I Am Venom

I'm not going to lie to you, this week kind of sucked. And I can't put my finger on why exactly. Cambria's been sleeping though the night, and the lawn is looking better than ever so I don't know. I'm just not feeling it lately. Some weeks are like that. No matter how well things are going you're just off your game. Outwardly nothing's changed, but inside you'd rather be vacationing on some remote island, being served peach milkshakes by a burly native. You'd rather be somewhere else, even though you love your life, love your fabulous husband and children, love your home. Some weeks it just feels like you're just going through the motions. And you scold when you would normally laugh. And yell at the kids to stop yelling. And feed your family canned spaghetti three times in one week. And find excuses to be alone. And snack at eleven-o-clock at night even though you know its all going into your thighs. AND then feel incredibly guilty for everything you're doing wrong. Guilty for everything you haven't done right. Guilty for feeling down after all that God has blessed you with. Guilty for feeling guilty. Some weeks are a downward spiral that appear to have no bottom. Some weeks you make more mistakes than others.

Thank goodness for Sunday.

My Testimony

This Easter Sunday I just wanted to share my simple testimony that Jesus Christ is the son of God, and my Savior. That His sacrifice gives my life meaning, and reason to hope. I am humbled by his incredible love. I am grateful for the opportunity to repent each time I fall. I am grateful to have the opportunity to live with God again, to be with my family and friends forever, to continue progressing eternally. I am grateful for the peace I feel when I realize His hand in my life, when I consider His infinite patience with me. His infinite mercy towards me. I know He lives. And I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Elder Holland says it better. Click on the link below.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EpFhS0dAduc

Ode to Mango Sorbet

Life is hard.

I have been known to dwell on this fact from time to time. I've been known to author sad and pathetic posts about this from time to time. I've been known to whine incessantly until the person on the other end of the telephone fakes a medical emergency to avoid having to talk to me anymore from time to time. Often, when life hands me lemons, I chuck them at innocent cyclists rather than making the lemonade God intended. And while those innocent cyclists in their brightly-colored, embarrassingly snarky body suits may have had it coming- I'm suddenly quite thirsty and find myself with nothing to drink but prune juice. And with nothing to drink but prune juice, I am presented with a whole new set of problems.

Straight up- I'm not really a lemonade kind of girl. So when I am faced with life's trials I opt for mango sorbet. Because not only is it refreshingly delicious, but has the creamy texture of ice cream without the artery clogging saturated fat. It is scrumtrulescent. It is a delight. But I'll be honest, it isn't easy making happy mango sorbet from life's lemons.

First of all, you have to accept that life is both difficult and unfair for most everyone and that it isn't singling you out because frankly, you're not THAT special. Let marinate. Secondly, you should honestly and periodically self-evaluate. Maybe you ARE doing something wrong. Or maybe you're doing the best you can and simply need to readjust your expectations. Maybe you need to humble yourself and pray for help. Or maybe you need to get up out yo comfort zone and serve someone else. Allow to chill. The third and final step is the most difficult for me. Endure. Be patient. Quit rubbernecking your problems lest you crash and burn. Keep moving foreword. Be positive. Have faith that in due time, with consistent effort and a lot of help from Heavenly Father, you can overcome your trials no matter what they be. Serve and enjoy.

Life is hard. And it may not be easy making mango sorbet from lemons. But when faced with the alternative of prune juice and a gang of angry cyclists, totally worth it.

My Middle Name

"I hope that someday we will be able to put away our fears and prejudices and just laugh at people." - Jack Handy

Tact is not my middle name. Nor is Diplomacy. My name is not Diana "has a way with people" Sortor. I know this may come as a shock to those of you who know me, but I say really stupid, insensitive things on a regular basis. I say them to my friends. I say them to my family members. I say them to total strangers waiting in line at the grocery store. I raise my hand and say them at church. Basically, I keep trying to talk when I really shouldn't.

I used to be shy, you know. So shy that I was almost held back in the second grade because my teacher didn't think I could read. So shy that when my elementary-school crush of five years asked me if I wanted to be his reading partner I stood gaping at him until he felt uncomfortable and walked away. So shy that I missed out on friendship after friendship because I didn't know how to respond. So shy that I watched life pass me by for fear of exposing myself as the moron I am. So shy that I never expressed how I really felt to anyone. Of course, I grew up and grew out of that. At this point I think maybe I've become a little too comfortable. Maybe a little too expressive. There were definite advantages to keeping my mouth shut. True, I was unfulfilled and friendless, but on the upside I wasn't influencing others negatively. I wasn't embarrassing myself. People didn't dislike me. They nothinged me. I took comfort in that.

In a perfect world everyone would understand and like me for all my blundering. I could laugh at people when they fell down and they'd innately take that as a gesture of friendship. I could make random Nacho Libre references without having people think I'm off my rocker. I could be honest about my feelings concerning Twilight. But this isn't a perfect world.

And so to anyone out there I've offended or inadvertently ostracized I apologize. I really don't have anything against postal workers, Tom Selleck, people with mullets, or llamas. (But I do think they're funny.) For someone who enjoys words as much as I do, I seriously struggle forming thoughts into coherent sentences, especially in public. So, when I say "Heylop! Nothin'" I mean, "Why hello there my fine friend, what is up? Things are good with me as well." And when I say, "I'm easy. No. No. I never clean the toilets." I mean, "Sure, send your children over, because I understand your predicament, am not currently busy, and would like to assist you." When I try and give you a compliment that comes out, "I can't tell whether you're pregnant or not." I actually mean, "Even when you're pregnant you are as beautiful as you regularaly are." And lastly, when I announce, "I don't want Andy becoming a woman just to make me feel better." I mean to say, "I am grateful for the differences between men and woman even if they cause me some frustration. I like men. And I love Andy the way he is."

Yeah, my middle name isn't Eloquence. Its Lynne.

My Gosh!

Is it just me or have any of you noticed the steady decline of the Sortor Rules! fan base? Before October hit I had anywhere from 12-20 comments per post. Since October the average has dropped significantly to around 5. I thought this was, in part, due to the destruction of my brother's computer. It turns out he and his wife were responsible for a great deal of commentary. I thought maybe their return to the blogosphere would raise numbers back up, but unfortunately this has not been the case. This begs the question: What's the dealio yo? I have a few theories.

Theory #1: Others find me offensive.

Hey, we all have strong opinions. I have especially strong opinions. In fact one of my especially strong opinions is that we can agree to disagree. Another strong opinion is that a sense of humor is absolutely necessary to make it in this often unpleasant world. Sometimes you have to choose between breaking something or laughter. I have broken things before but I prefer laughter as the healthier, less destructive option. Granted I'm not as funny as sometimes I think I am, so please take half the things I say with a grain of salt.

Theory #2: Its the economy.

I know a lot of people out there are stressed and struggling right now. Blogging probably doesn't rank high on the priority list- totally understandable. Or NOT! Blogging is free. Throw me a friggin' bone people!

Theory #3: I have lost my mojo.

This seems to be the most obvious answer. Pregnancy will do that to a person. That first trimester literally sucked the creative juices from my veins. Not only that, but it also rendered me fat, unattractive, and generally useless as anything other than a pod in which our fetus might feed and develop. I get it, nobody likes a pod. Methinks I will go eat worms.

Theory #4: You have all been drawn away by that siren, Stephanie Meyer.

Theory #5: Blogging is no longer hip.

Maybe blogging has lost its novelty. Maybe people have moved on to something better. Maybe something I don't even know about. Maybe Sortor Rules! is the hammer-pant of the Internet. But you know what? I like hammer pants. And I'm not going to stop wearing them just because everyone else is into high-waisted acid wash jeans.

Whatever the reason, the point is I enjoy blogging because it helps me feel connected even when I'm isolated. I enjoy writing; I find it therapeutic. I enjoy sharing my family with you and keeping a record of our goings-on. In short, while I miss the abundance of comments I used to receive, and I don't completely understand what changed, I still have every intention of continuing on with Sortor Rules! because ultimately it isn't about the comments. Its about the narcism.

Twenty-seven Things I've Learned

Its official. Today I turn that magical age of twenty-seven. Much the same as twenty-six you say? I beg to differ. Perhaps I'm only a little bit wiser, a tad more mature and self-assured, a little less likely to lose this pregnancy weight- Sure. After all, what difference could one year make at this point? I'd like to think I learn something new every year. Sometimes, I even learn two or three things a year. I know. I'm kind of amazing. In most ways I will admit, I'm probably the same old Diana. Worry-prone, yes. Slightly off, yes. Really, really, ridiculously good-looking, maybe. But to tell you the truth I feel like I've learned some valuable lessons lately that I would like to share with you now. I call them "Twenty-seven things I've learned." MMM-yes, very creative I know.

1. Nausea can serve a duel purpose; one- to satisfy a fetus, two- to make me appreciate life.
2. Nothing compares to watching my children share and play nicely together.
3. Sometimes others see me more clearly than I see myself.
4. Happy jobs make happy husbands.
5. Even when we make a minimal effort Heavenly Father watches out for us.
6. I need to pick my battles.
7. Blogging is both fun and therapeutic.
8. Some people need more personal space than others.
9. People are generally more concerned about their own flaws than yours.
10. Cheese soup is much harder to make than it should be.
11. Muppets are a whole different brand of scary.
12. We all need friends even if we don't all realize it.
13. Modelling isn't my cup of tea.
14. Nothing is radder than David Bowie's hair in "Labyrinth".
15. With the right camera, anyone can be a great photographer.
16. Sometimes just laying in the sunshine is all I really need.
17. Everything is good at the Cheesecake Factory.
18. I'm an extrovert with a white personality.
19. You don't really know a person until you see how they react to tragedy.
20. Its futile to appeal to one's good nature, when one is a tow-truck driver.
21. Paying a little extra for a good haircut is totally worth it.
22. The first step to friendship is exposing yourself as the nerd you are.
23. Needing someone to talk to isn't a weakness.
24. Being pessimistic isn't as fun as it looks.
25. There is no gain without sacrifice.
26. Extreme exaggerations, or half-truths are useful tools in creative writing.
27. Nothing beats waking up to your children and husband jumping on the bed, mauling you while exclaiming "Happy Birthday Mommy!" Its the best.

Our Noisy Years Seem Moments

Its been a fun and busy month and promises to continue being a fun, busy month. And while I do enjoy being busy, I sometimes regret how the time gets away from me. When I went to bed last night I peeked into the girl's room to check on them, found them sleeping soundly and marveled at how big they are getting. Brooklyn is almost five already and at age two, Avery hardly seems a baby anymore. Everyday they play, and eat, and learn, and fight, and talk, and sing, and laugh. The days fly by. And while they are still little I make it a priority to learn as much from them as I can.

*Avery is two, and the all time favorite phrase of every two year old is "Do it myself!" I hear it when I pour her cereal in the morning, during bath time, when getting dressed, climbing into the car, getting out of the car, even getting in and out of her crib, and on many other occasions throughout the course of the day. Sometimes she can do it herself, sometimes she can't. I almost always let her try, and when she succeeds I give her praise, and when she asks for help I gladly give it. Interestingly enough, more than half-way through my twenties I still find myself stubbornly exclaiming "Do it myself!" The only real difference between myself and my little daughter, is that she's willing to ask for help when she needs it, and so often I am not. Even though I know from experience that Heavenly Father will answer my prayers, its so difficult to let go of that toddler pride. Of course Avery can't buckle her own seat belt yet, that's why she needs a parent. Of course I can't be perfect yet and that's why I need the Savior.

*I have yet to figure out a way to make my kids eat their vegetables. They peck through the tolerable ones but really prefer ice cream, to be honest. I mean come on! If I let them eat ice cream all the time they would never give me any grief at mealtimes. Then again if I let them eat ice cream all the time they would be undernourished and obese and would probably not last very long. And so I keep trying to coax those vegetables down them because even though they may not taste as pleasant as ice cream, those vegetables are what's good for them. Unfortunately, I have to admit that I whine obnoxiously when life isn't all ice cream too. Obviously there are times when life is sweet, but its also meant to be bitter too. Sometimes its tasteless, sometimes I don't like the texture but those are the experiences I need to be strong, those bitter times build the character I need to survive.

*Brooklyn is a very smart kid who notices everything. Because she notices everything she's a bit distractable. When I tell her to go to her room, get her shoes and sweater, and put them on, she heads to her room and disappears for thirty minutes. When I find her, she's busy drawing on her floor- no shoes, no sweater. She intended to listen, she went to her room, saw her shiny art set and got distracted. I understand, I'm the same way. I know that I should be constantly focused on important things. I should read my scriptures every day, I should have meaningful prayers often, I should attend the temple, I should spend more time playing with my children, I should continue expanding my knowledge. There are so many important things I should be doing, and I intend to act, but somewhere along the line I get distracted by all the shiny things in life. Not that there is something inherently wrong with shiny things, but when the good things distract us from the better things, we don't reach our goals.

* We have a lot of stickers in our yard. Not the fun happy kind. The hurting kind that sting your feet. I tell my girls to put on their shoes. Sometimes they don't listen and end up stepping on stickers and crying. I don't force them to wear their shoes, and I can't take away the pain of a sticker, but I hope that eventually they will learn from their mistakes and listen to me so that by the time they're off to school they will choose to wear shoes and avoid even more painful foot injuries. Heavenly Father doesn't plan to keep us babies either. He wants us to grow up and learn from our mistakes and listen to him. So he allows us our agency, and he allows us consequences even if they sometimes sting.

*Last one. I am far from a perfect parent. I make a lot of mistakes, but when I have erred I make a point of admitting to my children that I am wrong and that I am sorry. I do this because I want them to understand that none of us are perfect, but that we need to repent and then get up and try again, and again, and again. And watching my children sleep or play I feel how deeply I love them, and how I would forgive them for anything. And if I have such love for my children, how much greater and deeper Heavenly Father's love is for me. Repentance is such a difficult concept for me. It must be that toddler pride. But I know that when we are sorry for our mistakes, and when we ask for forgiveness, and continue trying to be better people, Heavenly Father forgives us. Not only does he forgive us, but he takes our sin away entirely.

I know I have a lot more to learn from my children and that we've only just begun. But I am grateful for them, and grateful to God for sending them to me. They are still so little, and believe me life isn't all ice cream but I adore them. And although I may have passing futile wishes that time would stand still for a moment, that they will stop growing up, I realize that's selfish. I try and keep in mind that I'm raising them to be strong faithful women. I try and be a stronger, and more faithful woman myself. And the days fly by.

My Lesson Learned

A little bit-o-wisdom from me to you. "Eye of Sauron" avitar- great for leaving funny comments amongst family.
When leaving a friendly note like- "Hey cute pictures of your innocent children...BLAH I SEE YOU BLAHHHHH" or "I'm sorry for your loss...YOU CANNOT HIDE BLAH!!!" Not so much.

My Marlboro Man

I was raised by the Marlboro man. No lie, he even owned the jacket. It was free with proof of purchase, an honor reserved for only the most loyal of customers.

My dad wasn't the kind of father you would cuddle up next to on the couch. He wasn't an open, laughing, soft-bellied father. He was tattooed, tough, and smelled of cigarettes and Old Spice. He was a strict disciplinarian, a religious workaholic, and a seasoned rebel. He was a distant cowboy silhouetted in the sunset. He didn't teach me to ride a bike. But he did teach me to fear no living man. He never took me camping. But he taught me to take responsibility for my actions.

My dad never joined the church. And when I turned eight and wanted to be baptized I had to ask for his permission. If I've painted an accurate picture for you, then maybe you can see how imposing a figure my dad was and how daunting a prospect was laid before me. But, I wanted to be baptized so I summoned my courage and entered the garage (where he always seemed to be) and asked him if I could be baptized. A twinkle never failed to appear in the old man's eyes whenever he was asked for permission or advise, and somehow they were always one and the same. I will never forget his response. "Making a promise to Heavenly Father is a very important thing, Diana. You don't get baptized because your mother wants you to or because I want you to, you get baptized because you want to. And if you do get baptized I will hold you to it whether you're sixteen or thirty. If you make a promise I will make sure you keep it." At eight years old I learned what integrity meant. Being baptized was my choice and that has made an incalculable difference in my life.

When I was fifteen I wanted to learn to drive. Here is a little background. I grew up in a tiny mountain resort town in Northern CA with winding two-lane roads. My dad prided himself in his ability to manipulate these winding two-lane roads going speeds more appropriate for an interstate freeway. And what really chapped his hind-quarters were all the "incompetent" drivers blocking his way. He would intimidate them off the road, shouting obscenities through his cigarette and making suggestions of where they may shove their heads. Oh, it was all great fun until he met other road-ragers. On more than one occasion the car in front of us would pull over and challenge my dad to a fight. My dad would oblige, much to their surprise and dismay. But he never actually had to fight. The offending victim, upon seeing a friggin' scary angry dude coming for him, would always opt for flight. So naturally, when it came time to learn to drive, I wanted my mom to teach me. That didn't last very long as the old man did not approve much of her skills and wanted to pass along secret driving techniques to me that only he knew. Teach me the ways of the Samuri. That also didn't last very long. After a few lessons I absolutely refused to drive at all and did not get my licence until I was eighteen.

I left home at sixteen just like he did. As you can imagine, he was not very pleased with my leaving and refused to give his permission. But I guess that's why its called running away. A week after I left he called me. "Honey, I've given it some thought and I am giving you my permission." I didn't know it then, but in fact he was not only giving me permission to leave home, but his consent to grow up. I had stood my ground and gained his respect and he treated me accordingly from then on. I knew I had arrived the day he thought I was old enough to share in a dirty joke.

The summer following my first year of college was the last summer I spent with my dad. I hadn't lived at home for two years and I could tell he was very pleased to have me back. So pleased he bought me two cars. The first one we saw while we were out together- a beautiful dark red 1954 Mercedes. The body was in wonderful condition, even the interior, but it didn't run. In his younger years my dad had been an exceptional mechanic. Word on the street had it he even built his own car once. So, to my utter delight he bought the car. He tried so hard to fix it for me, but couldn't do it. It must have been frustrating for him, that his mind wasn't working so clearly as it had once done. But he would hardly admit defeat. He explained that he would continue working on the Mercedes but would buy me a new car in the meantime. I understood what he really meant. He bought me a 1988 Buick Regal- straight cash. "This is a good car" and he was right. It was no Mercedes, but it ran and that was what mattered. I drove that car back and forth between UT and CA five or six times and it never gave me any problems. After Andy and I got married we sold it to his cousin and it still runs to this day. Sometimes at night the horn will start honking and the hood will pop open. They say its my dad, haunting it.

The last time I saw my dad was that Christmas. I wish I had known it, then we could have had that talk he kept telling me he wanted to have, "Just you and me." When he took me to the airport, Angie and Mom waited in the car while he waited with me, holding the boxed-up dinner he insisted I take with me. We stood a long time in silence. He never was a man of many words. He bought me a milkshake and when it was clear my plane was going to be very late he sighed and told me he had better head home. He hugged me, that great cigarette-Old Spice hug and told me he loved me. I was always proud of the way he walked in his cowboy boots, how he didn't give a crap if he stood out like a sore thumb in the San Francisco airport.

That spring he annoyed the crap out of me with phone calls about my income tax forms he was preparing for me. I was ungrateful and a little short with him a couple times. That is why I called that Sunday, so I could talk with him and let him know I loved him. I ended up talking to mom for a long time, but he walked in just as I was about ready to hang up. I told him I was dating a guy named Andy that was 6'4. "I could still take him." He said. That was the last thing he said to me.

Tuesday morning I got a phone call.

He thought he was invincible. The man who tackled my boyfriends to the ground, the man who called me "smartass" as a term of endearment, the man who showed me his love by sharing his garage-stashed candy with me. The man who taught me not to judge a man by his tattoos and his pack of cigarettes, but by his heart. That was and always will be my Marlboro man. Happy Father's Day Dad.

My Cold Heart

Funny story. Years ago, when Andy and I had first started dating we happened to run into each other at a dance. A slow song came on, signaling the opportunity to pair up. With my studded belt and Buddy Holly glasses, I was his obvious choice. There was a lull in our somewhat awkward conversation which Andy broke with, "So, do you like Chicago?" Unaware that the Napoleon-esque song we were dancing to was by the very band, Chicago, unaware in fact that there was such a band, I responded politely that I had never been there. And I wasn't going to judge him for it, but I did think it an odd inquiry.

So how did we end up together when my idea of a romantic song includes heavy drums and death imagery and Andy's romantic notions fall under the genre I laughingly refer to as "Butt Rock?" When my day-dreams include reading the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy together, and his include shouting wildly at televised basket-ball players? TomAto-tomato. We both like England, art, playing Chess, and watching Will Ferrell movies, and really what more could you ask for? But I digress. What were we talking about? Ah, yes...

I've never been a fan of love songs, chick-flicks, romance novels, floral arrangements, or puppies. Alright, puppies are cute and I do like roses, but you get the picture. It isn't that I'm completely unromantic, I just have different ideas about romance than most women. The most difficult moment for me in any friendship with another girl is the moment she says, "Hey let's have a girl's night and go see (insert she-film here)" First I have to muffle my cringe, then diplomatically explain how I'd rather see the awesomely nerdy epic movie playing in theater 5 because I read the book multiple times- simultaneously making it clear I'm not being judgemental, that it's not her- its me, that I'm a cold-hearted-wench that doesn't want to see a movie about bridesmaid dresses and women who overlook their gorgeous guy-pal until he finds happiness with someone else, all the while keeping my fingers crossed she still wants to be my friend. So I usually just see the friggin' movie and vent to Andy later.

Don't get me wrong, I'm plenty girlie. My favorite book is Jane Eyre, I love the A&E Pride and Prejudice mini-series, I break down in tears bi-monthly, I love newborn baby smell, and I'm constantly asking Andy his honest opinion of whether I look fat in these jeans. And to set the record straight I'm always up for a girl's night out, let's just skip the movie and head straight for the ice cream shall we?

My Own Drum

"The Lord did not people the earth with a vibrant orchestra of personalities only to value the piccolos of the world. Every instrument is precious and adds to the complex beauty of the symphony. All of Heavenly Father's children are different in some degree, yet each has his own beautiful sound that adds depth and richness to the whole." - Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin

OK, let's be honest. So I'm a little off. That made public education a little more colorful for me, but as I've grown to accept myself and everybody else, I'm finding that I get fewer and fewer blank stares, fewer rude hand-gestures thrown my way, fewer torch-wielding mobs demanding my immediate removal. Life is good nowadays, but it has been a long and lonely road. There was a time I found myself torn between the knowledge that I couldn't be- didn't want to be- anyone but myself and the feeling that being myself was unacceptable. After all, how could God not favor angel-faced, soft-spoken, goal-setting, casserole-making, jumper-clad optimists over little misfit me? And yet I've met and admired so many misfits in this world, and have come to understand what Elder Wirthlin is talking about. We are all misfits. And Heavenly Father is no respecter of persons. Our circumstances vary, our experiences, our brain chemistry, our tastes, temperaments, hair-styles, trials, cooking-skills, and other talents all render each of us essentially incomparable.
I believe we are here to learn to love God and we do that by serving each other. The very nature of service demands our differences. If we were all the same, none of us would have anything to offer. It is humbling to realize how much we need each other. I consider myself exceptionally blessed by the diverse variety of people I've been privileged to know. I've had the opportunity to glimpse talents far beyond my own. I've learned of self-sacrifice, endurance, long-suffering, hard work, and generosity. I've seen sweetness, integrity, humility, sincerity, good-humor, clarity, and genuine friendship. And I'm confident somewhere in that list of goodness there's a little niche with a footnote especially for me.

Its inspiring to be surrounded by so many good people who do the best they can in the face of overwhelming odds; whether those overwhelming odds include being threatened with a gun, or getting a plastic cooler stuck under your car while driving along I-15, struggling to be a better parent, or coming to terms with the fact that you look very much like Rob Schneider. Hey, we all have our things.