I'm still alive, just have been a little busier than usual these past few weeks. Don't give up on me.
I set a goal to post every rejection letter I get when I submit my writing for publishing. I just got my second official rejection letter. It's from the Ensign (my first was from The Friend about this time last year) and it's very gracious as you'll soon see. My Friend rejection crushed me a little. To say it was concise is a gross understatement. It was one sentence long. After that initial blow, I've toughened up a bit. My friend, Mindy Johnson, encouraged me by telling me that an author she admires got over 100 rejections on the same manuscript before it was finally accepted. So I've decided in the spirit of Inigo Montoya that I must relish rejection, rejoice in rejection, revel in rejection because every rejection brings me closer to success. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. (Remember how saying, "Hello, My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die!" over and over again gave that plucky swordsman courage?) But for Pete's sake, I've got to work harder and faster to get my 100 rejections. At the rate I'm currently going I'll be 139 years old before anyone considers publishing anything that I write. (The millenium, maybe?) Anyway, here it is.
Dear Author:
Thank you very much for sending us your submission. It is a pleasure to see new material. Every piece received is individually reviewed by the editorial staff.
Unfortunately, we will not be able to publish your work. Because of limited magazine space and the increasing number of such submissions as the Church grows, the Church magazines are able to publish only a very small percentage of the many good items received. We regret that the time it takes to process hundreds of incoming submissions does not allow us to make comments about each one individually.
Please accept our thanks for the time and effort put into your work. We know that submissions like yours are goodwill offerings in support of the Church. We hope the work that has gone into this one will be a benefit to you and your family.
Sincerely,
Ensign Editorial Staff
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Day 1 and 2 in the Dominican Republic
My sister-in-law asked our family to write down a missionary experience to be sent to Dalin, my nephew and the first missionary in the Joan and Larry Hill family. This is not an inspirational experience. I have some of those, too, and intend to record those as well, but as Dalin is a new missionary I thought it might be nice for him to laugh over my first few days in the Dominican Republic. Maybe the hard things he's experiencing will be lightened just a touch after a good belly laugh.
My mission – The beginning
My first day in the Dominican Republic was a shock to the system, to say the least. What I most remember, besides initial shock over the ramshackle huts thrown together and made from whatever was at hand, is my own naivete’. At the home of some members I asked to use the bathroom. My stomach was in complete upheaval and I was afraid it would do just that, up-heave-all I had consumed to date in this new place. Either that or what the Hill Family refers to as “bad news”. (Use your imagination, there are some words referring to distasteful bodily functions that I choose to allude to rather than spell out.) My hostess looked surprised by my request and quietly took me to a bedroom separated from the main room by a curtain. She handed me a large bowl and shutting the curtain behind her she discretely left the room. I stood frozen. Surely she didn’t mean for me to …. ?In the pretty painted bowl..? Mercifully, at that point my bowels (another distasteful word, sorry) seized up. Stage fright? I’m not sure but that is what I most remember about my first day in the D.R.. (Speaking earnestly for a moment, I think the offering of that pretty bowl is indicative of many of the Dominican people I met. Incredibly generous and gracious, offering the best they had for the comfort of their guests. Thank you, Dominicans. I learned so much from you.)
What I remember most about my second day in the mission field is that when I got up in the morning, my shoes had shrunk. I felt like an ugly stepsister trying to squeeze my foot into Cinderella’s little slipper - except that I was Cinderella. It was, after all, my slipper. My petite Dominican companion and my other petite American companion (but I’m not bitter) suggested that we go to the store to purchase a new pair of shoes. I was dumbfounded. What had happened to my shoes overnight? Before I go on let me just say that when heaven was passing out the common sense I was in the ladies room. I sorely lament that. I also missed out on a sense of direction and several other useful endowments. I was there with bells on when they passed out impetuosity, upturned noses, and strange-looking toenails. But I digress. I limped along with my companions to the shoestore and a helpful salesman approached. “Zapatos nuevos, por favor?” I inquired in my best Spanish. The saleman retrieved his foot measuring thingee from the front counter and I sat down. I held out my foot. The man drew back in shocked admiration. He stared at my foot. For the first time all day I looked carefully at my feet. Suddenly, I was mortified. My shoes hadn’t shrunk overnight. Rather, my feet, ankles and calves had swollen to monumental proportions. They were huge! How had I not noticed this? “Un momento, por favor,” stammered the salesman and without measuring my feet he hurried to the back of the store. I heard hushed whispering and then the clerk came rushing out followed closely by another male employee. I shrank back into my seat in shame. The other man looked at my swollen limbs and said with reverential appreciation, “Que gordotas son!” Even a brand new missionary could easily pick out the reference to gorda (fat). And the particular word, “gordota” doesn’t just mean fat, it means fatter-than-fat; it means the fattest ever! I wanted to reply in voice of withering scorn but I didn’t know any insults in Spanish and frankly, I’m just not a scornful person. Instead, I meekly selected and paid for new shoes and walked out of the store completely demoralized, conscious of two men with feet half the size of mine staring after me in open-mouthed appreciation. (An aside, I was a size 10 shoe my entire mission. One week after returning home, I had lost 15 pounds and my feet, ankles and calves returned to their pre-mission size. Water weight – but then again, maybe that’s where everything goes when you're holding it.
My mission – The beginning
My first day in the Dominican Republic was a shock to the system, to say the least. What I most remember, besides initial shock over the ramshackle huts thrown together and made from whatever was at hand, is my own naivete’. At the home of some members I asked to use the bathroom. My stomach was in complete upheaval and I was afraid it would do just that, up-heave-all I had consumed to date in this new place. Either that or what the Hill Family refers to as “bad news”. (Use your imagination, there are some words referring to distasteful bodily functions that I choose to allude to rather than spell out.) My hostess looked surprised by my request and quietly took me to a bedroom separated from the main room by a curtain. She handed me a large bowl and shutting the curtain behind her she discretely left the room. I stood frozen. Surely she didn’t mean for me to …. ?In the pretty painted bowl..? Mercifully, at that point my bowels (another distasteful word, sorry) seized up. Stage fright? I’m not sure but that is what I most remember about my first day in the D.R.. (Speaking earnestly for a moment, I think the offering of that pretty bowl is indicative of many of the Dominican people I met. Incredibly generous and gracious, offering the best they had for the comfort of their guests. Thank you, Dominicans. I learned so much from you.)
What I remember most about my second day in the mission field is that when I got up in the morning, my shoes had shrunk. I felt like an ugly stepsister trying to squeeze my foot into Cinderella’s little slipper - except that I was Cinderella. It was, after all, my slipper. My petite Dominican companion and my other petite American companion (but I’m not bitter) suggested that we go to the store to purchase a new pair of shoes. I was dumbfounded. What had happened to my shoes overnight? Before I go on let me just say that when heaven was passing out the common sense I was in the ladies room. I sorely lament that. I also missed out on a sense of direction and several other useful endowments. I was there with bells on when they passed out impetuosity, upturned noses, and strange-looking toenails. But I digress. I limped along with my companions to the shoestore and a helpful salesman approached. “Zapatos nuevos, por favor?” I inquired in my best Spanish. The saleman retrieved his foot measuring thingee from the front counter and I sat down. I held out my foot. The man drew back in shocked admiration. He stared at my foot. For the first time all day I looked carefully at my feet. Suddenly, I was mortified. My shoes hadn’t shrunk overnight. Rather, my feet, ankles and calves had swollen to monumental proportions. They were huge! How had I not noticed this? “Un momento, por favor,” stammered the salesman and without measuring my feet he hurried to the back of the store. I heard hushed whispering and then the clerk came rushing out followed closely by another male employee. I shrank back into my seat in shame. The other man looked at my swollen limbs and said with reverential appreciation, “Que gordotas son!” Even a brand new missionary could easily pick out the reference to gorda (fat). And the particular word, “gordota” doesn’t just mean fat, it means fatter-than-fat; it means the fattest ever! I wanted to reply in voice of withering scorn but I didn’t know any insults in Spanish and frankly, I’m just not a scornful person. Instead, I meekly selected and paid for new shoes and walked out of the store completely demoralized, conscious of two men with feet half the size of mine staring after me in open-mouthed appreciation. (An aside, I was a size 10 shoe my entire mission. One week after returning home, I had lost 15 pounds and my feet, ankles and calves returned to their pre-mission size. Water weight – but then again, maybe that’s where everything goes when you're holding it.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Four little monkeys
Before Topher was born Jay and I used our tax return to buy a new bed. Not just any bed- a King size lodgepole pine canopy bed that is so high off the ground I can’t get into it without climbing up on one of the pine poles that runs the length of the mattress. We chose this particular bed because we loved the way it looked but we had practical intentions as well – at least that’s what we told ourselves. Jay and I had very strong views on whether or not to have our children sleep with us. Never! was the oft-spoken word when the subject of co-inhabitation of the bed came up. We chose the high bed assuring each other that it would be impossible for our future youngsters to scale this alp of a bed. Ha! Ha-ha! Hee-hee-hee-ha-ha! Ho-ho-ho! Ha-ha-ha-hee-hee-ha-ha-ha. Ha-ha. Ha-ha. Ha. Ahem! Not only can the children get up onto the bed, they love to climb about and swing like monkeys from the canopy poles which run all the way around the top of what is intended to be a restful place. We didn’t purchase a bed, we bought McDonalds’ playland. Even the baby can climb up by grabbing two handfuls of blanket and walking up the side of the bed like a rock climber.
After the initial shock we’ve discovered we enjoy the Saturday morning snuggles that occur when the children wander in – warm-bodied and groggy – wanting to be close to us. In addition to this pleasure, many interesting and energetic games have been invented on the family bed. In one wrestling match between Topher and I when he was 4 years old I pretended he had pinned me and ceased my struggling. Raising a fist in a gesture of triumph he proudly cried, “The Lord has delivered you into my hands!”
One of our most popular games is called “Marshmallow Monkey.” I have no recollection of how this name came about but there it is. The game consists of me, positioned in the center of the bed, trying to grab, pin, tickle, kiss, zurbert or any combination of the above while the “monkeys” dive screaming and throwing themselves from one end of the bed (base) to the other (also base). When one monkey is trapped and undergoing the tickling/kissing torture it is not uncommon for another monkey to come to the rescue by flinging his body on the attacker and tickling the tickler. In a particularly exuberant version of this game each of the boys had their own terry cloth tie knotted over the canopy poles. These ties assumed the role of vines and the boys swung out in gallant fashion. I speak in the past tense of these vine accessories because they no longer exist. In an unbelievable twist of fate both vines broke on the same day within fifteen minutes of each other and have never been replaced. Sadly, they both expired on the outward swing sending their urban Tarzans off in a most distressful manner.
Topher is eleven now with two younger brothers and a sister and the bed is beginning to show signs of wear. Even the smallest swinger causes the bed to sway gently from side to side and so we’ve put the Kaibash(sp) on swinging and climbing on the bed. And strangely, contrary to my strong preparenthood ideals, I feel a little sad that there’ll be no more monkeys jumping on the bed.
After the initial shock we’ve discovered we enjoy the Saturday morning snuggles that occur when the children wander in – warm-bodied and groggy – wanting to be close to us. In addition to this pleasure, many interesting and energetic games have been invented on the family bed. In one wrestling match between Topher and I when he was 4 years old I pretended he had pinned me and ceased my struggling. Raising a fist in a gesture of triumph he proudly cried, “The Lord has delivered you into my hands!”
One of our most popular games is called “Marshmallow Monkey.” I have no recollection of how this name came about but there it is. The game consists of me, positioned in the center of the bed, trying to grab, pin, tickle, kiss, zurbert or any combination of the above while the “monkeys” dive screaming and throwing themselves from one end of the bed (base) to the other (also base). When one monkey is trapped and undergoing the tickling/kissing torture it is not uncommon for another monkey to come to the rescue by flinging his body on the attacker and tickling the tickler. In a particularly exuberant version of this game each of the boys had their own terry cloth tie knotted over the canopy poles. These ties assumed the role of vines and the boys swung out in gallant fashion. I speak in the past tense of these vine accessories because they no longer exist. In an unbelievable twist of fate both vines broke on the same day within fifteen minutes of each other and have never been replaced. Sadly, they both expired on the outward swing sending their urban Tarzans off in a most distressful manner.
Topher is eleven now with two younger brothers and a sister and the bed is beginning to show signs of wear. Even the smallest swinger causes the bed to sway gently from side to side and so we’ve put the Kaibash(sp) on swinging and climbing on the bed. And strangely, contrary to my strong preparenthood ideals, I feel a little sad that there’ll be no more monkeys jumping on the bed.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
April Fool's Day
As I mentioned last year, I love to play April Fool's jokes on my children. This year I was running low on creativity so I turned to one of my favorite magazines, Family Fun, and chose one of their simple ideas.
I made a batch of jello and poured it into glasses with a straw so it looked like Kool-Aid. After it set up I put the glasses on the table with homemade pizza on each plate and called the children in. Lacey came down the stairs eagerly and after the blessing tried to take a long sip from her straw. She tried harder. Then she started giggling and said happily, "So that was your trick, mommy!" The boys, good sports that they are, tried to sip and then looked dubiously at their pizza and each other. Tiny nibbles by all. "Phew!" said Toph, "We were a little concerned about the pizza, mom."
That's it. I'm glad that very simple things still delight.
I made a batch of jello and poured it into glasses with a straw so it looked like Kool-Aid. After it set up I put the glasses on the table with homemade pizza on each plate and called the children in. Lacey came down the stairs eagerly and after the blessing tried to take a long sip from her straw. She tried harder. Then she started giggling and said happily, "So that was your trick, mommy!" The boys, good sports that they are, tried to sip and then looked dubiously at their pizza and each other. Tiny nibbles by all. "Phew!" said Toph, "We were a little concerned about the pizza, mom."
That's it. I'm glad that very simple things still delight.
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