Merry Christmas!

No times seem dearer than those with family at Christmas -- all the more as we celebrated by sharing our testimonies of Christ and our hopes in Him.

It also doesn't hurt that Santa came.

Merry Christmas to all (and to all a good night)!

5 Days Until Christmas!

There was a period of years when I stopped believing in Santa Claus. Santa knows this, and from my discussions with him, I know he holds me blameless. It was actually my Dad's fault.

Many Christmases ago I wrote Santa a letter. I'd written faithfully every year, but never quite gotten what I'd hoped for from him on Christmas morning. So on this particular year I tried a different strategy -- threatening Santa Claus:

Dear Santa,

I really want a VCR for Christmas. In fact, if I don't get one, I'm going to stop believing in you.

Yours Truly,
Aaron

Not long after my Dad sat me down for a little chat. My letter lay open on the table. I was aghast -- it was supposed to have been sent to the North Pole! He then told me flat out: "There is no Santa Claus and you're not getting a VCR." He said there was no money for one, to which I pointed out that I was asking Santa, not my parents, for the VCR.

I cried angrily that he'd read Santa's letter and wondered how I could go on. There was no comfort in return, only an admonition not to spoil it for the rest of the kids.

Only years and years later was my faith in jolly old Saint Nick restored -- when President Faust spoke of him at the 1999 Christmas Devotional and noted the similarities between Santa Claus and Christ. Not long after I found means to speak to Santa himself, who frankly forgave me (I had, after all attempted to extort presents from him) and we both lamented the actions of my father. We mused on the presents I might have had if I'd but believed in those intervening years. He then deftly deflected my hints that I should then get all of those lost gifts at the following Christmas, noting: It's the season that comes only once a year.

Santa also noted that retribution against my father would be swift. From reports, Santa instructed my grandparents (on my mother's side) to make sure that he got a tin of pretzels for Christmas (and Dad hates pretzels).

6 Days Until Christmas!

Inadvertent consequence of the Christmas season number 36: Jared now knows about whips. Yukon Cornelius has a whip in Rudolph the Rednose Reindeer, and Santa just happens to have whip for the reindeer in the book The Polar Express.

Consequently we've had to instruct Jared on the etiquette of whipping: when it is and is not appropriate. For example, it is ok to whip reindeer if you're driving Santa's sleigh (or a dogsled). It is not ok to whip Emily, or even to threaten to whip Emily.

And yet, despite our best efforts, the notion of "whipping" has found its way into our home.

7 Days Until Christmas

Somehow I'd forgotten what a guantlet of goodies the workplace can be at Christmas time. I fear there's little hope for me over the next few days.

Jared wrote a letter to Santa Claus tonight (with a little help). Knowing that Santa monitor's this blog, I did not think it wrong to make the contents of Jared's letter available to the jolly old elf through this medium:

18 December 2006

Dear Santa,

My name is Jared. Here is what I want for Christmas (I turn 3 on Christmas Day):

• The monkey that goes "like this" (on all fours);
• A tiger;
• A black good knight, and his horse and sword;
• A big momma giraffe
• A shark
• A cow
• A dinosaur
• A lion -- A daddy lion ( so he can fight the other lions)
• A snowman
• A Jessie Doll; a Zurg doll (a BIG, BIG Zurg from Toys-R-Us); a woody doll (even though I already have one;
• A Batman Dog
• The purple monkey at Toys-R-Us
• 2 More Buzz Light Years (even though I already have 2).

I've been really good this year Santa. I promise.
Love,
Jared
[Parent's note to Santa: Santa, you needn't worry. We told Jared tonight that even the best children only get 2 presents at most from Santa. Please note, however, that these restrictions do not hold true for the parent. Accordingly, on account of my exceeding goodness this year I am expecting everything on my list. Thanks Santa!]

8 Days Until Christmas

I wrote this a few years ago. It is certainly the work of an amateur, but it is mine.

Peace on Earth, Good will toward men
So peel the Christmas bells
Whose voice and song to hearts belong
And truth the Spirit tells

They toll the birth of Christ the King
And wake man’s deep desire
To reach within, and with his kin
Rejoice with heavn'ly choirs.

That we too could with them sing praise
And wintry souls refine
That we might show and He might know
Gratitude for gifts divine.

Let my soul sing! and with those bells
Proclaim His royal birth
And with that, then, good will toward men

And peace throughout the Earth

The Italian Stallion

Last night I was perusing some early reviews of Rocky Balboa – the unbelievable sixth installment of the franchise. They range from outright mockery to being pleasantly surprised. While I was reading, I got an unexpected email from a longtime friend asking me my thoughts on the new movie.

Of course, it’s utterly preposterous. But then, who cares! Anyone looking for anything realistic would’ve had to stop half-way through the first Rocky.*

Now admittedly, when I first heard this movie was coming out I laughed. (I’m still smarting from Rocky V – which never happened).** But after seeing the trailer, and finding out it comes out the day my brother Matt (a fellow Rocky enthusiast) returns from his mission in Mongolia. If that’s not a sign, then I don’t know what is. Besides, the trailer hits just the right notes -- and there seems to be a possibility of another glorious training montage set to music half-inspiring and half-corny. Even the possibility alone is worth the price of admission.

So I’ll see you in the theater on the 22nd. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to work out to the Rocky IV Soundtrack.

[Editor's note: The author indeed finished blogging and almost immediately thereafter logged 10 miles on the exercise bike, burning 566 calories in 26:13 -- all while churning to the Rocky IV soundtrack. I defy you to show me a better sound track to work out to].


*Let us count the ways of improbability: (1) Rocky: Rocky was already in his early to mid 30’s back in 1976; (2) Rocky II: Rocky is half-blind at the beginning of the movie. Mick slaps him—tells him Creed will cave in the left side of his face but that all goes away after Creed calls Rocky a “chicken” and Adrian emerges from her coma (and it never comes back); Rocky is also apparently mildly retarded (Stallone seemed to take that angle a little too far—even for a Rocky movie), but that went away after Adrian’s coma too because he read her a book; (3) Rocky III: Rocky and Clubber Lang inexplicably cross paths during pre-fight preparations, which causes Mick to have a heart attack (and die), but Rocky still decides to fight (and get creamed); Rocky later loses a 200 yard footrace to Apollo Creed by 50 yards when he starts training for real (though without the Eye of the Tiger), but, after he gets the Eye of the Tiger back, he wins; (4) Rocky IV: Rocky ends the Cold War by the 11th Round against Ivan Drago (after losing the KGB and running up a mountain side); Rocky V (which never happened): Paulie is somehow authorized to sign away power of attorney for Rocky and Adrian?! (and then they lose everything).
**This notion was first proposed by the Sports Guy, who writes for ESPN Page 2.

Symbol of the Season

In the Clark home*, Christmas is the most anticipated time of year. Any questions as to why should be easily answered by studying the picture below:



Behold, The 1 lb. Gilliam's Barber Pole! [I know, it's hard to take your eyes off it].
As far as I can tell, this Barber Pole is at least 10 years old -- perhaps as old as 15. If you look closely, you'll see the price tag is still on the top. It's from a store in Upstate New York that hasn't been around for at least a decade. Yet here it is, taking up precious space in our San Diego apartment.
My brother Nathan bought this giant piece of candy in a post Christmas sale -- he always preferred to buy the Barber Poles because he could make them last the whole year [for the which we thought him nuts -- since nobody in their right mind wants to be eating candy canes year round.] He apparently thought it was important enough to store while he was on his mission. Then, several years ago, he inexplicably gave it to us as a Christmas gift, and we've been treating it like a family heirloom every since.
That said, I have caught Michelle stealing a few hungry looks at the heirloom in recent days. To avoid any potential temptations, I've determined that she should never be in the same room alone with the Barber Pole -- lest she be overcome.
*By the way, Emily is on her fourth night of sleeping in her crib. We've had so much free time these past few nights that we hardly know what to do with ourselves.

Sweet Dreams

We decided on a bold course of action yesterday: Emily was to fall asleep on her own in her crib.

This may well mean little to you, and perhaps you've even rolled your eyes in reading my tales of sleep deprivation and late night drives with Emily all in an effort to woo her to sleep. We simply could not bear to have her cry herself to sleep if we could help it.

With Jared it was the same -- which lead to many torturous nights and to Jared not learning to sleep through the night until he was a year old. Emily's path started better but taken far worse turns, which has wreaked havoc. And what's more -- her sleeping habits are almost entirely our own fault.

So last night we resolved to leave her alone in her crib for the sake of our sanity. Emily bore it moderately well -- Michelle actually seemed to suffer the most. After a few hours of crying, though, Emily put herself to sleep.

Now we just have to get her to learn to stay asleep.

Oh, and in the meantime, we made a gingerbread house and watched "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer" and "Frosty the Snowman":

(I'd like to think Jared was listening intently to my tutelage, but he's actually watching the TV)

(Michelle would have you know that she crafted the front. I would have you know that I made sure not a drop of frosting went to waste)

(Almost) A Day Without Christmas

I felt uncharacteriscally cheery this morning as I alighted from the Trolley and made my way to work. In the walk from the Trolley to the Office, I alternated between whistling and singing "Angels We Have Heard On High" but got caught up in singing a part to the chorus (that I love in one of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir versions) that I could no longer remember the melody.

That faded when Michelle called frantically looking for her car keys: She was to take the kids to Disney for the Christmas decorations, parade, and fireworks.

As it happened -- and for reasons I positively cannot account for -- I had taken both sets of keys with me to work. Only after our phone conversation did I discover this, and then had to make the despairing call to relay the news.

If we'd been in Irvine still this wouldn't have been but a small annoyance (since I lived across the street from where I worked). Here in San Diego, though, I commute in nearly an hour by trolley. All seemed lost today, and all seemed to be inadvertently my fault. That was a difficult feeling.

Ah, but this story has a happy ending. Sensing that things couldn't possibly be as hopeless as they appeared at first. I wandered in a daze down the hallway in my office and then queried a few colleagues if anything could be done. A friend of a co-worker offered to drive the keys back to our home, and only an hour or so was lost.

Santa must have been watching.

PS--Michelle says the Christmas Parade and Fireworks were well worth the trip.

It's a Wonderful Life

What do you do when you have a five month old daughter that doesn't go to sleep until near midnight most nights, and otherwise wants to be held and walking around the rest of the time (and this has been going on for three weeks)? Well, you certainly don't blog. In fact, you don't to get to do much of anything but wait and hope.

In other news, Michelle won a $25 Target gift card in a drawing at our community tree lighting ceremony yesterday. This was wonderful news -- especially since, before the drawing, I wisely made a deal that if either of us won one of the gift cards, we'd split it. (No comment on whether I'd have held up my end of the bargain if I'd won the gift card). Afterward, we headed straight over to Target to spend our winnings. Since Michelle wasn't enamored with the idea of using the gift card to stock up on Mint M&Ms (which were on sale for $2), we opted to finally purchase It's a Wonderful Life and White Christmas on DVD. Jared also got the toy hippopotamus he's been eyeing.

Maybe Emily will someday give Michelle and I a moment to watch these movies without requiring one of us to be up and walking -- carrying her around.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Our neighbors must have sensed my near total lack of free time the past few days, which has prevented me from spending time on frivolites like this blog. To help me out, they decided to get me up early by playing video games at 4 a.m. that just happened to be loud enough to cause me to pay a visit. Happy Thanksgiving indeed! (To their credit, they took my early morning visit quite well -- only now I find that sleep has fled from me -- Perhaps they'll let me play!).

We've been in our new apartment just under two weeks, and I've been working at my new job just about a week and a half. If I seem to be standing a little taller or breathing a little more freely these days one may well look to the fact that I no longer under any billable hour pressure. Of course, it might also be the fact that Mint M&Ms are on store shelves again.

Here some other recent thoughts/highlights:

• My trolley commute to and from work takes about an hour each way. Having come from a place where I was walking to work, this adds an extra two hours to my day automatically. Having assured Michelle this career move would end up being better for our family, I sure didn't gain many points on that front our first week here.
• BUT, the federal government is paying for my trolley ticket, and I've suddenly got lots of extra reading time. I've also found great entertainment value in watching security guards chase non-paying customers (including one who, apparently taking a cue from some movies and a recent TV show, lured the security guard into a trolley car and then tried hastily exiting the trolley car just before it started moving again).
• As mentioned previously, our great sacrifice in my taking this job is that we've given up DVR. No longer are we able to record tv shows at a whim to watch at our leisure, nor have we the power now to fast forward through commercials. Jared has actually taken this the hardest, who, apparently having never known the hardship of wading through commercials and living without tv on demandf, still cries whenever a commercial interrupts his programming.
• Today marks the end of this year's battle between Michelle and I over Christmas music. It ends only because she'll now (with the passing of Thanksgiving) officially allow herself to celebrate Christmas. As for me, any distinctions I made between permissible and impermissible Christmas music faded weeks ago. Now the battle becomes how much Manheim Steamroller she'll tolerate.
• Lastly, is there anything more depressing than a Charlie Brown holiday tv special? Why are these things so popular?

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thoughts Post Move

We managed to survive the move yesterday, though some of our things didn't (we've bid goodbye to our desk). Boxes are everywhere, and our new, smaller apartment is in total chaos. But, the internet is hooked up, so here are some random thoughts on the process:

• Our Elder's Quorum in Irvine helped load the truck yesterday -- we've got enough stuff now to warrant a 24 footer. I promised them a quick move and lots of donuts. Gratefully, I was able to deliver on both promises. Michelle and I were dumbfounded though at how many donuts were left after everyone left. Earlier in the day I'd bought two dozen, wondering if that'd be enough. Afterward, there were probably 8-10 donuts left. Apparently not everyone eats like I do.
• U-Haul promised a "comfortable" ride. They have an interesting definition of the term -- which apparently includes shaking violently at every bump in the road.
• I think our truck, fully loaded, got 3.5 miles a gallon.
• Any time you're gunning for something new in the home, just need to make sure the old one breaks inadvertently at some point in the moving process. I'm 90% sure this is why the desk broke on the drive down (I was fond of it; Michelle wasn't).
• One can probably truly appreciate the Little Ceaser's $5 pizzas only after a long moving day and amid mountains of boxes in the new home.
• The great sacrifice of this new job, our move, and our new budget restrictions, is that we've had to give up High Definition digital cable with DVR (a Tivo like service that lets you pause live tv and record programs) -- $70 a month, in exchange for "Limited Basic Cable" -- $12.50 a month. Much to our delight, though, ESPN2 and the Food Network (along with the Weather Channel and two C-Spans) are among the channels we're getting reception on.
• It's nice to have furniture worn out enough that you're happy to keep as long as you can but, when you realize there isn't room for it in your new apartment, you can just throw it away without any reservations. (Exibit A? Our love seat)
• Finally, and perhaps the best news of all, the Albertson's across the street has a day old rack!

Tomorrow, my first day at the new job.

Parting Thoughts

With less than 36 hours before we load the moving truck and head to San Diego, and with the left side of my face still numb from a visit to the dentist, a few parting observations from Irvine:

• A late night trip to Albertson’s last night revealed they’ve got about three shopping carts full of candy corn reduced to 25 cents a bag. I surveyed things, even picked up a bag of Autumn Mix, weighed the bag in my hands, and then tossed the bag back in and walked away. Even though it was only 25 cents, candy corn season is over. (Though don’t think that wasn’t difficult).
• You’ll note I mentioned going to Albertson’s last night, instead of Ralph’s. Yes, as I’ve mentioned before, Ralph’s grocery store and I are on the outs, but that’s not the reason I went to Albertson’s. Instead, Ralph’s has been closed for two days for remodeling. It appears they’re making it into a nicer, more expensive Ralph’s. We even got a packet in the mail with this week’s circular and a pamphlet with the new layout of the store. Among the new features: three full aisles to liquor! Sadly, however, the pamphlet had no information on the new whereabouts of the day old rack. Truly, it’s time for us to leave.
  Speaking of which, I despise moving.
• CVS (next to Ralph’s) is also trying to sell off their leftover Halloween candy. I noticed two days ago they had 15 or so bags left of Halloween Peanut M&Ms at $1.65 a bag. Almost as a reflex I reached to start grabbing all I could carry, but I stopped myself. The last time I went crazy buying Peanut M&Ms – foolishly thinking I could “store” them and have a year’s supply – I ate the year’s supply within a month. It probably wouldn’t be the wisest idea anyway since I’m looking to trim off another 10 pounds or so before Christmas.
• As to weight loss, I’ve decided that that period between Halloween and Christmas is the most ideal time to lose weight. Last year I dropped 15 lbs. in those seven weeks, though I sputtered and pretty much hovered around 250 lbs. the rest of the year. This year I seem to be on a similar track. I can’t tell if it’s the Halloween candy binging that brings me to my eating senses, the anticipation of binging on Christmas cookies, or some magic in the Season itself, but at no other time of year have I found this same kind of eating discipline and drive to exercise. It’s remarkable. (Just note how I’ve been able to resist by bargain basement candy corn and M&Ms).
• Did I mention I hate moving. If I’d been wise, I might have taken a little more time off to allow us to settle in down in San Diego before starting work. I was not wise. As it is, tomorrow is my last day of work here, and I’ll be starting work there Monday. Hopefully, though, the money we’ll save will allow me to start sampling the San Diego donut shops in earnest.

Christmas Carols in July (revisited)

With Halloween out of the way and things getting dark way too early, I've felt some inklings toward Christmas music. As I mentioned last year, though, this early in November that always means trouble in our home -- Michelle simply won't tolerate it until after the Thanksgiving meal.* Elsewhere, though, my siblings have started listening to it -- and I think my Father's been listening to it since August.

So, driving to a golf lesson, and intent on defying my wife, I tried playing some of my "Christmas Music" iTunes playlist that has just about my entire Christmas collection. It was 75 degrees outside or so and I had the windows down. When Manheim Steamroller came on, though, I almost shuddered. It was too early, and my system couldn't handle it yet.

Perplexed, I asked around -- to those willing to entertain the idea of Christmas music this time of year -- and some suggested to start with the religious Christmas music: Manheim, and the other whimsical, non-religious music might be a little to "hard" for this time of year. So instead, I tried easing into things this evening [with Michelle out of the house] by trying out my "Sunday Christmas Music" iTunes playlist from last year -- lots of Mormon Tabernacle Choir and the Messiah. This music is much easier to embrace, and honestly has me swept up again already (at least until Michelle gets home).

Perhaps that's the key then: save the whimsical stuff for after Thanksgiving, and start with the religious Christmas music in July.


* In fact, today she referred to herself as "the devil incarnate" in jest when referring to her zero tolerance policy. I said nothing, and there was an awkard silence for 7 seconds.

A Moment of Silence

I passed a gruesome scene yesterday as I made my way through the parking lot in our apartment complex. There, beneath the wheel of one of the parked cars, lay a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup smashed and melted. It was still in its original wrapping. No doubt this was the result of some careless child letting a prize piece of candy get away. As a result of the child's carelessness, this Reese's was forced to pay the ultimate price.

I bowed my head mournfully and respectfully as I passed, and then spent the rest of the day grieving.

The Morning After

At some point last night -- after Friday's Stake Trunk or Treat, after the afternoon office party (which is where one can really clean up if they're interested in a high percentage of "good candy"), and before actual trick-or-treating -- I realized that maybe we neither needed nor wanted the fruits of three solid hours of hauling the kids around to every house with a light on.

The thought was difficult to embrace and almost made me shiver. In the end, though, I think we were happier just hitting a few houses for 45 minutes or so, visiting the homes of people we know, and trying to keep Jared away from the "scary Halloween." Perhaps it was a breakthrough moment for me.

The aforementioned breakthrough might also explain why this is the first "morning after" Halloween in recent memory where I haven't been sorely remorseful for the volume of treats eaten the night before.

I Have Learned For Myself

Yesterday I tried sushi for the first -- and what I hope is the last -- time.

I went to lunch with great hopes.  My father, and several in the office, had spoken so highly of sushi that I did not hesitate when someone offered that we seek some out for lunch one afternoon.  Before going, however, I made sure of two things: (1) that I was going with someone who knew what they were doing and knew what to recommend; and (2) that we were going to a reputable sushi place.  I wanted to make sure that if I didn’t like sushi, there wouldn’t be any excuses.

Having assured myself of both of those things, we went. And alas, I don’t like sushi.  I tried mightily sampling the California roll several times – both with and without the wasabi/soy sauce mixture. I also tried the Rainbow roll and some eel thing.  My experience was that the wasabi was dreadful, and the sushi without the wasabi/soy sauce dip was tolerable, yet bland – certainly not worth spending my money on.

Afterward, I stopped at a fish taco place on the way back to work to try to feel better about my lunch.  It was hard, though, knowing I could’ve bought 20 bags of candy corn (or 10 bags of peanut M&Ms) for what I spent on that sushi.

Spider Bites and Other Insights

Behold the fruits of our latest family home evening:

See if you can guess who made the battle spider – twice the size of the other spiders and with candy corn spikes to ward off predators, while paralyzing its prey with fear. I find the indian corn best suited for this. Note also that Jared has his mouth stuffed with candy corn.

Other Insights:

• I’ve had several inquiries about where I stand on the “regular candy corn vs. indian corn” debate. I always reach for the indian corn first. If you’re looking for a faster sugar rush, buy the “Autumn Mix” and eat the pumpkins.


• By the way, there are two brands of candy corn: Brach’s and unwelcome imitations.


• Today marked my seventh (and last) straight day without sugar. (Yes, the sugar fast was in large part spurred by my weaknesses with candy corn). I celebrated the breaking of my sugar fast with the spider cakes [Note: I extracted the candy corn spines before I ate the cake – Never eat candy corn with your cake. The two are not complementary and you’ll find that neither tastes very good. Furthermore, you’ll find that your palate has been ruined for at least an hour].

Dream Come True

The Devil's Candy (Corn)

I fell for it again.





Every year Halloween rolls around, and every year I start craving candy corn. It’s been no different this year.

The cravings started a few days ago. I started looking out for candy corn sales at Ralph’s. I even went next store to CVS, hoping to find something under $1.00. Then, two nights ago, I even managed to come up with a reason to make a just-before-the-kids’-bedtime-trip to Target looking for a similar deal. [I was disappointed -- $1.75 for a bag of candy corn is highway robbery]. Yesterday, Michelle overheard me whispering instructions to Jared on the phone: he was supposed to pester Mommy into buying me candy corn.

Miracle of miracles, she bought me some. And I ate it. I ate just about all of it.

And here’s the thing about candy corn: it doesn’t taste very good. Oh, the first few kernels almost taste delightful. The waxy sugar – and it’s all sugar – melts between your teeth, possibly changes the color of your tongue, and seems distinguished more by the prospect of tasting good than of actually tasting good. So you take another handful. It’s a little bit tastier, but still unfulfilling. Better try another handful. This continues indefinitely until one reaches the sugar saturation point – the point at which your body cannot tolerate even one more waxy kernel. With every handful comes the hope of tasting better, yet after the second handful, it ends up tasting worse and worse. Yet on that downward slope, I keep eating -- hoping the next handful will taste as good as the first or second (note how, at this point, I’ve given up on it actually tasting good).

This is the take home point: of all the candy and sugar related treats I’ve ever binged on, candy corn leaves me feeling the worst.

Don’t ask me to explain why I keep eating it, ‘cause I can’t. The bag is open. The bag is in front of me. And my hand reaches for the bag. There seems to be something devilish about that corn (no wonder it’s the quintessential Halloween candy).

But lest you be fooled, there’s nothing cathartic about this post. As I surely as I tell you now it’s the devil’s candy (or maybe the devil’s corn), as surely I can tell you I’ll be craving it again tomorrow.

Yeah, Happy Halloween to you too.

Crónica De Una Noche Sin Descanso

Emily did not sleep easily last night. It was the third or fourth night in a row we’d had trouble getting her down. During such stretches, it’s hard to remember when things were ever different. Those kinds of evenings are so taxing on Michelle and I – especially when they happen consecutively – because we’re no longer battling the mere difficulty of the evening itself, but also the prospect that things won’t get any better the next night, or the night after that. Indeed, it might seem an odd thing to those not parents, but some of our most despairing moments as a couple have come on nights when we can’t get our kids to sleep.

Last night ranked somewhere in the top 5. We had Jared in bed just after 8 p.m.. Emily had not slept much all day, and been up until midnight the night before. This usually means Michelle hasn’t had any time to herself in the day. Such was the case yesterday.

We were foolishly optimistic: we had great hopes that she would go down before 9 p.m.. As it happened, though, those hopes only made the evening more difficult. Emily feigned sleep several times after nursing, but as soon as her back touched the crib she fussed and demanded our attention. We don’t know any better but to give it to her when she asks, so the waiting and the watching and the walking continued.

With each failed attempt at putting her down, our frustrations grew. I felt uncharacteristically short tempered as well, mostly because I’d set my heart set on an early bed time. Near 10 p.m. Michelle put her down again, and she took to it. We were tired enough by then that I almost immediately made my way to bed, while Michelle at last wanted to work on things she’d been hoping to get to all day.

A few moments into my evening rest, though, Emily began to fuss (her crib is in our room). I knew it was over. Michelle wasn’t of the disposition to willingly take her again all by herself, so I got up and somewhat despairingly took Emily back out into the living room as she screamed.

Emily stopped screaming, and looked around the living room and kitchen with expectant delight that there was still some nightlife. She watched an episode of Meerkat Manor with us, while I alternated positions with her, as well as back pats and back rubs, or gentle bouncing from couch positions (and standing). She gave no signs of being tired. She was enjoying things too much.

Near midnight we thought we had her down again, and we felt sure that nothing more could be required of us that evening – we didn’t think we could bear it any longer. As Michelle took Emily into the bedroom to lay down with her, though, I took a few moments to write in my journal reflecting on the experience. It had been a long, long night in the latest of a series of long nights, but it was seemingly over. The reflection spurred by the journal writing made me more submissive as I thought on things, and I wished I hadn’t been so short tempered and anxious in the hours before. I then made my way to sleep for the evening.

As I drifted to sleep, I thought on how lucky I must be that my greatest complaint was that my daughter would not sleep when I wanted her to. I thought on those whose trials dwarf the one I’d faced that evening, and I felt contrite. I suspected some would give most anything to experience what I’d been “suffering” through. That pleasant sense of self-reproach seemed like a good thought to end the evening on.

But my evening was not over.

Whether due to sickness or a more sinister motive, Emily was not ready for sleep. Her cry – after what was likely the fourth feigned attempt at sleep that evening – seemed almost unbelievable. The sound made my heart sink. It was more than Michelle could bear. It probably would’ve been more than I could’ve borne as well had I not had the reflective moments of journal writing minutes before. But I had had those few moments, and that made all the difference.

C.S. Lewis once mentioned (and I paraphrase) that we can either grip the dentist’s chair tightly, or rest our hands calmly on our lap – either way the drill drills on. I got up from my bed wearily, but more willing to figuratively let my hands rest in my lap as the drill drilled on. Tired and haggard as I was, I picked up my fussing little girl, left the bedroom for Michelle to rest in peace, strapped my daughter in her car seat, and took her for a drive through the finer parts of Irvine (and those with the least stop lights – Emily hates stop lights). She fussed for a long while, but I knew I could and would outlast her. In fact I think I even said as much to her at one point, and she got the message not long after.

Just after 1 a.m. we rolled back into our parking space. I brought my sleeping daughter into the bedroom and left her strapped in the car seat. I was too tired at that point to think where I’d find energy to face the next morning, but went to bed thinking that if more was required of me, I was ready. Ironically, that's when my evening ended.

Tonight, she fell asleep at 9 p.m.

Briefcase Bumbling

I have been in trial the last few days. From what I understand, this is a rare opportunity for a first year associate. Rare enough, in fact, that my four days experience this week has given me more trial experience that all of the other 1st through 3rd year associates in my office (and even some fourth years) combined.

Yesterday morning I made my way to the office early, as I had the previous three mornings. The partner on the case had decided to get me “wet behind the ears” and have me do the direct examination of our star witness – the defendant. I wanted our client to be confident, and I had been trying the past few days to hide any signs of being a rookie. This was a little more difficult since, on the first morning of trial, I was in such a rush to get out of the office and down to the courthouse that I forgot to bring a pen with me. I ended up borrowing our client’s pen much of the day, and then eventually pleading with the bailiff for one. [I’ve still not heard the end of that].

So as I readied yesterday morning at the office, I placed everything I needed in a brief case the partner on the case had loaned me [I don’t have my own at the moment]. I shut it as I’d done on previous days and made my way confidently down to the courthouse with the partner and our client.

We arrived, and were waiting outside the courtroom about 15 minutes early. The partner I was working with decided to go downstairs and get some juice, so I waited with the client. As we talked, the client wondered about a certain document and if I had it. I went to open the briefcase to find it and…it was locked.

It hadn’t locked on any of the previous three days. I tried pressing and squeezing things for the next few minutes to get it open – feeling a bit more desperate with every failed attempt. At first I kept to myself the fact that I couldn’t open the briefcase – but eventually I was concerned enough that I nervously joked with the client about it. Everything I needed was in the briefcase, and the courtroom would be open in minutes. A thousand different scenarios played through my mind of what was going to happen if I couldn’t get it open – none of them pleasant.

The client eventually tried his hand at opening the brief case. No luck. He then half-jokingly said we could cut open the briefcase and then just take it to a shoe repair place to have the leather replaced. That comment only made things more desperate in my mind, and I tried again – now somewhat frantically – to get that blasted briefcase open. Nothing. The client relished the uneasiness I was feeling and make jokes at my expense. I put my best face on and tried to brush them off. The client did eventually, though, offer to go find the partner to see what he could do. My lone hope seemed to be that the partner had a key with him for the brief case. That seemed like a long shot, though, because this was his backup briefcase, and I thought I’d remembered him telling me he didn’t have a key anymore. So at this point, I was in a state of near panic, sure that a full day of embarrassment would follow.

After a few minutes of anxiousness, the client returned with the partner. I could see they were joking with each other on the walk down the hallway – surely at my expense. [That was a good sign]. The partner then asked what I’d done, walked over and pushed down on the lock of the briefcase, and within half a second had it opened. I was pleasantly dumbfounded, and tried my best the rest of the day to act like that had never happened.

Relationship on the Rocks

As my family readies to move itself to San Diego in six weeks, my one time amicable relationship with Ralph’s Grocery Store is on the rocks.

This morning, at 7:30 a.m., I took Jared with me for an early morning run to Ralphs. I’d set my mind on some day old donuts -- if there were any to be had. Jared and I were early enough this morning that we actually caught the baker setting out the day old items – among them a dozen chocolate donuts for only a dollar. It was a great find.

We also needed some bread, so I picked up two loaves from the same rack at 50 cents a loaf (It’ll actually be very difficult for me if I ever have to go back to paying full price for bread). Jared and I also found some Honey Bunches of Oats on sale (with Almonds) for $1.50 a box – just about the right price to make me feel like I’m getting a bargain.

We brought our treasures proudly to the check out stand, and the lone morning checker – an aging woman perhaps in her late 40s – scanned our purchases. Rarely had I ever found so many things at such a good price. I was feeling good.

The donuts rang up just fine. So did the cereal. The bread, however, rang up at its original price of $2.99 a loaf. At this point, I intervened. “We got the bread from the day old rack,” I said. “They’ve both got .50 price tags on them.”

The checker looked over the price tags, and her reaction surprised me.

“Who marked these?” she said, noting that the price tags were uncharacteristically written in pen – not pre-printed.

“I got them from the day old rack”, I stated for the second time.

She started to get testy. “This isn’t how we mark things.”

“Well that’s how it was marked,” I replied calmly. I was a little surprised, though, by the growing hostility I sensed in her voice.

She kept scanning the loaves of bread, almost as though she were looking for evidence of a crime. She then told me, half angrily and without looking me in the eye, “This brand doesn’t mark down its bread. I can’t give you this bread at this price.” [Contrary to what she says, this brand of bread is marked down all the time]. Without any word from me, she started rescanning the bread to take them off my receipt, all the while repeating in accusatory tones, “This isn’t how things are marked.”

So there it was. Maybe it was because I hadn’t showered yet this morning, and my hair was messed up just enough to make me look suspicious. Maybe I looked a little too eager to get those donuts home and start scarfing them with milk. Maybe Jared spent too much time looking at the lobsters in the seafood tank. Whatever her reason, this woman was sneering at me, and appeared to be accusing me [and Jared] of a crime!

No bread was worth this aggravation. Donuts, maybe, but not bread. So I muffled something akin to “Whatever” and was ready to pay and leave feeling ticked.

However, the manager happened to be at a desk 15 feet away and no doubt heard the checker accusing me of trying to mark down bread. The manager called the check over and asked her to bring the bread. I heard the manager tell her “That’s how it’s marked” followed by a muffled discussion wherein the checker expressed disbelief and aggravation all in the same tone.

As they talked, the woman behind me asked, “So she’s not letting you by the bread?”

“No,” I replied, “apparently not.”

“But that’s how it’s marked” the woman rejoined with her own sense of frustration and desperation. At this point, I noticed a few day old items among her groceries – including a loaf of bread.

The checker soon enough made her way back to the checkstand. Without looking at me she rescanned the loaves of bread at 50 cents but continued to grumble loud enough for everyone to hear “That’s not how they’re supposed to be marked.”

I waited for something akin to an apology, but nothing came – and when it didn’t my frustration grew. Instead, the woman continued grumbling about the apparent incompetence of the new baker, as though she were trying to reason her way out of an apology. We paid and made our way out the store, and I heard the woman behind me say to the checker sheepishly, “I guess I’ve got the same thing.”

The checker apparently couldn’t resist: “That’s not how the bread is supposed to be marked” she grumbled yet again.

Perhaps I should've gone back and bought more bread.

Oatmeal Cookie Chunk

Michelle and I enjoyed a rare treat tonight: Ben & Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Chunk.

I haven’t mentioned it much before, but it easily ranks on the top three of my top three all-time favorite ice cream treats. On nights like tonight, it’s #1.

I recognize I haven’t really mentioned it before – and my allegiance still remains with Breyers for “conventional” ice creams* -- but on the rare occasion when you feel like spending inordinate amounts of money on a pint of ice cream, reach for Ben & Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Chunk. What was the occasion tonight, you ask? Michelle lost a bet, the prize for which was a pint of expensive ice cream out of the other’s personal money**. So when you’re spending someone else’s money guilt-free on yourself, remember this post.

*The pint sized ice creams are rarely even included my ice cream calculations – if only because they cost twice as much as the half-gallon sized ice creams and offer 1/3 of the volume.

**The bet? Michelle said Justin Timberlake was with the Backstreet Boys. I said he was with N’Sync. Efforts to resolve the dispute through mediation failed. It's probably best not to ask how this dispute arose in the first place.

Desperate Times

Riding up the elevator to work today I noticed a .39 stamp lodged in one of the cracks on the floor of the elevator door. Our elevator stops on the 11th floor (which is the highest floor for the elevator) and several people got off before me. That gave me lots of opportunity to get a good, sharp look at the stamp. As we climbed to the 6th and 7th floor, an exciting thought entered my head: the stamp was folded in half, but appeared to be unused! No one else seemed to notice.

So as I reached the 11th floor, I bent over, picked up the stamp and examined it. There was no shame (and there was also no one watching). No markings on the stamp – how fortunate! I swiftly and proudly put the stamp in my pocket for safe keeping, and immediately began dreaming of what future letter I’d now be mailing for free. It’s the kind of good fortune one can only hope to find in sunny Southern California.

A BIG Announcement

On Wednesday I was offered (and I accepted) a new job. Since everyone at my firm is now aware, I can make the announcement here to.

I'm reluctant to be too specific in the details here, but I can say a few things: First, I'll be leaving private practice to work for the government. Second we'll be moving to San Diego. Third, I couldn't be happier (and maybe I should've said that first). It's a job that's highly coveted and that since my first year of law school I'd held out hopes of getting "some day". I'll likely start sometime in November.

My firm has reacted positively, especially after the initial shock wore off, which has made things infinitely easier to deal with. The part in the application process that I least looked forward to was having to tell everyone there, but those fears proved to be mostly unfounded.

So we'll be leaving sunny Irvine for sunny San Diego, under what seems to me to be a nearly idyllic scenario. If you'd told me a year ago this is the path my career would take only a year later, I probably would've smiled kindly but given a dismissive response like "Yeah, I wish". Three days later, I'm still having to pinch myself, and thank God profusely for being so undeservedly kind to me.

California Boy

My son was born in Boston, MA -- in the middle of Winter (Well, more like at the beginning of Winter -- Christmas 2003). You'd never know that from looking at him though.

We put sneakers on him tonight to take him out to dinner. The only time he's worn shoes this Summer (and possibly this Spring and Summer) have been: (1) tonight; and (2) for church. Lately, every time we put shoes on him for church he's complained that there's "something in my shoe" and wants us to take them off. The first few times we took his shoes off and couldn't find anything. It didn't take long for Michelle to catch on to what he was saying though.

So tonight again, Jared complained after I'd put his sneakers on that there was something in his shoe and he needed to take them off.

"Yes, Jared", Michelle said from across the room, "those are called socks."

"B" Evenings

Ralph Waldo Emerson once commented, “There never was a child so lovely but his mother wasn't glad to get him asleep.” That about sums things up at our home tonight.

Our most harrowing and suspenseful moment tonight was just after we put Emily down for bed a short while ago. We both paused, anxiously and instinctively held our breath (even though I was in the living room at the time), watching and listening for any signs of life. One of two things happens when we put her down: (A) she stirs little, perhaps even makes same faint effort to put her hand in her mouth, and then succumbs to the comfort of her bedding and drifts off; or (B) she kicks both legs straight up in the air as soon as her back touches the crib, furiously tries to fit both hands in her mouth, and, ere long, demands she be taken she be taken out. Everything hung in the balance as we waited those few moments: either we get to enjoy an evening with option A, or otherwise are forced to endure an evening of option B. Tonight our sanity was at stake (which is not uncommon in our house).


The fact that I'm writing this at all should be an indication she scored hight tonight: After a string of consecutive B evenings, Emily finally gave us an A- tonight, allowing us to set her down around 9:30 p.m. (and after one failed attempt an hour previous).*

Still, she needs to get her grades up.

*She actually got a B- last night -- feigning sleep for five minutes, and allowing her parents to relax and settle into our evening activities, before cruelly waking and demanding to be held and walked around the rest of our evening [Also note how, like the grading system at Harvard, we've made it very difficult for her to flunk out of the family -- or even get C's. The hardest part is getting into the family].

Reflections on the Ordinary

The last few days in our home have been ordinary, if not even slightly depressing. Michelle had been frustrated and tired most of the day yesterday -- doubly so today. Jared has tried her patience, Emily hasn’t napped, and even now she’s awake after a 10 minute stretch where we thought she’d be asleep for several hours.  Those unmet expectations are often the most difficult to bear.  Truly, the discontented Emily finds no easy chair (or swing!).  .

I thought on these things last night and today, and my mind has drifted back to an evening of missionary splits in Corning, California with a man not quite a year off his mission.  During our time together he spoke fondly of his mission and said he’d give just about anything to relive even the worst day of his mission – that’s how special the time was.  Honestly, I couldn’t see it then, but I wanted to.  Of course, now removed, it’s easier to see and feel what he meant.

I’ve wondered the last little while if the same could not be said of my time now – even these last two days.  Obviously there are days and things about certain days that would make me want to hide underneath a rock to think of reliving.  But there are other days, like the last two, where my most grievous errors seem to have been waking up too late in the morning and then eating too much in the evening.  Maybe there will come a time when days like these will bring fond memories and when I’d give almost anything to relive even an hour of the worst parts of them.  To see my wife as she is now, and Jared and Emily at their present ages: Jared full of rambunctiousness and a vocabulary that brings a wide smile to my face at least several times a day; Emily, who already loves to talk to us and smile, and looks at least as adorable as any little girl I’ve ever seen.  Maybe there will come a time when I would give almost anything to have Michelle and my family to come home to from a basketball game – even knowing she was probably in no mood to do much welcoming when I got in.  Maybe the time will come when I will ache just to have had the opportunity to have her in the same room with me, or to sleep beside her at night, or pray and read scriptures with her.  Maybe even days like yesterday will seem invaluable and infinitely precious in the not to distant future.  How I wish my eyes could be opened to that more often!

I’ve thought of the third Act of Our Town, and that seemed to be enough for the evening. Emily Gibbs, now dead, realizes she can go back and live any day she chooses.  The others warn her not to do it.  But she’s determined, so her mother in law (also dead) pleads with her to at least not pick an important day – the most ordinary of days will be enough.  She picks her 12th birthday.  Here are a few excerpts:

Emily: Softly, more in wonder than in grief.

I can’t bear it.  They’re so young and beautiful [speaking of her parents].  Why did they ever have to get old?  Mama, I’m here.  I’m grown up.  I love you all, everything.—I can’t look at everything hard enough.

[Later]

Emily: With mounting urgency

Oh, Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw me.  Mama, fourteen years have gone by.  I’m dead.  You’re a grandmother, Mama.  I married George Gibbs, Mama.  Wally’s dead, too.  Mama, his appendix burst on a camping trip to North Conway.  We felt just terrible about it—don’t you remember?  But, just for a moment now we’re all together.  Mama, just for a moment we’re happy.  Let’s look at one another.

[Later]

Emily:  In a loud voice to the stage manager

I can’t.  I can’t go one.  It goes so fast.  We don’t have time to look at one another.

She breaks down sobbing.

The lights dim on the left half of the statge. MRS. WEBB disappears.

I didn’t realize.  So all that was going on and we never noticed.  Take me back – up the hill – to my grave.  But first: Wait! One more look.

Good-by, Good-by, world.  Good-by, Grover’s Corners…Mama and Papa.  Good-by to clocks ticking…and Mama’s sunflowers.  And food and coffee.  And new ironed dresses and hot baths…and sleeping and waking up.  Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you.

Lessons Learned From Labor Day

We enjoyed an eventful day yesterday that included a trip to Ralphs in the morning, some grilling at lunch time, and an afternoon and evening at Disneyland. Some take away points from the day:

• Never send me to pick out a watermelon unless you're ready for me to bring back the biggest watermelon I can find. Jared and I simply couldn't content ourselves with the 11 lb. watermelon we picked out when we saw that the 24 pounder we eventually brought home was up for sale.
• Root Beer floats don't require premium vanilla ice cream to taste good, but apparently this doesn't mean that the cheapest ice cream you can find will do either. My advice: try the next cheapest ice cream you can find -- and try not to mix diet rootbeer with lowfat ice cream, unless you've already decided you don't want your rootbeer float to have any taste. (And if you ever find anyone using Hagen Daz ice cream or something similar for a rootbeer float -- make sure you laugh them to scorn. What a terrible waste of premium ice cream!)
• No matter how much food you bring to Disneyland, or how full you are when you arrive, the smell of the churros and popcorn are hopelessly alluring. On hot days like yesterday, the frozen lemonade and ice cream sandwiches are equally appealing. Your only chance for survival is to make sure your wallet is empty when enter the park.
• Their parades are delightful, even if (and perhaps partly because of) the people writing and singing the theme song seem to be the same who are in charge of writing and singing all of the cheesy EFY songs I despise. (We caught three parades yesterday. The 3:15 p.m. parade at Disneyland. The 5:15 p.m. Block Party at California Adventure, and then the 7 p.m. parade back at Disneyland).
• While we felt for those wearing the Beast and Sully costumes yesterday in the heat, they sure knew how to dance!
• Michelle swears the person playing the Queen of Hearts was a man. "Either that or that woman has the manliest hands I've ever seen." Nice honey. Nice.
• Disney's "Star Tours" and "Honey, I Shrunk the Audience!" are terribly outdated. I felt embarrassed for the park sitting through both attractions. How many even remember there was a "Honey, I Shrunk the ...!" line of movies in the early 90s?
• There's no way to come home from Disneyland and not be worn out. But even tasteless rootbeer floats make that easier to deal with.

*Oh, and Michelle swears she saw Michael Rosenbaum...twice. He's none other than Lex Luthor on Smallville.

Mourning the Crocodile Hunter

An otherwise delightful morning turned somber quickly when I made the rounds on the Internet and found that Steve Irwin unexpectedly died after a freakish accident with a stingray.

Our initial reaction was shock and disbelief, and as both have faded, sadness has taken their place.

The Crocodile Hunter had a delightful personality that mesmerized us whenever he was onscreen. His genuine interest and enthusiasm for animals made us interested – and sometimes even made them endearing (no small feat for such animals as crocodiles and snakes). Perhaps that, as well as the unexpectedness of his passing, is why his death has given us such pause.

We miss him already, and mourn with his family and the rest of the world. I’m not sure anyone will ever match his contribution to the world – and certainly not with the same flare.

Cougar Blues

I stayed up* to watch the Cougars lose a heartbreaker to the Arizona as the Wildcats converted a 48 yard field goal at the end of the game to win 16-13. Now that BYU has no shot at a BCS bowl -- that just about kills the season for me.

Well, the college football season was fun while it lasted.

*I delight in the fact that "staying up" meant until 11 p.m. Thank you Pacific Standard Time! (My apologies to those of you in the EST time zone who stayed up until nearly 2 a.m. to watch them lose).

Don't be THAT Guy

The law firm I work for subsidizes a city league basketball team I play on. The new season started this week, which helps explain the lack of posts lately.* I've been mildly excited about playing, since it does wonders for my ego to muscle people up in the post, put the ball in the basket, and have the other team realize their only hope is to keep me from getting the ball.

What'd I'd forgotten, though, and what I was reminded of Thursday night, is that sometimes I end up playing with a certain type of person that I'll refer to affectionately as "that guy." Whenever I end up playing with "that guy," I come very close to hating the game of basketball. Let me describe "that guy" for you: he's usually a guard, on my team, goes through several stretches in a game where he simply refuses to pass, talks trash to the other team as though he's the best person on the team (he's not), and complains constantly to the referees every time down the court, during time outs, dead balls, and at half time. Even his own teammates start thinking he's a jerk, and spend most of their time scheming for ways to get the guy to shut his mouth (instead of playing basketball).

I absolutely hate it when someone on my team complains to the referees. I've known very few people who've ever had more legitimate gripes against referees on a consistent basis than I do. Put simply, I never get calls. I'm bigger, stronger, (and dare I say, smarter?) than 98% of the people I play against, which, at every level I've ever played at, has meant that the referees try to compensate by letting my opponents get away with murder.

Here's the thing: I never complain to the referees.** In part because I think I'm above it (I figure I don't need their help), but also because its a fruitless exercise in whining, normally done by those insecure enough to let someone else be in control.

Alas, someone who fits this description is on my team, and he has me wanting to retire from the game all over again. We lost Thursday's game at the buzzer, which wasn't a big deal to me. What was a big deal was that I did not enjoy the game, and contemplated leaving the team if I have to endure another game with that guy.

So, on the chance that guy is reading, please just keep your mouth closed. I can deal with you hogging the ball, perhaps even the ignorance that leads you to trash talk the guy guarding you. However I simply cannot and will not deal with your constant whining to the referees, and the fact that your need to constantly berate them while pleading your cause ruins any chance the rest of us on your team have of getting any calls.

Otherwise good luck to you. One of us will be finding another team.


*One also need look no further than the fact that EA's NCAA Football 2007 is out. My online handle is "clarkabc22" if you've got the game on the PS2 and an internet connection, I defy you to try to stop the Cougar offense or get back the tenacious 3-3-5 defense (On the video game, of course. I'm watching the 'real' Cougars play the AZ Wildcats right now to see if their offense is as good as mine. I can tell you right now they don't run the option as well).

**Once in high school I scored 25 points in the first half of a basketball game. At the start of the second half I started noticing the refs weren't blowing the whistle any more. So did the other team. The other team got progressively worse -- first slapping, then outright hanging on my arms and head. It was frustrating enough that I did eventually look to the referee as we ran back down the court and said to him calmly "Look, I know what you're trying to do. I just don't want to end up hurt." Amazingly, the whistle started blowing again. (I love telling that story).

Have it Your Way?

A few of my siblings recently visited after a grueling summer term at BYU. Near the top of their list of things to do while here was to visit our nearest In N Out and feast on a few burgers.

Now it's important to understand, only very rarely will one find finer hamburgers than what's offered at In N Out. It's possible, mind you, and they do exist, but usually at three times the price, and without the sleek simplicity of the In N Out packaging, or the tasty familiarity of those fresh tomatoes, toasted buns, and patties that are never frozen. The fries are a different story entirely.

My sisters understood this -- at least I thought they did. Then, before we made our way over there, they started asking questions about the sauce on the burgers. I didn't like their tone, and I told them as much. They didn't like the idea of "sauce" on burgers and winced at the idea that they might put too much on and that it might have mayonaisse in it.*

I rebuked them. One doesn't question the burgers at In N Out, which means one certainly doesn't question the sauce. One simply decides whether or not she wants the Double Double (or for my more gluttonous immediate family members -- the 4 x 4 or 6 x 6), and whether they want it "Animal Style." You leave the rest up to the highly trained professionals behind the counter. They'll take care of you.

But my sisters didn't listen. They order their burgers with sauce "on the side." I didn't catch the cashier's reaction at those words, but I'm pretty sure he shot back a few looks of disgust.

These same sisters still claimed they liked their burgers -- one even ridiculously claimed she was glad she didn't get the sauce (She's the kind who decided she wouldn't like the sauce no matter how it tasted...just to spite me. Even if she wasn't, that sauce isn't meant to be separted from the burger and tasted -- it's not meant to be a stand alone condiment!). I could only look on them regretfully as they ate -- thinking of the eating experience they might have had.

I'm not sure those girls will be invited back.

*Clarks hate mayonaisse. I do have a rogue sister, though, (and an occasionally rebellious wife) who like to put it in tuna fish and then put that concoction, with celery and onions, between two slices of bread and then call that a sandwich. Right now, I can't think of anything more disgusting. So a little advice: if you ever plan on visiting, leave the potato salad at home please.

We're Not Here for the Weeds

This Saturday morning my little family made its way to our local meetinghouse -- it was our turn to help clean the church. We'd kind of debated since receiving the notice whether I should go alone, or whether we should bring everyone along. In the end, Michelle thought there was at least a chance she could be helpful, at least moreso than if she stayed home with the kids.

There were several families there to help. The coordinator assigned to us the cleaning of the windows and doors around the building -- the idea being that Jared could help with that. It didn't take much longer than two minutes, though, for things to fall apart. Emily instantly had a messy diaper. Jared kept putting his hands back on the windows and doors (leaving marks that had to be cleaned again), and then he started unraveling the paper towel roll with reckless abandon. My attempts to correct him only made him more defiant, and within moments there I was, in the church, trying to put my son in a full nelson* to get him to stop make a bigger mess than what we'd been sent to clean up.

My instant reaction was to wonder if we were doing anyone any good at all by showing up, since it wasn't clear whether we'd ever finish those windows.

But then I remembered this story, told by Elder Eyring about his father, and my success or failure in getting to those windows didn't seem quite so important:

"I want to tell you a story about waiting upon the Lord. My father once told it to me with the intention of chuckling at himself. It's a story about his tryin to do his duty, just the way you try to do your duty.

"Now, you have to know a little bit about my father. His name was Henry Eyring, like mine. His work in chemistry was substantial enough to bring him many honors, but he was still a member of a ward of the Church with his duty to do. To appreciate this story, you have to realize that it occurred when he was nearly eighty and had bone cancer. He had bone cancer so badly in his hips that he could hardly move. The pain was great.

"Dad was the senior high councilor in his stake, and he had the responsibility for the welfare farm. An assignment was given to weed a field of onions, so Dad assigned himself to go work on the farm. He never told me how hard it was, but I have met several people who were with him that day. I talked to one of them on the phone, and he said that he was weeding in the row next to Dad through much of the day. He told me the same thing that others who were there that day told me. He said that the pain was so great that Dad was pulling himself along on his stomach with his elbows. He couldn't kneel. The pain was too great for him to kneel. Everyone who talked to me about that day has remarked how Dad smiled and laughed and talked happily with them as they worked in that field of onions.

"Now, this is the joke Dad told me on himself afterward. He said he was there at the end of the day. After all the work was finished and the onions were all weeded, someone said to him, "Henry, good heavens! Youd didn't pull those weeds, did you? Thos weeds were sprayed two days ago, and they were going to die anyway."

"Dad just roared. He thought that was the funniest thing. He thought it was a great joke on himself. He had worked through the day in the wrong weeds. They had been sprayed and would have died anyway."

"When Dad told me this story, I knew how tough it was. So I asked him, 'Dad, how could you make a joke out of that? How could you take it so pleasantly?' He said soemthign to me that I will never forget, and I hope you won't. He said, 'Hal, I wasn't there for the weeds.'"

Well, Elder Eyring, I didn't forget, and indeed it made the work more pleasant. And even if it hadn't, Jared and I got some donuts afterward that made it all worthwhile. Hopefully none of you with ever forget that.


*No, not really.

Back to Cereal

Tonight we went on a family outing to Ralph's. The purpose of the trip was to utilize a coupon for a free half gallon of Breyer's ice cream when we bought a Sara Lee pound cake for $2.50. There's no passing that deal up.

As is my habit now, we also made a special trip to the day old rack. The results were disappointing, as there were only two items on the rack (and last time I went, there were none). Either someone more desperate than I has beaten me to the punch lately, or perhaps the store has adopted a new philosophy with its new renovations: if people aren't buying it, don't make as much of it.

There is another rack right next to the day old rack, though, that I don't know how else to describe other than the "Destroyed or Old But Still Good Rack." I love that rack. Tonight there were several boxes of cereal on one of the top shelves. Some of the boxes were mutilated and held together only with brown packing tape, but the inner packaging was still intact, and the Cheerios (General Mills Brand) were only $1.50 a piece. So Michelle picked up three boxes.

I was feeling pretty triumphant about our purchases, as Michelle and I remarked back and forth about we can't get ourselves to spend more than $2.00 on a box of cereal these days.

But then I saw an associate from the office I work in buying groceries too. He didn't seem to see me. I am mildly embarrassed now to admit that I quickly ducked out the way to avoid detection. It wasn't so much that I didn't want him to see me pushing the bulky red racing car shopping cart, or the fact that somehow we'd ended up with close to 10 boxes of cereal in that cart (which we blissfully justify by classifying these purchases as "food storage" on the monthly budget).

Nope, for whatever reason I just couldn't bear to have him see me proudly carting around boxes of Cheerios sloppily held together by packing tape. So I averted eye contact, pretended I needed to look at a few things down another aisle, and then waited until he was safely making his way out of the store before looking up and resuming my confident posture.

I am ashamed. But at least in my shame I still picked up three boxes of name brand Cheerios for $1.50

Not All That Wander Are Lost

I have no excuse for the long pause between entries – except that life with two kids (one of whom is a newborn and the other of whom wants to spend all his waking hours attacking the newborn with love), busy days at work, and family emergencies make things a tad more difficult. All of these things work together to tire me such that I have neither the time nor the energy to parse out mildly amusing vignettes from my daily living. And it certainly hasn’t left me energy to provide serious or insightful commentary on the days issues, or even the day’s tasty treats.

But tonight I’ve stolen a moment to let you know all is not lost. In fact, these are prosperous times for the Clark family. Consider the following:

• Michelle and I attended a firm dinner at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse this past week. From Ethan, our waiter, we learned that Ruth’s Chris cooks their stakes at 1500 degrees Fahrenheit, and then serves its steaks on plates heated to 500 degrees. For the first, and possibly last, time I ordered a $70 Kobe steak – apparently a rare and expensive find even among steak connoisseurs [which I’ve considered adding to my already long list of specialties]. The steak was by far the best I’d ever tasted. I’m happy to go back there whenever anyone is interested in paying for it.


• I’ve got a new camera that is my pride and joy: the Canon Powershot S80. What adds more to my joy is that I got it for $380 (the going rate is about $500). We also got a new digital video camera.


• All of my Peanut M&Ms are now gone.


• NCAA 2007 came out earlier this month with rave reviews. Now if only I had a law school class or two I could skip to stay home and play it.
  
• We’re almost at the end of our summer blackout dates at Disneyland.
• The guy I bought a computer from was ordered to attend a "cognitive restructuring course" and subsequently comments on the courthouse steps that the reporters covering him are only alive because he is merciful (and obviously not crazy).

Hopefully time and circumstance will permit me to resume posting more frequently soon.

Negotiating the Swing

I had forgotten what it means to be the parent of a newborn. For one thing, it means bouncing your little one everywhere. And, at least for me, when my little girl is on my lap, my legs are in permanent vibrate mode. It's all about keeping her from crying and for some reason they respond well to vibrating legs.

There are more advanced feats, however, but these aren't for the faint of heart. I accomplished one of them this evening and was so proud of myself you'd swear I'd just passed the bar all over again. This task requires the delicate hands of a surgeon, the wisdom of Solomon, and the patience of that guy from Edgar Allen Poe's "The Tell Tale Heart" who spent an entire hour creeping into the bedroom of the man he decided to kill. The challenge? Moving a sleeping baby from your arms to the swing while keeping her asleep.

The first requirement is to get the child to sleep, which as I alluded to previously requires an awful lot of bouncing, and with Emily, bouncing while walking around the room (she's often not content to be seated). I perfected the arm position with Jared, having Emily lie on her stomach on my forearm, with the lower part of my palm applying a small amount of pressure to her stomach (for burping purposes).

(Try to ignore the half-eaten fudgcicle)

Once she falls asleep, there are decisions to make: Where do we try to put her down? Is she asleep enough to be put down? Who has to deal with her if the attempt fails? How do you deal with the parent who ends up having the take the baby when the attempt fails? Just how lucky are you feeling?

I came to that point this evening, and decided I'd try to put her in the swing. When the maneuver is succesfully done, Emily will continue to sleep for hours rocking back and forth. One false move, though, and her eyes open up, she spends a few minutes contently looking around, and then starts to wail.

There are obstacles too. For instance, one has to figure out how to put Emily in the swing, keep her sleeping peacefully, while strapping her in to the swing. Try to be too hasty and she wakes up almost immediately. Instead, to be successful, she must be rocked in the swing while strapping her in, which requires a coordination that can perhaps only be acquired through hours and hours of playing video games.

The speed of the swing also has to be right, and then you have to figure out what to do about head support, lest the little one start flopping her head around and wake up.

Tonight I managed to negotiate all of those elements succesfully, seamlessly transferring Emily in her slumbering state into the swing. Behold!



[great, I spoke too soon...I forgot to put a blanket on her legs, she startled a few times, and woke up. Curse that startle reflex!]

Jury Duty for Lawyers

God is not without a sense of irony: I've been called for jury duty.

The way things work in California is that I got a summons nearly a month ago. It came with a questionnaire to fill out (basically asking me what my job is) and send back, and then call a number they provided on the date provided to receive further instructions.

I spent little time thinking about it, since I have always figured that as soon as anyone discovered I was a lawyer it would be a near automatic exclusion from jury service -- especially given the kind of work I do.

I thought so little about it that Friday morning I made some specific plans to visit San Diego this Tuesday and take the day off. After I got home from work last night, however, and called the number I was simply told this: Call back Monday after 5 p.m. and we'll let you know whether you need to show up Tuesday.

Umm...great. I'm baffled at why, in the initial summons, they couldn't give any idea of a date range for which their services might be required. Is that too much to ask? Perhaps I should've known better, but I had absolutely NO idea when calling last night that I would potentially need to clear my schedule the next week. I figured we were talking sometime in August, which shows how little I know about what goes on behind the scenes to get jurors into a courtroom.

At any rate, I've got to change my San Diego plans now. I suppose I'll find out Monday whether they're going to make me show up Tuesday.

Odds, Ends, and Invaders

I awoke early this morning to find intruders in our home. They seemed to be looking for something to steal. Michelle and I acted quickly, before the intruders discovered Jared (or worse, before Jared discovered them). She scouted them and then I applied the bug spray. Good bye horde of ants hoping for a free meal! (my suspicion is they were after my remaining bag of Peanut M&Ms – I mean, what more could an ant hope for?)

Here’s what else you’ve missed these past few weeks:

• Somehow, and for some strange reason, the instructor during our Elder’s Quorum lesson two weeks ago decided to hold up the Forbidden Donut (without any prior for warning) as a shining example of what Wilford Woodruff spoke of on keeping journals. Umm…yeah…right. I’ve been the subject of Elder’s Quorum derision ever since, and now people are asking for my Peanut M&Ms (For those interested: 10 bags left. Since I started with 20, and since eating 10 bags of M&Ms in such a short period of time is a bit alarming even to me, this has prompted several subsequent, broken commitments to two weeks of detox. I started again today!)


• Speaking of Peanut M&Ms, Jared apparently didn’t feel like he was getting his share, and so amassed an army to gain control of the remaining bags:

He failed.

• A certain creature in our home has made blogging (and pretty much everything else) impossible. I’ve managed a few pictures.

(And of course the always popular frog pose)


Hopefully she’ll let me resume my frivolous posting soon.

Super Disappointment

Superman Returns opened this weekend, and I was desperate enough last night that I snuck* out by myself to see it.  I’ve never been to a movie alone, and it wasn’t supposed to be so last night.  When my friend flaked, though, I was still quite anxious to see it. So I braved it alone. Not even my Peanut M&Ms to keep me company – I’ve sworn off sugar for two weeks.

My loneliness, however, was easily overcome by my excitement for the movie.

Ah, but I left the movie disappointed, and I started to sense this from the beginning.  For one, Brandon Routh seems far too young to be taking on the role of Superman – at least not without beginning the whole series over again (and this one takes place five years after Superman II).

Routh, too, hardly has the charisma Christopher Reeve did.  His attempts at humor as Superman (which Reeve pulled off so well) felt stiff and forced, and his take on Clark Kent terribly bland.  He looks the part (though a bit young), but that’s about it.

I was sorely missing Gene Hackman too.  His Lex Luthor was loveably evil – conniving but still endearing.  Kevin Spacey’s Lex Luthor is just plain mean.

A few other major problems I have with the movie (which, if you are aching to see the movie and not have it spoiled, you might want to avoid – though in the several reviews I’ve read I’m not revealing any more of the plot than they did, or than the trailers do):

• How is it that Superman’s suit is apparently impervious to bullets at one point (bouncing of his chest and making no marks, tears, or scratches on the suit), and then later, while Superman is exposed to Kryptonite, Lex Luthor is able to take a piece of Kryptonite and stab Superman – through the suit?  Shouldn’t the suit still be impenetrable? Or are we supposed to understand that the suit loses its properties too when exposed to Kryptonite?  Am I the only one who thinks about this and sees the contradiction?


• So apparently, as a result of what happened in Superman II, Lois Lane had Superman’s baby.  And she knows it was Superman’s.  But, at the end of Superman II, Superman kissed Lois that had the fortunate effect of making her forget everything that had taken place (i.e. She discover’s Clark Kent’s true identity, they fall in love, he takes her to the fortress of solitude and gives up his powers for her, then has to take them back).  Because of this, it doesn’t make sense that she would know who the father is if it was Superman.

Perhaps this is quibbling to the rest.  The movie still has its exciting moments, and if pressed I’d say I’m happier having seen it than if I hadn’t seen it.  That seems to be the least possible good one can say about a movie, though, and I was aching to enjoy it at least as much as I enjoyed Batman Begins.

* Of course, I didn’t literally “sneak” out – I had permission – as long as I vacuumed the living room first.

Weekend Addition

Most of you know by now that our little girl, Emily Michelle Clark, was born on Saturday morning. Faithful readers of the Forbidden Donut, however, get special access to the details of our fateful weekend:

Friday Night

• 6:50 p.m. Jared squeals in delight as we make our way into the movie theater for Cars. We battled with whether we should wait until Saturday afternoon and save a few dollars with the matinee, but I was too impatient. Good thing.


• 7:05 p.m. Emily starts kicking Michelle as the movie opens (likely thanks to Sheryl Crow). She seems to have good taste in either movies or music (or both?)


• 8:00 p.m. Nearly all my peanut M&Ms mysteriously disappear from my previously unopened 14 oz bag within an hour. Sheepishly, I take comfort in the fact that I still have 18 bags left.


• 10:00 p.m. With the movie over and Jared down (and realizing I’ve eaten three 14 oz. bags of Peanut M&Ms in the past week) I tell Michelle I’m hoping to play basketball Saturday morning.

Saturday

• 2:00 a.m. Michelle can’t sleep, so she gets up and goes out to the living room. She’s done this the past few nights. Meanwhile I’m regretting having eaten the whole bag of M&Ms. I also realize sadly that Michelle will probably be too tired to let me play basketball a few hours later.


• 2:30 a.m. Michelle comes in the bedroom and says “Aaron, I think I’m in labor.” A few moments of panic overtake me and the thought comes “I’m not ready”. That feeling would give way slightly after a few moments of prayer.


• 3:15 a.m. Yep! She’s having contractions. Three minutes apart?! Michelle calls the doctor, Jared’s sitter arrives, and we try to race gently to the hospital. Michelle curses each and every speed bump we encounter, and I spend the entire drive trying to remember what Cliff Huxtable used to tell his patients about when to come in: was it five minutes apart or two?


• 3:45 a.m. The nurse ushers us into a room, and I try to set up shop – expecting another 18 hour marathon. I’m also really regretting having eaten the whole bag of M&Ms. Michelle is in enough pain that she almost immediately asks for an epidural. This seems to alarm the nurse and sends her into a mild panic. I find this slightly amusing.


• 4:52 a.m. Well that was fast. Two or three pushes and there she was! Emily Michelle Clark, 19 inches, 7 lbs. 13 oz. (i.e. just over 8 bags of M&Ms). Probably the 2nd fastest birth ever since the improbable 30 second labor & delivery at the end of “Saturday’s Warrior”.
  
• 5:05 a.m. The sun hasn’t even come up yet, and I’m wondering if there’s a chance I can swing by a local donut shop for some celebratory donuts.


• 5:15 a.m. For the first time since we picked the name, I remember that awful song on the Book of Mormon Seminary Soundtrack (“Emily, my friend…”). I try to figure out if we’re too far into things to change the name. Ultimately, though, I decide I’ll just pretend like that song never existed – as I try to do with just about anything Michael McLean wrote (and even if he didn’t write that song, it’s the kind of song he probably wishes he’d written). Michelle makes that harder to do by singing the refrain mockingly a few times.


• 6:30 a.m. Basketball starts…without me. Lucky for them I guess.


• 1:30ish p.m. A nurse recommends the cafeteria for lunch, so I put of my urge to find a Carl’s Jr. or something similar. Turns out to be a bad move on my part. I’ve never paid more for worse tasting food (chicken teriyaki and pizza). When I got back to Michelle’s room, the same nurse asked if I found something edible. Feeling like I’d been cheated out of a decent meal (and $9) I couldn’t entirely let things go: “Well, I found something…” I said, as I let my words taper off, noticeably refusing to include the word “edible.” The nurse takes notice and says “Hey…don’t be too harsh. We nurses have to eat there everyday.” I spend the next 15 minutes feeling guilty.


• 3:40 p.m. A quick visit home to send out a mass email with some photos. Can’t…Resist…Peanut…M&Ms. I finish the remaining open bag, secretively enough that Jared has no idea.


• 4:50 p.m. Jared makes his first visit to his baby sister, Emily. He greets her innocently with “Hello, sweetie.” It then quickly becomes apparent that the greatest stress will come from trying to keep Jared from inadvertently injuring Emily with his excessive kindness.
  
• 1:00 a.m.(ish) I elect to spend the night in the hospital with Michelle and Emily, feeling as though it’s the noble thing to do to troop it out with my two girls. I’m very tired. At one point Michelle wakes me to ask me to do something, I get up and look at my little girl and cannot for the life of me remember what I’m supposed to call her. I thereafter decide on the less gallant strategy of ignoring everyone who comes in and out of the room and everything that happens therein (pretending that I am too deep in sleep to notice or be bothered). Cowardly? Yes. The next morning I confess to Michelle, who surprises me by telling me she’d wanted me not to be bothered and to have as good a night’s sleep as possible. Further evidence that I married above my station.

Sunday

• 9:30 a.m. I agonize over whether to make an appearance at Sacrament Meeting and bringing Jared, deciding in the end that I’m too tired to get him ready. I have enough energy, though, to be on the computer on Instant Messenger, giving my 11 year old brother opportunity to chide me for my decision.


• 9:45 a.m. I vow not to eat any Peanut M&Ms today.


• 3:30 p.m. Preliminary indications are Emily is a better sleeper than Jared and even at times is content not to be held!
  
• 3:45 p.m. I give up hope of not eating any M&Ms today and instead decide to find success in having only eaten half a bag.


• 7:00 p.m. Michelle and I enjoy a “celebration dinner” compliments of the hospital that includes Martinelli’s Sparkling Cider. In the end, the cider was the high point of the meal as the meal itself was terribly underwhelming (blasted cafeteria!). Even so, the kindness of the meal and being able to eat it together, alone (with Emily sleeping in her hospital basinet), and as the sun set, made it pleasant.


• 10:45 p.m. Despite agreeing that I’d spent the night at home, I sense that I should stay, though I only have the church clothes I’m wearing. Truly this would be a sacrifice.


• 12:45 a.m. I’m tired, but not enough that I’m not bothered by the constant distractions in the hospital room.


• 1:45 a.m. I realize that, despite trying to sleep in the hospital couch and getting up every 15 minutes, my shirt is not wrinkled in the slightest. I further realize that the shirt is nice enough that I don’t even mind sleeping in it, and that my self-confidence and self-esteem rise dramatically whenever I put it on. How many people can say that about their white dress shirt and at 1:45 a.m.?


• 3:15 a.m. After getting up and trying to go back down for the umpteenth time during the night, my pants split as I try to sit back down. And it’s not even a split at the seam. I try hard to believe that the split has nothing to do with my stash of M&Ms, but the connection is impossible to ignore.


• 3:20 a.m. Michelle agrees that, given the pants, situation, I should go home while there’s less traffic in the halls.


• 3:25 a.m. Our nurse decides its an opportune time to engage us in conversation about living in Boston and having a lawyer husband who is apparently home too much and doesn’t make enough money. She hasn’t seemed to notice my pants though.

Monday

• 9:30 a.m. Jared and I continue the longstanding Clark tradition of bringing the new arrival chocolate milk and donuts for her last day in the hospital. Naturally she didn’t seem to want any, which left more for the two of us.


• 9:35 a.m. Jared also picks out an Elmo balloon from Rip-Off Ralphs that has no price tag. I realize only at the check out counter, after Jared has had time to firmly attach himself to the balloon, that it cost $8.00. I do not even know where to begin in noting how outrageous that price was. (and yes, it bears mentioning that all of the 75% off M&Ms have long since sold out).


• 2:00 p.m. We pack up Emily to head home, but not before Michelle opts to raid the basinet cart for any remaining newborn diapers. She finds an unopened pack, frets for a minute as to whether it’d be wrong to take them, and then stuffs them into our bag. (When asked directly whether I thought it was ok, I only shrug my shoulders, still stinging over the cost of the balloon, and wanting very much for her to take them).


• 2:30 p.m. Michelle, Emily, and I arrive home. Jared and Grandma Arnett are already waiting. On seeing Emily, Jared exclaims “It’s baby Emily, come and play!”

Coming to My Senses

What on Earth am I going to do with 17 lbs. of M&Ms?

Tough Decisions

Jared and I went back to Ralphs today and bought another 12 bags of M&Ms at 75% off, though that’s hardly newsworthy.  What caught us by surprise were that Oreos are on sale this week for 99 cents a bag, with Ralph’s Club Card, limit two (at the regular rip off price of $3.99).  So the dilemma was, if I only get to choose two bags, which Oreos do I choose?

Regular Oreos? The always comforting Original Double Stuf? The Chocolate Double Stuf? Peanut Butter Double Stuf? The Golden “Uh-Oh” Oreos with chocolate filling? Or the Reduced Fat Oreos?

Here was my thinking: Regular Oreos can’t ever compete with original Double Stuf Oreos. I mean, if you’ve only got regular Oreos around, that’s fine (probably even better than fine if you’ve got milk too). But what kind of person would choose regular Oreos over original Double Stuf Oreos? Only a person who is not in love with the filling…and if you’re not in love with the filling, why are you eating Oreos in the first place?

So the original Double Stuf wins over the Regular Oreos.  It also has to trump Reduced Fat Oreos for this reason: If you are going to eat Oreos, I figure I won’t waste time (and lose taste) by going for the Reduced Fat kind.  Fewer calories? Perhaps, but who cares!? You’re eating Oreos for crying out loud! You don’t eat Oreos when you’re trying to lose weight.

Things get a little trickier with the Chocolate Double Stuf and the Peanut Butter Double Stuf, so let’s talk about the Golden “Uh-Oh” Oreos next.  Has anyone actually tried these things? Neither have I.  It’s a risk -- without any of the things I love about the Original Double Stuf Oreos (except that both presumably contain sugar and flour).  I don’t know about you, but I’m not about to risk one of my two potential 99 cent purchases on the wild card “Uh-Oh” Golden Oreos.

That leaves the Chocolate Double Stuf and Peanut Butter Double Stuf.  I’ve had both of these before, back in the day during my finals months in Provo in between college and law school – when they were new and all the rage (I believe there was even a Chocolate/Peanut Butter Mixed Oreo).  They tasted good back then. In fact, too good.  Part of the reason I couldn’t choose either of these is because that last summer in Provo was the summer I ballooned to 310 lbs.  And perhaps my most disturbing memory of that summer is coming home from work for lunch one afternoon, and with reckless abandon eating an entire bag of Peanut Butter Oreos for lunch – with milk.  That singular meal (if it can be called that) will forever typify the pattern of conduct put me at my heaviest, and the Chocolate and Peanut Butter Oreos are unfortunate victims of that stigma.  I’ll likely never purchase those particular cookies again – regardless of price.

So in the end, we took home two bags of Double Stuf Oreos – I’m sure Michelle will be thrilled when she finds out.