[enter subject] nazi’s.

I was just tooling around online and saw this article. Full disclosure, I haven’t read it yet. I don’t know whether or not I agree with the author’s stance. I’m actually wondering about this increasing use of the term “nazi.”

Nazi used to refer to a member of a genocidal political party that believed their way of life and belief was superior to all else.

Increasingly, “nazi” is used as a descriptor for someone who is annoyingly strident in their views: A breastfeeding nazi, a feminazi, a grammar nazi.

On the one hand, I always feel vaguely disturbed and disgusted by this trend — yes, yes, let’s compare a fervent defense and affection for linguistics to a political party that advocated racial superiority and the murder of millions to ensure it. That’s not at all hyberbolic.

On the other hand, I wonder if by using the term “nazi” like this, we’re normalizing it and taking away it’s power and horror. If we are, is this a good thing? Does it make the Nazi party from something that could possibly, by some, be admired for their drive into a linguistic quirk indicating ridicule? In just 70 years, we’ve made the Nazi from a figure of nightmare terrors and reliable villains into a campy cliche villain trope and an appellation of irritation — “Stop being such a spelling nazi, jeez.”

It’s interesting to ponder. I don’t know what it means, or if it means anything. I don’t know what kind of world we would shift into if we continued to hold the term “Nazi” in horrific, hushed regard. I mean, you wouldn’t think that making a negative term essentially untouchable would be bad, but it does end up imbuing a certain sacred terror to the term, a sacred terror which is far more damaging in the long run than simple ridicule.

I confess . . .

So I was reading this blog post, wherein an exmormon airs his dirty conscious by confessing religiously-motivated cruelties, and I thought it was an interesting concept. There are some things I did and said as a religious person that I am deeply, deeply ashamed of, but I either do not know how to apologize, or am no longer in contact with those I mistreated. So I air my conscious here, on my little piece of internet real estate.

I confess . . . that in my senior year of high school, I made homophobic remarks, alienating a large group of my friends in the process. To be honest, I don’t really know why I made gay jokes. I had nothing against homosexuality; neither my immediate family nor my ward have ever discussed it (to my memory). I just knew that it was “wrong,” and that the one or two times I asked my parents about gay or lesbian couples, they clammed up as though it was something shameful and embarrassing.
The specific remarks I made, that I recall, were targeted toward a very flamboyant out male teenager. There were a lot of out kids at our school in the 1990’s — you were as likely to see two girls kissing by a locker as you were to see a hetero couple. Gay couples attended school dances without any of the hoopla you read on the news today — straight kids attended school dances in same-gender pairs, too. It just wasn’t a big deal.
This particular young man was a very pretty asian boy we’ll call “Freddy.” He was petite, wore skinny jeans and well-fitted shirts, had nicely muscled arms, and pretty dark hair that was streaked with color and longish in the front. His eyes were large and liquid and beautiful. He also affected the stereotypical “gay accent,” with the lisp and higher pitch. I honestly didn’t realize he was gay — sure, there were gay couples at our school, but I didn’t really pay attention to who was dating whom, and I hung out with an alternative crowd of kids who liked to act different from the mainstream, anyway. One day I was riding home with him and two other friends, one of whom I had a crush on (“Matt”). We would switch off carpooling, so this was a pretty frequent occurrence. After we dropped off Freddy, I began making fun of the way he spoke, dressed, and acted, saying, “He just sounds so gay!”
Matt, who often laughed at catty remarks like that, remained oddly silent. He seemed uncomfortable, and when he dropped me off, he didn’t give me the usual hug and air-kisses goodbye (I really was completely clueless). Most of the group avoided me after that. It took a week or so before one of them explained it to me: Matt and Freddy were both gay, and I’d really hurt their feelings.
I didn’t know how to apologize, and I didn’t really know how to react, either. I had never actually spoken to or interacted with a gay kid, and I felt sick and ashamed that an unexamined bias could have alienated my friends. So sick and ashamed that rather than examine it at the time, I ignored the whole situation. I wish I knew where you were today, Matt and Freddy. I hope your lives are happy and full and devoid of hateful, petty people.
On the plus side, it was this incident that made me closely examine my views on homosexuality, and their lack of validity. I became an LGBT ally and HRC donor in part because I had mistreated my friends. I also became much more perceptive regarding sexual identifications, which has been of immeasurable assistance through the past 12 years.
I confess . . . that as an active mormon girl, I was a pretentious, self-righteous pain in the ass. I might still be, but I really hope I learned my lesson. After I married my husband, I feared for the eternal souls of my in-laws and several non-member friends. I seriously alienated them and pushed them away by repeatedly pressuring them to attend to church, talking about “eternal families” in front of them, and passive-aggressively trying to guilt-trip them into attending the church by offering to pray for them or talking about how much I wished they could attend our temple sealing. I was a horrible, dickish person.
To this day, I can’t read journal entries or look at scrapbook pages from that time without feeling deeply, deeply ashamed. I loathe the passive-aggressive manipulation that is part and parcel of “re-activating” lapsed LDS members. Worse, because of the very nature of passive-aggressive interactions, they are almost impossible to apologize for. Everyone does them at some point in their lives; and they may even fool themselves into thinking the other party is just “too sensitive.” But when years and life changes have given you the proper perspective, you see your pettiness in the cold, clear light of shame — but too many years and too many changes have piled up, and there is no clear route to apologizing without dredging up a past that is perhaps better buried.
I confess . . . that as a teenager, I made some non-LDS friends with the sole intent of trying to convert them. I was not interested, initially, in them as people or friends; I was interested in getting them baptized or reactivated. Obviously, these “friendships” didn’t last. I lost touch with them, often within months, once it became clear they were not interested in the church. I have been on the receiving end of such “friendships,” and I can honestly state there is no friendship more painful than one that is revealed to be a lie. I wish I could find you, Andy, Bob, Candy, Mark, and Thor. I wish I could apologize and tell you that no-one deserves to be treated with such disrespect. I’m really sorry.
And my deepest and most shameful confession . . . I confess . . . that after my closest friend, an atheist, died, there was a brief period wherein I seriously considered putting her name on the temple lists and having her baptized postmortem. I knew it was against her wishes, I knew she would not approve . . . but I actually considered it.
I didn’t, which is a saving grace, but it still shames me that the idea even occurred to me.
I am by no means a perfect person now that I’ve left the church. I still struggle with treating people with the dignity and respect I believe all people deserve. It’s much harder to live up to ideals of kindness, respect, and forgiveness in reality than it is to hold them in the abstract. I still sometimes fall short of what I consider to be a decent, kind, patient human being.
But I also know that leaving the church has made me a more compassionate, forgiving person in many respects. These days, I listen to my conscious rather than rote lessons, and decide based on other’s peoples actions, not words, whether or not they are positive, healthy influences in the lives of myself and my loved ones. These days, instead of judging someone based on their relationship (or lack thereof) to the church, I try instead to see where they are coming from. I “walk a mile in their shoes,” I try to imagine what kind of person I would be if I had lived their life and experienced what they experienced.

[insert relevance here]

I think it’s human nature to apply a narrative to our lives, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing — but the consequences can be chaotic when our narrative doesn’t match our reality. And I’m not talking about schizophrenia or mental disorders that mean your narrative is, like, CIA operatives spying on you or supernatural entities talking to you. I mean the small narratives, like defining yourself as a good person when everyone else see’s you as selfish.
Sometimes I’m tired of my voice. I’m tired of trying, and I’m tired of talking. I feel as though I keep trying to explain myself, and I keep failing miserably. I feel as though it’s useless to keep trying, but I do. I mean, I know my own intentions, thoughts, hopes, dreams, and feelings — but it feels like I keep miscommunicating them to others, like I’m somehow off-step and out of line.
I often feel as though I’m speaking a foreign language, and when I say something like, “I don’t believe in god because I have found no rational evidence for such a deity,” someone else hears, “I left the church because my feelings were hurt.”
Or when I say, “I wasn’t trying to be mean when I stopped talking to you for a bit, I was trying to avoid conflict because it seemed like you were angry or hurt at everything I said,” I feel like someone else hears, “I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you you suck.”
I mean, I know our own experiences and thoughts and hopes and dreams and neuroses feed into how we interpret what’s said or done to us. For instance, I often feel slighted by extended silence. I begin worrying that someone is avoiding me because I’m annoying and needy. I feel nerve-wracked about extending affection, because I’m concerned that I’m coming across as clingy — then I start worrying about being too stand-offish because I’m afraid I come across as cold and superior.
I know that underneath my chronic bitchface, I’m constantly worried about offending people or accidentally hurting someone’s feelings — but I also know that because I do have a very angry-looking face when I’m not actively smiling, and because I’m nervous about my crowded teeth so I don’t smile, and because I’m often uncertain in social situations so I choose silence as the better part of valor (or, as my dad used to say, “You can be silent and thought a fool, or open your mouth and remove all doubt.”)
In other words, I know that inside, I am not necessarily the way the world perceives. Ergo, logically, the internal minds of others do not necessarily match their external actions/ words — I am projecting my own experiences and knowledge onto them, as all mankind does. So someone else might look at me and say, “Wow, you clean up nice!” and I hear, “Holy cow, you normally look awful — how’d you pull that off?” or, perhaps, “We can’t go out because we’re short on funds,” and I hear, “You’re really bad at budgeting and now we have to stay inside all week because you suck.”
I think my internal narrative conflicts. I at once firmly believe I am a competent, hard-working, intelligent, awesome person — and this an image I have been taught, an image given to me by co-workers, teachers, classmates, and peers — and that I am a miserable failure who can only disappoint others.
The competent image is one that has been gifted to me. Over and over again, I have been told by those who have worked and studied with me that I am a hard worker, I am intelligent, and I am talented. Over and over, I have earned grades, awards, scholarships, and honorable mentiosn that indicate these claims to be true. But this image fits me badly, at least from my perspective. I am usually uncomfortable with it; it is an ill-fitting coat. I look at others, like my sisters, and think, “They’re such much more successful and driven than I; they’ve done so much more with their lives.”
My personal narrative slides much more easily into the “failure” motif. I do not measure up to my high expectations. When I earned a 3.7 GPA and got into Phi Theta Kappa, I was disappointed in myself for not getting a 4.0. When I learned to ride my motorcycle, I was disappointed in myself for not picking up cornering as fast as my husband. When I fold the laundry, I’m disappointed in myself for not figuring out how to neatly fold a fitted sheet. It doesn’t matter how many times I watch this video, my fitted sheets are still slightly puffy and off-kilter after folding them.
I’m disappointed in myself for not decorating the house a full 3 weeks before holidays; for not making home-made Halloween costumes; for not being more patient with my husband and son; for not cooking gourmet meals; for not being 125 lbs and attractive to my husband; for not wanting to be 125 lbs ever again; for moving stuff when I clean up and not being able to find it when someone asks where it is; for being bad a cake decorating; for complaining that I’m a failure and being a whiny downer; for not finding a job fast enough; for taking 3 days to read a book I once would have finished in 24 hours; for not visiting my friends enough; for not liking shopping; for being introverted.
The thing is, I don’t really want to change myself, either. Except for my teeth. I’d love to change those. I should have worn my retainer. I digress, though. I like myself, by and large. I like who I am — I’m just sad that I keep disappointing people. I don’t disappoint myself, because I think I’m an okay person. I make mistakes, but everyone does. I have bad days, but everyone does. I just wish I made fewer mistakes and had less bad days, because it would make the whole world a heckuva lot easier.
See, if I lived on my own in a little white-washed adobe hut with a red tile roof on top of a hill in the middle of India or Mexico or something (and you had to take a 5-day trip by goat cart to reach my house), then I’d be mostly content. I would miss people, but I’d spend my days tending my garden and keeping my hut neat and bright and clean and milking my goat and collecting eggs from my hens. I would write for several hours a day, and once a month I would get in my goat cart and bump down to the nearest village and mail off my latest manuscript.
But I would be alone, and that would be the sad part. Although the little white adobe hut with a red tile roof sounds nice, the reality is that I would really miss the people in my life. If I had reached that little white adobe hut with a red tile roof before I met my husband or had my son or lived this life, I would have been content with just my goats and hens and cats. But now, I could never be content with just goats and hens and cats. Real life is messy and relationships are hard, but they’re so worth it. For every time I disappoint someone, there’s all the times I do something to make their eyes light up and a genuine laugh or smile burst forth. For all the times I fail at being the best wife/ mother/ friend I could be, there’s all the times I manage to step up and hit it out of the ballpark, so to speak.
I need to remember that more often. I need to remember that we’re all flawed; we all misread each other’s words and intentions, and that we need to be more forgiving and compassionate. I need to remember that most people do not set out to hurt other people. I need to remember that we all have good intentions, and that sometimes when we are mean to other people it’s because we’re continuing a cycle of misunderstandings.

I honestly don’t know if any of that made sense to anyone but me. I friggin love language and words and writing, but dear god in hell English is an ambiguous and verbose language.


So, preface: I’ve been having some female-related health issues that started last year. End result, after 4 pap smears with different doctors, my most recent visit with an ob-gyn (sans pap smear) resulted in my doctor saying that I have menorrhagia and potential adenomyosis, which basically means heavy periods and potential uterine lining issues. Solution? Ironically (because I had a tubal ligation so I wouldn’t have to deal with this), taking hormonal birth control.
This means that right now, I’m re-adjusting to taking birth control and (basically) readjusting all the hormone levels in my body. It also means I keep bursting into tears when there’s really no call for it, which is irritating to say the least. I don’t particularly like crying. Plus, I look awful when I cry. I’m not one of those people who looks all elegant and tragic; I look puffy and red.
Today, my husband and I were watching Community, which is an awesome show that I highly recommend to anyone with a sense of humor. The particular episode was the season 2 Christmas episode, or Abed’s Uncontrollable Christmas. Basically, Abed (a Muslim) wanted to find the meaning of Christmas. It was a curious premise, but we soon learn that Abed’s mother was Polish, and that he linked Christmas with her — and this year, she had decided to spend Christmas with her new family instead of Abed.
This revelation came about 3/4 of the way through the episode, and I spent the remainder of the episode quietly crying. Why? Because in my experience, Christmas was always a time for family. My mom loved Christmas. I still tend to refer to the month of December as “Christmastime,” because growing up, that’s what it was.
Officially, the Christmas decorations weren’t supposed to come out until the first of December, but somehow Santa Clauses and angels and garlands began popping up right after Thanksgiving dinner. Mom collected Santa Clauses, and the mantel over the fireplace would be lined with figurines and carvings of Santa Claus versions from every country. There was St. Nicholas and Black Peter (with his bag of whips), a German Nutcracker Santa Claus, a blue-robed Scandanavian Santa Claus, and many, many more. My dad had these little Henning wood-carved trolls from Norway, with clever little eyes and wide-stretched laughing smiles. 
During the Christmas season, he would hide them around the house — sometimes they peeked out from behind Santa’s legs, sometimes you would glimpse them in the branches of the Christmas tree. My parents had us kids do a “pixie week” when we were younger. Basically, we drew each other’s names out of a hat and had to do nice things (cleaning a sibling’s room, doing their laundry, buying small presents) without letting on who was doing what. It was like a Secret Santa, but with good deeds.

Dad, who had served a mission in Norway, liked to have us put wooden clogs outside our door that he could fill with treats. Every Sunday, my mom would light a candle in the Advent Wreath, a tradition she had picked up while on her mission in Germany. We would sing hymns, read some scripture, and eat rice pudding, and whoever got the almond in their pudding would get a prize. On Christmas Eve, we would re-enact the Nativity play — until my little sister was too big to play the baby Jesus, and none of us wanted to be Mary or the Shepherds anymore. At that point, we began sitting down as a family and reading the Nativity story, each of us reading our verses in turn.

I remember the warmth, the sense of belonging and home, as we lounged and curled around the Christmas tree, cradling our scriptures and basking in the love of our family. My parents always put white lights on the tree, never colored or flashing, — dad said the white lights were like the candles that had traditionally been used on the trees — and they would reflect in the dark of the windows like stars floating down to earth.
And through it all, the house smelled incredible. Mom baked all month long, cookies and cakes and pies, treats that she would inevitably wrap up and distribute to the neighbors and ward members as well as her family. There was the rice pudding on Sundays and the big brunch on Christmas day. We would often have a big honey-roasted ham on Christmas, too.
Decorating almost had a liturgy to it — Dad would tug out the cardboard boxes that were falling apart, and we would begin to unpack the ornaments. “Oh,” I would cry out as I pulled out the small, crystalline angel that hung by a gold thread and caught the lights just so, “I love this!”
Me too, me too,” my little sister would shout, scrambling over the boxes and tissue paper to get to me. “I get to hang her this year!”
You got to hang her last year, I get to do it this year,” I would respond, like the brat I was.
Mom would try and distract us, bringing something else out, tempting us with positioning the dolls in the branches (a German tradition) or offering to let one of us hang the home-made felt stockings, personalized to each of her children (mine had a pink and white angel on it, my name written under it in curling gold braid). It usually worked, until the year I tried to hide the crystal angel in my pocket so I could hang her later, and then I forgot about her and found her the next year, crushed to bits in my jacket.
Finally, with an air of fanfare, we would unpack the wooden Nativity scene, and mom would share the story of how she had scoured the shops in Germany, looking for the perfect set. She would recount again — with dad interrupting, laughing at the old story — about how she’d found one carved wooden set that she really liked, but when she picked it up, it turned out to have Barbie dolls underneath the wooden casing! And then, just when she thought she would never find the perfect set, she saw it — our Nativity scene, in a little out-of-the-way shop. We would all look at it then, the delicately carved figures — Mary, with her serene, Madonna-like features, and wee baby Jesus, who you could set in Mary’s outstretched arms or in the tiny manger. And Joseph, with his wise sad eyes and long beard, standing watch over Mary’s shoulder.
After all the decorations were out, someone would say, “The angel! Where’s the wax angel!” The wax Nuremburg angel. In my mind, she was always impossibly beautiful and exquisite, with long arching wings and a delicate, cloth-of-gold dress that overlaid a simple white linen shift. She had a tiny, perfect face with small, pink lips and a slightly sloping nose, offset by her large dark eyes.
I was always ever so slightly disappointed to actually unpack her — she wore a brown velvet dress with gold detailing, and her gold wings were small and stubby. But then, as I held the delicate figure, a slow appreciation for her muted loveliness would wash over me. The brown velvet really did set off the gold detailing, I would notice. And the darkness of her dress and eyes made her softly curling hair seem pale and otherwordly. She really was a work of art.
Whoever unpacked her would carefully hand her to the person next to them, and they would hand her on until dad accepted her into his care and placed her atop the tree.
As a child, Christmas was the most wonderful time of the year. Not because of presents (although those were nice!) or treats — it was because of family. Traditions. Because mom always smiled in December, and because we all tried a little harder to be mindful of each other’s feelings.
Christmas hasn’t been the same since 2000. That was the last Christmas I spent with my family, the Christmas before John and I were engaged. It was the first Christmas John and I spent together — although we’d only been officially dating since late October, when I found out he wasn’t celebrating Christmas at his house that year (his sister was doing something with her church and his parents were out of town with a load), I invited him to join our family. That was the best Christmas of my life — I was surrounded by everyone I held most dear, and the world all seemed to fit together perfectly.
But the next year, mom was sick. It was hard to get into the season, somehow, without her enthusiasm. And it turns out that John wasn’t all that interested in the holiday season — he didn’t enjoy Christmas carols or the thrill of decorating; to him it was all just kid stuff and a hassle. Plus, we were poor newlyweds, and he didn’t see the point of celebrating if we weren’t able to afford it.
I didn’t realize then how different our conceptions and experiences of Christmas were. I thought it was just the stress of the season, my mom’s sickness, the lack of shared traditions. And maybe, just maybe, that is it. Every single year we’ve been under massive financial, emotional, and lifestyle stress when the holiday season rolls around. Every single year, there’s been something that makes it hard to get into the holiday spirit, and every single year, I end up feeling depressed and disappointed when Christmas rolls around.

There was the first Christmas after mom’s death, which was just . . . awful. No words for how much I miss her during Christmas time — it’s almost worse than the actual month she died. There was the Christmas after I realized I didn’t believe in god, when I had a crisis of conscious and wondered how I could possibly continue to celebrate a holiday I’d always been taught was spiritual, not material. There was the Christmas I tried to focus on the material instead of the spiritual and felt empty and pointless all season. There was the Christmas John’s Nana died, and he wanted to spend it with some new friends instead of family (everyone deals with grief in their own way, don’t judge). There was last Christmas, when we didn’t get a tree or decorate or anything at all.
Part of me wonders if this is just part and parcel of being an adult. Maybe Christmas is only magical for kids. Maybe the day my mom died, Christmas as I knew it died. But part of me — the part that sings the score from Fiddler on the Roof and the part that still appreciates church hymns even if I don’t buy into the doctrine and the part that thrills toward human connection and tradition and the meaning of family — part of me refuses to believe that wondering Christmas feeling will never be recaptured.
Maybe John and Kidling and I will have different traditions — but we can still build our own traditions. We have been — for instance, the past 5 years (except for last year), we’ve taken the tree into the backyard the last week of December and had a bonfire. And every year I hang the Christmas decorations, I tell Kidling stories about family and traditions and the important of forgiveness and acceptance. And every year we give gifts, I try ridiculously hard to surprise John, and every year I fail at surprising him — but I keep trying, because I love trying. I love picking out the presents and I love wrapping them into beautiful, decorative packages, and I love tying off the bows and lettering neat little tags, and I love watching them get opened.
Basically, I’m getting emotional because I’m conflicted about Christmas celebrations and adjusting to hormonal birth control, and I saw a t.v. episode today that brought all that to the surface and made me cry, so I blogged about it. Fun, huh?

massive sleep debt

Sweet jebus, this has been a stressful week. Lemme break it down for you:
  • Friday, John comes home with a bad toothache.
  • Saturday, I find a dentist and take John in. His tooth needs to be extracted. The dentist breaks it into thirds, planning to remove each part. Instead, she pulls roughly on his jaw for 2 hours, removes only 1/3 of the tooth, and decides that an oral surgeon needs to be called. Oral surgeon is not available until Wednesday. We pick up Percoset and go home.
  • Sunday – Tuesday John is in massive amounts of drugged-up pain. I’m not handling the stress of sick-John well, and sleep is eluding me. By Monday evening, I’ve already built up a significant sleep debt.
  • Wednesday, John’s tooth is finally, finally completely pulled. And then his parents come to town.
  • Thursday, Family visits and tooth-pulling pain. Need I say more?
  • Friday, I have an interview. It goes well, and the place is a great fit for me. Pretty excited and hopeful.
  • Saturday, John is mostly healed, I am finally able to catch up on my 18+ hours of accrued sleep debt, and I get to visit with my friend Tobiah, who just recently wrote an e-book on tabletop gaming.
  • Sunday, Kidling didn’t feel well and ended up sleeping all day, so we didn’t do any of our planned family activities.
It’s just been one of those weeks when it feels like everything is thrown at you. I was pretty stoked about the interview, too, and today I learned they gave the position to someone with more experience. Totally understandable, but I am kind of bummed because it seemed like an awesome experience. I did everything I could on my end, though, and in the end I just wasn’t the perfect fit. C’est la vie.
I’ve been reading Tobiah’s book to soothe away all the turmoil of the past week. As someone who is not a tabletop gamer, I’ve gotta say: This is a really fantastic book. It’s written in a really accessible, interesting manner, and it’s a surprisingly fun read read, for such a specific topic. I highly recommend to anyone with even a passing, academic interest in the subject; although if I have any table top gaming friends out there, I’m sure it will appeal to you even more. And the occasional illustrations are the icing on the cake; very clever and quirky. Here’s the link, in case you didn’t catch it before: The Game Master, by Tobiah Panshin. Read it, love it, review it.

things I am loving lately

  1. Fruit tarts. I don’t know what genius came up with these, but they’re the awesomest. The best ones are light on the ‘tart’ and heavy on the ‘fruit’.
  2. Walking. John and I have been walking everywhere, and it’s getting to the point where a day without a walk feels unfinished.
  3. This Glee quote: “You know what they call a unicorn without a horn? A friggin’ horse.” Love it!
  4. My son has 2-6 friends over nearly every day. The house is crowded with children, but they eat all the brownies and cookies and cupcakes I make, so I can finally bake without guilt — and my son has fun with friends!
  5. Renting my home. I especially love it when our dishwasher breaks in the same week we have a medical emergency, and it’s not an issue. The landlord will fix the dishwasher; we manage the medical emergency.
  6. This new series I’m reading by Brandon Sanderson — Mistborn. And holy crap, I just realized why that name is naggingly familiar to me — a friend of mine mentioned that her friend had finished writing the Wheel of Time Series after Robert Jordan died, and that I should really give the series another chance because he really brought it back in from the sprawling mess Jordan left. I thought she was just talking up her friend, but at this point (halfway through the second Mistborn book), I’m thinking Sanderson has the talent to rescue that hot mess. I just don’t want to subject myself to Wheel of Time again. Good god.


My poor husband. His tooth was bothering him last night when I picked him up from work, and by the time he woke up this morning, he was nearly in tears. Not actually in tears, because this is my husband we’re talking about, but you know. His eyes had that sheen of pain, with lines of stress and tension radiating from the corners, and his jaw was clenched in that way it does when he’s dealing with some serious pain. Every now and then, he’d start doing that rhythmic breathing they teach expectant parents and that all parents naturally fall into when dealing with intense pain.

So I found a dentists office open on a Saturday, and we went in. They took one look at his tooth, which had cracked, and said, “That needs to come out.” Unfortunately, they couldn’t get it out. They tried, but they could only get a bit out. He has to go to an orthopedic surgeon in a few days. He is in a massively horrific amount of pain, and all I know to do is tip-toe around and try not to be insulted when he says (well, mumbles) angry things at me.
I wish I was a wizard. I’d wave a magic wand and make him healthy and hale and whole.