in Ohio: it took my coworkers two months to figure out that I'm LDS despite knowing that I graduated from BYU and spent four years in Utah. They figured it out on this trip, though, and once they did they spent hours questioning me about our beliefs and practices. As nice as it was to finally stop the questions about my favorite alcoholic beverage, it was even nicer to do a bit of what Josh is doing every day, and what I (in my preMichael days) thought I would be doing at this point in my life.

(Aside from these delightful discourses, the majority of our conversations revolved around food, high school memories, and what we would rather be doing right then [sleeping].)

We finished on Friday morning and, thanks to Meagan's (leather-seated!) Jaguar, made the four-hour drive in right around three-point-five. Boss gave us Friday off to rest and regain our senses.

He will never find out that, while I did sleep when I returned, I spent most of my Friday visiting Gotham City with Michael, followed by a delicious dinner at the Cheesecake factory.

All Growing Up

You'd think that getting married would make me feel like an adult. If that didn't do it, what about packing my life in boxes, hiring a moving company, and moving across the country? Starting a full-time job? Finally getting my wisdom teeth pulled? No, no, and no. It happened yesterday when I ordered a subscription to Good Housekeeping. And while I'll admit that Michael and I maintain a rather loose definition of "house," and that these days he does more "keeping" thereof than I, I feel rather grown up