Happy Birthday, Chelleybutton!!!

Photoqueen is moving!

As you may have noticed, I made a few changes around here this week. I found this nifty new background and added a little picture of Photobaby and me to my profile. And if you really dig deep, you'll see that I added not just my favorite books and movies to my profile, but really, every book I've ever read and movie I've ever seen. Except for the ones I hated. I didn't include those.

And now, I've got one more big change. I'm changing my URL to reflect who I am and what this blog is about. Okay, not really. I'm changing it to something that doesn't make me cringe when I type it. I never liked my address but couldn't figure out a better one.

But starting tomorrow, I won't just be giving up on perfect, I'll be giving up on picture perfect. (Squish that together and you get my new address. I'm not linking it because it doesn't exist yet. And I'm afraid someone will steal it between now and tomorrow. I'm not a computer expert, people!)

I hope you'll join me at the new address. I've got a big project coming up for November, and I think you're going to like it. See you there!

Who Needs Zero Point Soup, anyway?

As you all know, I’ve been going to Weight Watchers. For the fifth time. For about three months. I won’t make you ask – I’ve lost 5.6 pounds. Please, let’s not do the math. I don’t want to know what that makes for a weekly average.

Anyway, during one of my rare and short-lived spurts of commitment to this weight loss thing, I looked up the infamous Zero Point Soup. If you’ve ever done WW, you know what I’m talking about. But for those of you blessed with skinny genes or willpower, let me fill you in.

Zero Point Soup is, depending on who you ask, anything from a tasty snack to the secret ingredient to losing your love handles. Because it’s made only from veggies, it has no points. And lots of fiber and water. Therefore, it fills you up (making you less likely to eat, you know, muffins and pizza and such).

But when I found the recipe (and there are dozens, possibly hundreds, of versions to be found), I realized it includes a large amount of cabbage. And while I don’t have anything against cabbage, the soup just didn’t sound good to me anymore.

So I decided to make do with chili (and the occasional can of Healthy Choice or Progresso). Here’s how I make it, as part of this blog carnival from BooMama.

Photo’s Phenomenal Chili
(Not really – I just liked the alliteration.)

1 ½ lbs. ground beef (browned, drained and rinsed)
½ packet hot chili seasoning
½ packet mild chili seasoning
1 can Rotel (diced tomatoes with green chilies)
1 can dark red kidney beans
1 can chili beans
1 can diced or crushed tomatoes
1 can (medium or large) tomato sauce
1 can (small) tomato paste

Dump it all into the Crockpot. Cook on low for 4 hours. Eat a big bowl. Sigh in contentment. (You can garnish with shredded cheese, sour cream or crackers. But that adds points, you know. Without all that, a bowl of this stuff is about 3-4 points. And way better than cabbage soup!)

Your turn: Do you like soup? Do you use the Crockpot to cook?

Funny guy. Priceless.

Peyton Manning keeps a pretty low profile, avoiding product endorsement and staying out of the public eye.

Just kidding! This guy is in so many commercials!

And they're funny ones, too. Manning has pushed everything from a TV to cookies, from cable to a credit card. My favorite is the Sprint commercial, if you like that sort of thing. I just read about his latest commercial, a 30-second promo for Mastercard in their Priceless campaign. You can see it here.

I thought I'd look up his other commercials to share with you, just in case you, too, appreciate a pretty boy with a dry sense of humor. Here they are:

Mastercard Priceless Pep Talk (hair cut)
Mastercard Priceless Pep Talk (football season)
Mastercard Priceless Pep Talk (rock hard abs)
Mastercard Priceless Pep Talk (minivan)
Mastercard Priceless (spa)
Mastercard Priceless (fans)
Mastercard Priceless (fans II)
Sprint (Peyton in disguise)
Oreo DSRL (with Eli)
Direct TV (NFL package)
ESPN SportsCenter (Manning family)
Sony Bravia (soccer)
Sony Bravia (no sports)

Toys are for playing.

When I was a child, I collected dolls. Not the fun kind. Not Barbies or Cabbage Patch dolls. No, I collected porcelain dolls. The kind you leave in the box - or at least, keep the box, in case you want to sell them in the future. (FYI, I've checked eBay - they aren't worth much at all. So, yes, they are still taking up room in my garage.)

I'm not sure how this collection started. I think it happened when a relative gave me a Madame Alexander doll. I do remember when it stopped, though. That year - I think I was 12 - I got a doll for my birthday and another one for Christmas. My parents thought I was disappointed because I wanted different dolls. Really, I was disappointed because I didn't want any dolls!

Flash forward a couple decades (well, almost), and here I am, thinking about starting a collection for Photobaby. How did that happen?! Well, I visited a specialty toy store in Nashville the other weekend, where they had several lines of toys and items to collect. I said to Mark, "Collections are so dumb. I don't want Annalyn to collect anything. It's just more stuff to dust, you know."

And then I saw the greatest stuffed animals.

They weren't fluffy or furry, and they had kind of a classic look to them. Once I got home I had to look up the company. The Grannimals are colorful sock dolls made by Latitude Enfant, a French company. And while they are adorable, they're also made to be played with. So they don't need to be kept in boxes or on a shelf.

I think I've found Photobaby's collection, and we'll start with Sascha the Cat for Christmas. A collection of toys that Photobaby can actually play with? That works for me.

To see more tips from Works For Me Wednesday, visit Rocks in my Dryer.

Another one. (and you thought I was finished...)

Unlike some of my readers and friends, I haven't been able to stomach the new 90210. But I have caught most the episodes of Privileged and for the most part, like it. I watched at first because it stars the girl from Reba, a show I loved. And okay, because it was compared to my beloved Gilmore Girls. (You can watch it tonight at 8pm CST on the CW. If you like that sort of thing.)

Anyway, as I was clicking through a slide show of MSN's worst actors ever, I saw the picture above. And I thought that girl really looks like the girl on Privileged! Take a look - what do you think?

Jessica Stroup from 90210
Ashley Newbrough from Privileged

Kinda sorta? Well, you tell me - what new TV shows are you liking this fall? Also, does anyone else have a darned hard time spelling "privileged"?

Regrets, she’s had a few.

Book Review: Lynne Spears' Through the Storm: A Real Story of Fame and Family in a Tabloid World

How many times have I thought when seeing the latest report of a Britney Spears disaster, "Where is that girl's mother?" Or even, "How does someone so talented get so crazy?" Reading this book answered the first question thoroughly and the second question briefly.

If you’re looking for a tell-all about Britney the pop princess, look elsewhere. If you’re expecting advice from a mother of three, buy another book. But if you’re intrigued by a family whose lives have been drastically changed, repeatedly, by circumstances and by choices, this might be the book for you. And if you’d like to know what place God and faith have in the Spears family, this book is for you.

I really think Lynne Spears wrote this book to get her side of the Spears Family Story into the mainstream press. After watching her daughters, her husband and herself be torn to pieces in ink, Lynne has spoken up about who the Spears family truly is - where they came from, what they've dealt with, and in many ways, how they came to the point we see today in the tabloids.

I thought this book was interesting, showing how a child from a small town could rise to stardom, despite her parents’ humble beginnings and very human frailties. And showing how, incredible as it is, a person could completely shut out her own parents, despite needing them more than ever.

Even though Lynne tells the story of Britney’s rise and decline, as well as Jamie Lynn’s teen pregnancy, she’s telling it from her perspective. So if gritty details are what you’re after, you’ll be disappointed. (To be honest, I was as curious as the next person who watches The Soup but refuses to buy People magazine unless I’m taking a flight somewhere – yes, those are my anti-celebrity gossip standards.) This book is more about Lynne and who she is – not a bad mom, not a “stage mom,” not a neglectful parent. But a naïve, nurturing Christian mother and teacher who loves her kids no matter what’s going on in their lives.

Is Lynne Spears a little defensive in this book? Sure, but I can't blame her if she goes a little overboard describing both the great parts of her life and the hard parts. Was Lynne Spears naive? Absolutely, but she's the first to admit it. Does this book humanize each member of the Spears family? Yes, it does that, too. And maybe THAT is what Lynne was after all along.

A few things that I found most intriguing/interesting/striking/thought-provoking in this book:

• Lynne’s insistence that Britney pushed herself to succeed, despite her parents’ concerns she needed to just relax. I might have dismissed this claim as after-the-fact denial of leading her daughter into what has caused as much trouble and heartache as reward and excitement…if I hadn’t heard my mom say the same thing about me. (Not that I’m pop star material, just driven as a child and teenager.)
• Lynne’s comments that Kevin Federline is a good man. She writes (p. 126), “I’ve often thought that if the Lord got hold of Kevin, he could do great things with him.” Interesting…and probably true. I think the Lord can do big things with any number of celebrities. It’s just a matter of getting hold of them, I suppose. Why do you think God doesn’t resort to more extreme measures to get hold of those people with the influence? Or is it just that those in His grip aren’t attracted to that kind of career?
• Lynne’s description (p. 155) of the “angels” in Britney’s life: her bodyguard, Lonnie, and her maid, Lourdes, two Christians watching out for her daughter. It's cool to see how God's working in the life of someone so famous and so troubled.
• Lynne’s regret that she quit her teaching job in 2000 to tour with Britney. Interesting that this woman who regrets the turns her daughters’ lives have taken so deeply wishes she could have stayed home to teach. I don’t question her devotion to her kids, and I don’t mean that it’s interesting in that I judge her decision or her feelings. I just find it interesting that none of us women are immune to wanting to be in two (or more) places at once, wanting to do two (or more) things at once.

What about you? Read any good books lately? Got any insights on life of the rich, famous and tragic?

Does Anyone Care That the McRib is Back?

Every time it happens, I wonder, "Does anyone really care?" I'm talking about the return of the McRib. The commercials - and some of my Google finds - make it look like hundreds of people live for the day the McRib is brought of the McDonald's vault.

I've never had a McRib. I'm more of a Quarter Pounder girl myself. Or lately, a Grilled Chicken sandwich girl. Have you all eaten the McRib? Do you love it? Do you stand in line the minute you hear it's back? Am I alone in thinking this is all a little crazy?

Let's get the facts straight.

(Alternate title: School pride rears its ugly head.)

I did not attend Northwest Missouri State University (NMSU). Not that there's anything wrong with going to NMSU. But I didn't.

I am a proud graduate of Truman State University, also known (at least to its proud graduates) as the Harvard of the Midwest.

[Unfortunate side note: Yes, I am aware - and have been since returning to the real world after graduation - that many, many other colleges between the coasts claim this title. Read here for a humorous article that not only references Truman's desire to hold this honor, but also points out that, strangely enough, most schools in Missouri think they are the Midwest's answer to Ivy League.]

So, admittedly, I may have not attended the official Harvard of the Midwest. But I also did not attend NMSU. I did not go to college in Maryville!

See, many people confuse NMSU with Truman, probably because one is located in Maryville, while the other is located in Kirksville. But is it really that difficult to see the difference? As difficult as the difference between Memorial Day and Labor Day, I suppose.

I don't know why I get so riled up when people make this mistake. Maybe it's because I worked for the Kirksville Chamber of Commerce and appreciate the community with all its quirks and middle-of-nowhereness. Maybe it's because I'm a big proponent of accuracy. Or maybe, it's because I have a problem with pride. I want everyone to know that I'm smart. I'm so smart I had to go to the smart school. And that's Truman! In Kirksville! So there!

Uh, yeah. Definite pride. I think some school pride is okay (check this out if you want to know why I'd be proud of Truman), but pride in myself is not okay. So, let's get the facts straight, people.

1. I graduated from Truman State University.

2. Truman is located in Kirksville, Missouri.

3. It may or may not be the Harvard of the Midwest.

4. I have a big issue with pride.

What about you? Do you have pride? School pride? School spirit? (Yes, we do. We have spirit, how 'bout you?)

Raccoons are not cute.

I used to think raccoons were cute. They were the funniest part of Great Outdoors, and their little black and white faces are just adorable. Sure, sure, I'd heard that they're mean animals, dirty and sneaky. But I didn't believe it.

And then, just like this guy with the squirrels, I changed my mind.

Sixteen days after she was born, we brought Annalyn home from the hospital. I was so scared – what did I know about taking care of a baby? Especially one so small and fragile? Were they certain she didn’t need the monitors and 24-hour nurses anymore?

Little did I know that would not be the scariest thing I faced that day.

After Mark went to work that night and Annalyn was safe and sound in her crib, I went to bed. And woke up to a horrible, terrifying sound – something was climbing through the walls of our house!

Well, not quite. It turns out that on the same day Annalyn came to live at our house, so did a raccoon. As my baby lay in her crib, all bundled up and supposedly safe, a sneaky and possibly vicious raccoon climbed into our attic through a hole in our siding.

The resulting drama was at times amusing and at times frustrating. And it lasted much too long for anyone’s taste. It drove me to call a company called Critter Killer or something like that, and it motivated Mark to finish repairing the siding on our porch. It also explained the hole in the bag of cat food I’d had in the garage, and then prompted me to carry a baseball bat each time I ventured into the garage for the next several nights.

I never saw the raccoon, though I heard her, off and on, for several nights. And we didn’t use any company with the words, “critter” or “killer,” in its name. We didn’t even trap her in the cage we borrowed from my father-in-law. Somehow, though, our furry upstairs neighbor realized she was not welcome and left our attic and our lives for good.

Your turn: What's the scariest - or funniest - encounter you've had with wildlife, or as my brother calls them, woodland creatures?

List of the Week: Book Series

You all know I love to read, right? This here is a picture of my stack of library books…my unread and overdue library books. Look, I’ve been busy lately, planning a first birthday party, going out of town, pondering the meaning of my life, folding laundry. All that, plus trying to find the source of a weird smell in my house, hasn’t left much time for reading. Plus, I’m reading a book for review that was due last Wednesday.

Since my typical reaction to a long list of to-dos is procrastination and because all this talk of books makes me think of, well, books, I thought I’d talk a bit about the kind of books I like today. Specifically, the series of books I read and the characters I love. Because talking about reading is somewhat similar to actually reading all the books on my list. Right.

By the way, I blame/credit Dog Snob for inspiring me to write about this. She mentioned reading series of books on her site, and I realized how much I do this, too. Her reasoning was that just as she loves losing herself in a story, it’s even more satisfying to lose herself in a series, where you get to know a character or group of characters so much better.

I agree with that reasoning. But I can’t deny that part of my series love stems from my (self-diagnosed) OCD. I think it falls under the compulsive part – just wanting to devour, I mean, read, every book in a series solely to have done it. Again, it’s the quantity over quality thing, the unreasonable desire to acquire or accomplish everything in a single category.

In this case, my obsession/compulsion started when I was a child, trying to read every single Nancy Drew book and later realizing that starting with H is for Homicide would not satisfy, not until I’d read every inch of back story in Sue Grafton’s A through G books. The most recent manifestation of my disease is the stack of Iris Johansen books I checked out from the library when I realized I hadn’t read all the books in the Eve Duncan series. Now, let me point out right here that I wasn’t sure I’d left some books unread. I knew that I may have actually read them all. But just in case, I checked them ALL out, just to make sure.

Thankfully, I did come to my senses at least briefly. I returned all the books – unread and read – to the library, realizing I’d never get to all of them, accepting that reading the new novels as they are published would be just fine, acknowledging that I understood the character well enough without reading every single book in which she’s featured.

But since my need for gathering everything that falls into one category must be met, here is my list of book series I’ve read and/or am reading. It's way too long, so here's my question for you first: Do you read any book series? If you don’t, who is your favorite fictional character?

And now, my list:

• Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys
• Trixie Belden
• Bobbsey Twins
• Sweet Valley Twins and Sweet Valley High
• Babysitters Club
• Sue Grafton’s alphabet series
• Chronicles of Narnia
• Dan Mahoney's Brian McKenna series
• Jill Elizabeth Nelson's to catch a thief series
• Susan May Warren's Mission: Russia, Heartquest, Josey, Team Hope and Noble Legacy series
• Little House on the Prairie
• Lisa Scottoline's Rosato & Associates series
• James Patterson's women's murder club series
• Kasey Michael's Maggie series
• Robert Ludlum's Bourne and Covert One series
• Karen Kingsbury's Baxter series
• Jonathan Kellerman's Alex Delaware series
• Faye Kellerman's Decker/Lazarus series
• Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series
• Iris Johansen's Eve Duncan series
• The Yada Yada Prayer Group series
• Dee Henderson's O'Malley series
• Janet Evanovich's Plum series
• Catherine Coulter's FBI thriller series
• Mindy Starns Clark's Tulip and Million Dollar series
• Don Brown's Navy Justice series
• Terri Blackstock's Cape Refuge series
• David Baldacci's Camel Club series

Product Review: No, I Don’t Work for Fiber One

I don’t work for Fiber One, but I tend to try all their foods in an attempt to lower my WW point intake. I’m also not a big fan of yogurt, but I know it’s a healthy, stick-to-you snack. So I tried the new Fiber One yogurt.

Actually, I bought two six-packs and let them go bad in my fridge. So I threw them away. And bought another six-pack, vowing to eat them, even if they did taste like yogurt.

The first time I tried the peach-flavored yogurt, I was actually feeding it to Photobaby. It was at that point that I realized two things: first, I was an idiot for wasting two packs of yogurts, and second, I didn’t want to share it with Photobaby!

Fiber One yogurt is creamy and light and tasty. I actually thought as I was eating it, “This is almost like a dessert.” Coming from someone who can eat half a pan of brownies in one sitting, that’s pretty high praise.

Each little container has just 1 point, or for those of you not counting points, 80 calories, no fat and 5 grams of fiber. It comes in strawberry, peach (yum!), vanilla and key lime pie flavors.

And just to prove that I’m not in Fiber One’s pocket, I’ll tell you that they have a new product I will be avoiding: toaster pastries. Or, if you’d like, fake Pop Tarts.

I may have mentioned before that I’m not allowed to buy Pop Tarts. I’ve banned myself from doing so, because it never fails to result in a guilty binge, where I eat Pop Tart after Pop Tart after…well, you get the point. No pun intended, although I will tell you that regular, delicious, wonderful Pop Tarts are more than 4 points EACH.

Given my outrageous addiction to Pop Tarts, I was cautiously excited to learn Fiber One was making a high fiber version of this life-enhancing food. But then. Then I read that the FO version still has 3 points EACH. And then my co-worker tried them and said they’re so not worth it that she ended up throwing hers away after just a couple bites.

So, to sum it up: Fiber One yogurt is good. Fiber One toaster pastries are bad. And oh yeah – my name is Photoqueen, and I’m in love with – I mean, addicted to – Pop Tarts.

This post is part of Works for Me Wednesday. Fiber One yogurt works for me - click here to see other tips for things that work!

Your turn: What food are you hooked on? Or, if you're not like that (really?), what healthy food would you recommend?

I have set my rainbow in the clouds.

Nashville, part 2

After my meeting on Friday was just a meeting, I was disappointed and confused. But I decided to enjoy my weekend. After all, the original point of our trip was to see our friends from Virginia. So we did just that. Mark and I took Photobaby to historic downtown Franklin, our whole group went to the zoo, we found a park to swing in, and we made a quick stop downtown for BBQ, souvenirs and even some music. (Stay tuned for photos later this week.)

After lunch on Sunday, we hit the road, not looking forward to 9-10 hours in a car with a tired baby. And a little sad that our weekend was coming to an end. But glad we'd made the trip.

We talked a bit about what we'd seen in Nashville, listened to the Titans beat the Chiefs and napped. Well, Photobaby and I napped. Mark drove. We stopped for gas, fought over a misunderstanding, changed Photobaby's diaper on another gas station counter and bought her yet another box of chicken nuggets. And I tried not to think about Friday.

Then, somewhere in Illinois, I saw it - a rainbow in the sky above the highway. It hadn't been raining, so I'm not sure where it came from. And I wasn't looking for a big sign from above, although my friend, Katie, had said when we left that she hoped I got a billboard from God.

The original rainbow was a symbol, a sign of God's promise not to destroy the earth - and mankind - again. So while that's not necessarily applicable, I am taking that unexpected rainbow as a reminder of God's other promises. That He has plans for us, that He loves us, that He will protect us, that all things work together for good. And I think it means I'm moving to Nashville.

(Thank you so much to everyone who prayed about my trip! I'll share more about this journey as it happens!)

It was just a building.

Nashville, part 1

I guess when you start calling a trip your destiny, you may be setting yourself up for disappointment. I should know better. I do this all the time - make something so huge in my mind that the real thing, no matter how great, could never live up to those expectations.

That's what happened on Friday. I think I honestly expected to walk into the building of the publisher I was meeting with and hear, "Ahhh" (imagine that in a high, angelic, heaven opening up sort of voice). And then God would say in his big, booming James Earl Jones voice, "THIS. This is what you're supposed to do, Photoqueen. This is what I've planned for you."

It turns out that's not how God chose to work in my life this weekend. The building was just a building. The meeting was just a meeting. We sat at a conference table that was...you guessed it...just a table.

So I was left wondering, what's the big deal? If this is all there is to it, why would I uproot my life and my family to move three states away? If I don't feel any excitement, any fluttering, anything - how could this be God's plan?

Lucky.

Monday morning on my way to work, I saw a car run a red light. I think the driver must have realized it in mid-run, because the car's brake lights came on momentarily. Then it just kept going. Sitting at the light, to our left, was a police car. The police officer turned in behind the light-runner, and I thought, "Oh, you're gonna get it now." But the police officer didn't pull that car over. It just drove behind it for a block or so, then turned onto another street. Lucky.

You can call me “Guardian of the Palace”

A good friend of ours has recently joined the FBI. I wasn’t surprised when he and his wife told us about this adventure they were beginning; our friend was a history teacher with a higher-than-the-average-bear interest in politics and an unswerving devotion to justice and fairness and right. So seeing him as a G-man made sense.

The last time our friends were over for dinner before they moved to their new, assigned home, they told us how much they’d loved the time they spent in Washington, D.C., over the summer as he wrapped up his training and first assignment.

Then they proceeded to point out what they’d written on the front of the postcard they sent us from D.C. (It was on the fridge, of course. And no, I didn’t put it up there right before they came over! Like I’d do that?! Hmph.) There, on top of the White House was #47. I felt a little dumb when they said, “You know what that means, right?” I had assumed it was the number of their apartment, sort of a special D.C. return address. Okay, so I barely noticed it and when I did, I really didn’t wonder too long what it meant. I’m not sure what that says about me.

Anyway, they said that would be the number President he would be – hence the notation over the White House! Aha!

Sure, sure, it seems obvious now.

Apparently, they thought this was hilarious and had put a lot of thought (and complicated math) into figuring out how many years between now and his FBI retirement, adding a term as a governor and then determining when exactly he’d be elected President of the United States.

And then he said this: “And you’d be my Chief of Staff, of course.”

Whoa, nelly! Hold the phone! Umm (she whispers, guiltily, reluctantly, wishing she remembered more of 7th grade civics class), what’s a Chief of Staff do? I mean, for fear of sounding like Sarah Palin pre-nomination, I’m really not sure what this high-falutin’ position is responsible for!

So, of course my response was: “Uh, yeah! Absolutely! I’ll be your Chief of Staff! Sign me up! Rock on!” (My brain may have been affected by large numbers of tacos at that point. So I really can’t be blamed – no, blame the tacos.)

I decided that I’d better so some research, just in case this pipe dream ever comes true. It turns out, the White House Chief of Staff is pretty much in charge of the entire free world. Also known as the highest ranking member of the Executive Office. Also known as the second-most powerful man in Washington. Hmmm.

Perhaps I shouldn’t sign on the dotted line just yet…

Today I remembered this conversation and looked up the chief of staff position for a governor’s office. After all, I figured, that’s where we’d start, right? After he retires from the FBI and I’ve made my mark on the world of publishing?

The very long document I found from the National Governors Association describes the duties of this position in detail, including the following responsibilities: chief operating officer, office manager, chief strategist, policy advisor, gubernatorial vicar, guardian of the palace, headhunter, crisis coordinator and personal confidant. And then – here’s the good part – it talks about coordinating with the governor’s spouse. Oh, good! My friend’s wife is actually one of my best friends, so we’ll have much fun coordinating. I’m not sure what we’ll coordinate, but by golly, it will be fun.

I’m not sure this will ever happen. As Mark pointed out, our friend may have the most noble of intentions and highest qualifications, but he’s not made of money. And it takes a lot of dough to run a big campaign for office. So, I’ll probably never be Chief of Staff.

Although, the job description sounds a lot like organizing, planning, talking and bossing around – areas in which I tend to excel. Especially the bossing around part.

So, I guess if my editing dreams don’t pan out, I’ve always got another option…

Your turn: What crazy career dreams do you have? No, not the realistic kind - I want to hear the outlandish, ridiculous and just plain crazy ones!

Zap.

Special thanks to Amy for sharing this video. I know many of you may have already seen this - apparently it's been going around for a while now. But if you haven't, please, for the love of all things cheesy, watch this.

You don't call me Photoqueen for nothing!

Photobaby gets lots of hand-me-down clothes from my cousins, and a Santa suit is our latest find. It's just so cute - I knew right away it needed to be photographed. More specifically, I knew my little Santa baby needed to be photographed!

So we went to Portrait Innovations on Sunday. Almost an hour after our appointment, we finally got into the studio. With a kid photographer who didn't care one iota about our pictures and couldn't work the equipment. The camera's battery even died at one point. By the time he started taking pictures, Photobaby and I were both cranky. And for some reason, Mr. I-don't-care Photographer took photos at the speed of turtle. So when Photobaby did crack a smile - which she did a few times - he missed it.

The good news? We got out of that store spending much less money than we have in the past. The bad news? Not a single Santa suit picture was good enough to buy.

So, I'm going with the photos I snapped in her bedroom a couple weeks ago. I draped a white blanket over her crib for a backdrop (although you can see in the corner of this picture where it was starting to slip), made funny faces, and got a couple good shots. Homemade photography - it works for me!

**This post is part of Works for Me Wednesday. Click here to see more tips that work!**

TV Review: My Own Worst Enemy

If there’s one thing I need like a hole in the head, it’s another show to watch every week. I mean, when one feels it necessary to actually make a TV-watching schedule, said couch potato probably has enough going on in TV Land, right? That being said, I’ve tried hard over the past couple of years to keep my new shows to a minimum. Because as the natural attrition of television occurs, my number of addictions will automatically decrease. (Natural attrition, plus the complete disregard of TV executives, says the still-sad Veronica Mars fan…)

Last year, I only got into one new show: Chuck. If you aren’t watching this show, you should. It’s very funny. It has romance, if you like that sort of thing. And spy-filled mysteries, if you like that. And for the nerds in the group, you’ll like the crazy antics of Chuck’s co-workers.

Anyway, I watched a few other shows last year, but thanks to the infamous strike, I didn’t get truly hooked.

This year, I’ve avoided new shows at all cost (and by “all cost,” I mean watching cringe-inducing episodes of Til Death, a show that could not possibly hook anyone on anything, rather than checking out something new). I even decided to dump a peripheral (usually watch but don’t have to) show. Sorry, Ugly Betty.

And then last night, I decided to watch My Own Worst Enemy. (Turns out that’s kind of funny and possibly ironic, since in my struggle against television overload, my curiosity and broad taste often makes me my own worst enemy.)

I surfed a little this morning and saw that it’s gotten mixed reviews. The New York Times and the LA Times gave it good reviews, but TV Guide and Entertainment Weekly weren’t so flattering.

I liked it. More than I wanted to, that’s for sure. Because I think I’m going to add this to my already-complicated Monday night viewing routine. (Since I know you’re wondering…Watch Chuck at 7 pm, while taping How I Met Your Mother at 7:30 pm. Watch HIMYM at 8 pm, then Samantha Who – another peripheral show – at 8:30 pm.) Here’s the low-down on this show:

Christian Slater plays a man who discovers he’s living a double life with a split personality. For you literary types, his two names are Edward and Henry – an obvious shout-out to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. (Obvious to literary types. Me, I read it in one of those reviews.) In one life/brain, Slater’s character is Edward, a super spy, ruthless and talented. In the other, he’s Henry, a somewhat boring suburban husband and father. For an unknown-as-yet reason, the split personalities begin crossing over in Edward/Henry’s brain in the pilot, causing all sorts of trouble and confusion.

But not confusion for the viewer. The premise is convoluted but not so much that I couldn’t follow along. And because I appreciate the spy genre, I was happy to suspend all disbelief (and maybe some rational thought) while watching.

The LA Times points out that waking up to realize you are actually a deadly spy is not all it’s cracked up to be. “How fun would it be to wake up and realize you know how to rig a car bomb, hold your breath for five minutes and speak a dozen languages? Not as fun as you'd think, apparently.”

I had this very thought last night while watching the scene when Edward (spy) turns into Henry (not spy) in the middle of an assassination mission. I thought, “Wow, wouldn’t he know what to do from watching spy movies?” (As if everyone watches spy movies.) Then they showed the unfolding chaos of rescue from Henry’s point of view, including his face being splattered with blood – not his. And I realized that perhaps I’ve watched a few too many spy movies and that maybe it wouldn’t be that cool to be a spy after all.

Then again, you watch Chuck and tell me being a spy isn’t cool!

Your turn: Do you like spy movies? Are you addicted to any TV shows? Did you have a crush on Christian Slater back in the days of Prince of Thieves? (No? Just me? Okay…)

My Density Has Brought Me To You

I mean, my destiny. And by “you,” I mean Nashville. And by “brought,” I mean driven nine hours.

I thought it was time to give you an update on my I-want-to-be-an-editor journey. Bonus points to everyone who can name that movie quote.

On Thursday, the Photofamily will hit the road to drive to what just may be my destiny. Or density, depending on which kind of McFly you are.

I have an informational interview scheduled with HR at the largest Christian publisher. A couple months ago, I contacted the head of the HR department. I’m going to assume he didn’t get my e-mail. Although it’s possible my message was misdirected and never should have been sent to him in the first place. That’s why my second attempt was to call up their Nashville office and just say, “I want to be an editor but don’t know how. Is there someone at your office who would talk to me about that?”

It turns out that gathering my courage to pick up the phone, though scary, was a good idea. Nobody laughed in my ear or told me that my dream is ridiculous. Nope. Instead, I got a prompt response that went like this: “I’d be happy to meet with you. Would 10 am on Friday work?”

Wow! Oh my. Yikes! Scared. Excited. Overwhelmed. Terrified. Nervous. Thrilled. Yikes!

It’s hard for me to put into words how I’m feeling about this. I just can’t wrap my mind around the fact that God just might make this happen. He might let me do what I want to do. He might move us nine hours away from our families. He might open up a whole new world of ministry and service and all that good stuff. He might…

We’ll see. I know I shouldn’t get ahead of myself, or ahead of God. For now, I’m just thrilled to have this opportunity. To learn about the world of publishing, to make my first real contact in publishing, to take a bold step toward the life I think God may have always planned for me.

So if you think about it, please pray for me this week. We’re driving to Nashville on Thursday and my meeting is Friday morning. After that, we’re looking forward to hanging out with our friends from Virginia and playing tourist for a couple days. And we’ll probably hit a Chick-fil-A.

Your turn: Has God ever led you to do something scary, something outside your comfort zone?

Same Old Song & Dance

You know that moment when you realize a truth that, now realized, seems so obvious that you have no idea how you missed it until that moment?

Sometimes those moments bring profound revelations, deep understandings and opportunities for growth and maturity.

And other times, you just wonder how, in your entire life, it never dawned on you that the melody for The Alphabet Song and Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star are the same.

Maybe this is something you already know. Perhaps I’m the only person over the age of 4 unaware of the fact that these two songs, along with Baa, Baa, Black Sheep, are sung to the same tune.

But just in case you, too, have been in the dark, consider this your awakening. Not a rude awakening, although I wouldn’t necessarily classify this post as polite either.

Anyway. Isn’t it crazy that I never noticed that? I mean, I knew that Where is Thumbkin? and Frere Jacques were sung to the same melody. I even used Twinkle, Twinkle to learn to hear and read intervals (or at least a fifth). I guess I just didn’t sing about my ABCs enough!

I noticed this amazing coincidence after repeated viewings of Photobaby’s Baby Genius videos. I can’t say if those singalongs are making my daughter brilliant, but they did teach me something!

Your turn: What was – or is, for the young at heart – your favorite children’s song?

Shifting Gears

The past year has been one that stretched me and challenged me. It’s been difficult and rewarding and scary and amazing, and that’s just scratching the surface. And a lot of this is due to change. Changing what I expected to happen or assumed would stay the same, changing what makes me happy and how I view the world, changing everyday routines and lifelong goals. Changing me.

Much of this change has been so abrupt, so unexpected that it required me to change gears or suffer whiplash.

Sometimes, I got whiplash.

But other times, I gathered my courage and suppressed my uptight personality, and I actually rolled with the changes. I adjusted. I shifted gears. It’s been tough, but it’s been good. I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s been fun, but it’s been real. It’s been surprising.

• Surprise! You’re pregnant! (Never mind that it should not have been physically possible.)
• Surprise! Your baby is healthy! (Despite my irrational fears otherwise.)
• Surprise! You lost your job! (A job I thought I did well and that paid exactly half our bills.)
• Surprise! You’re real sick and having a baby seven weeks early! (Even though the first two trimesters had been mercifully easy without even a bout of morning sickness.)

Every time I thought I’d adjust to one thing (Okay, I’m going to have a baby in a few months.), I was hit with another change (Ummm, really? You want me to have a baby now?). Even though we’d picked out a name, I found myself calling my daughter “baby” for the first several weeks of her life because I wasn’t quite accustomed to having her there. There in my life. There in our house. There in our lives.

Of course, now, I can’t imagine it any other way. And it doesn’t really matter that I wasn’t ready to be pregnant when it happened, wasn’t ready to deliver when it happened, wasn’t ready to change jobs, wasn’t ready for any of it. Because it happened. And God wasn't surprised. Because it happened exactly when and exactly how God planned it.

And an interesting thing happened. These changes brought about even more change, some amazing changes.

• My husband stepped up and took care of me and our baby during my hospital stay. And he’s continued to amaze me with his love and maturity and confidence – as a dad, and as a new-and-improved husband.
• Thanks to yet another job change and the infamous mother’s conflict about working outside the home, I’ve been forced to evaluate my desires and dreams for a career, as well as God’s call on my life.
• After having my parents’ first grandchild, my relationship with them has warmed and improved to a state better than it’s been for 20 years.
• And most mind-blowing, at least to me, is the subtle change (some would say, “improvement”) in my personality, allowing me to calm down, loosen up and shift gears a little more easily.

Turns out, all change isn’t bad. And a year of shifting gears can be a good thing.

Your turn: How has change affected your life for the better lately?

October 8

[Today is Photobaby's birthday,
so I'll wrap up my crazy little story for you...]

I’ll spare you the gory details, but here are a few highlights from the next several hours:

• As the nurses and doctors began rushing around my room, which was blurry and a little orange, I asked Mark if I was going to die. His reassuring response? “I don’t think so.”
• My nurse, Kristina, overheard and said, “Not on my watch.” I found out later that she stayed in my room most of the following night, just watching me breathe, making sure I was okay.
• The drugs in my system and my condition made me so loopy that while talking to my mom on the phone as they prepped me for surgery, I made a completely inappropriate comment about what “prepping for surgery” included. I can’t dwell on that because it’s so out of character for me and for my relationship with my mom that it’s just too humiliating.
• I started to cry as they gave me the epidural, but then I had to laugh at myself. I’d had too many friends get that shot to the spine in the middle of contractions to really feel sorry for myself.
• I talked to Mark, non-stop, during the entire surgery (which didn’t last long), because I was so nervous. The anesthesiologist laughed at us because we were talking so much.

And then she was born.

My beautiful, wonderful, healthy baby girl was born just after midnight on Monday, October 8. She weighed 3 lbs, 14 oz., and she was the cutest little frog I’d ever seen. I’m not kidding. She kind of reminded me of a frog.

The rest of that day is a blur. My memory includes a NICU nurse chastising me for not breastfeeding; my dear friends, Zac and Mandy, coming into my dark room and whispering their congratulations; my aunt sneaking into the room by telling the nurse she was my grandma – that really messes with your head when you’re all hopped up on drugs, let me tell you; my hand cramping from holding the painkiller button so tightly, terrified that I’d drop it in my sleep and the pain would start; stumbling through dictation for Smitty and Mark as they wrote an e-mail announcement to send to all our friends and family; asking Nurse Kristina for something to help me sleep, because every time I started to doze off, I got a little panicky, thinking I wouldn’t wake up; Mark waking me up in the middle of the night to show me the tiny red dress he’d bought our daughter during a late-night run to Walmart.

Our baby girl was born a year ago today. And she was healthy and strong and perfect. Because my condition didn’t improve immediately and was apparently more serious than they’d let on, I wasn’t allowed to leave my room until Thursday. But the NICU nurses actually brought her in to see me for a few, brief minutes on Tuesday and Wednesday.

Thursday was a big day. They removed all my wires – IV, catheter, spinal block. I took a shower. I ate a meal sitting in a chair. And I was wheeled down the hall to hold my daughter in the nursery.

My health returned slowly and I was finally released from the hospital on Saturday. Mark and I didn’t return home with a baby, though. She stayed in the hospital for another week and a half, gaining weight, learning to eat and staying warm. My feisty baby ripped out her feeding tube a full week before the nurses thought she’d be able to eat from a bottle and never looked back. After a brief stint under the blue light, she kicked the jaundice problem. And finally – just a couple days later than we’d hoped – she learned how to keep herself warm enough to come home.

October 7

[This week marks the anniversary of my pregnancy saga, so for the next few days I'm going to take some time to reflect on what happened last year and how it's affected me since.]

On Friday I wasn’t scared, but I didn’t enjoy being poked for an IV. And I didn’t like it when they started the magnesium sulfate drip. It shot through my veins, hot and sharp. And I really didn’t like the steroid shots. I knew they were necessary to help build up my baby’s lungs in case she came early, but oh my good gracious, those puppies hurt!

On Saturday I wasn’t scared. When I looked up at one point and saw my husband freaking out on too much caffeine and my parents hugging and crying, I almost laughed again. It’s not like I was unconscious – I could see them! I could see them being scared and sad.

And then the cavalry arrived – my cousins, my aunt, my brother all the way from Iowa. And they sat in my room, talking in hushed murmurs and staring. Staring at me and staring at the monitors beeping my vitals for the world to see.

On Sunday I was a little scared, because they began giving me Pitocin, a drug used to induce labor. Labor! That excruciatingly painful process I’d read about and heard my friends describe and was terrified to experience myself! But as the special, fancy consultant doctor had explained the day before, the only cure for my condition was to deliver my baby. 7 WEEKS EARLY. And the worst part in my mind? We hadn’t taken a childbirth class yet! It was still two weeks away!

I shouldn’t have worried. The magnesium (used to prevent seizures, but also often used to halt pre-term labor) overpowered the pitocin. Though my family stayed glued to the monitor that day, waiting for contractions, nothing changed. Including my frighteningly high blood pressure. So the doctors scheduled a C-section for Monday morning.

Later that evening, the magnesium began making me a little loopy. I was out of it enough that I asked my nurse and my mom to help me take a shower, since I didn’t know how long after surgery before I’d take another one. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m extremely self-conscious about my body and would never, under any other circumstances, have allowed – much less requested – someone to see me naked.

After getting me into bed that evening, my parents decided to head home, promising to be back bright and early the next morning. But shortly after that, the heartburn came back. I’d learned my lesson and this time, I told Mark to get the nurse. That nurse, Kristina, got my doctor to stay (she’d been headed home, too). And then they decided to deliver. Right then.

Mark called my parents, and when I asked him if my mom started crying, he said, “No, I did.”

And then I got scared.

October 6

This is what the seizure box looked like. But it was older,

and it had the word, "Seizure," written in block letters on the side.

[This week marks the anniversary of my pregnancy saga, so for the next few days I'm going to take some time to reflect on what happened last year and how it's affected me since.]

The on-call doctor was one I’d never seen, and when she called me back, she yelled at me. In a nutshell it went like this: “What is wrong with you? Why didn’t you call earlier? Get to the hospital now! Stat!”

Throughout my pregnancy, I’d worried about the moment I would travel to the hospital for delivery. We live about 35 minutes from the hospital, and my husband worked evenings. I just wasn’t sure who would take me in an emergency. And there I was, not going to the hospital to deliver, but still pretty sure I shouldn’t drive myself 35 minutes in traffic to the hospital.

After calling my husband and parents, they decided, due to where everyone was at the time, my parents would pick me up and Mark would meet us at the hospital. While I waited for my parents, I packed a bag with some extra clothes, a magazine for Mark and toiletries, I gave my cats extra food and water, took a shower and shaved my legs. Just in case, you know.

I checked into the hospital that night and had the painful experience of getting an IV. Painful because nobody could find a vein. I was that puffy. Not that they didn’t try. Oh, they poked and prodded my hands and arms and finally, my neck. Thanks to an hour of work from an anesthetist with steady, cold hands.

At some point that night, a nurse brought a big black case into my room labeled, “Seizures,” and placed it on the counter. Directly across from my bed. All I could do was laugh, because that was probably the least comforting thing someone could have done after telling me that my blood pressure was spiking like crazy and oh, by the way, pre-eclampsia can cause seizures and yes, even death.

Awesome.

October 5

[This week marks the anniversary of my pregnancy saga, so for the next few days I'm going to take some time to reflect on what happened last year and how it's affected me since.]

Last year on October 5, I went to the hospital and I didn’t go home for eight days. For eight long, scary, crazy days, I lived in the hospital. Here’s part of my story.

For two days I’d been on mandated bed rest – sitting on the couch, making lists and plans, and finishing projects for the job that was no longer mine. On Thursday, I started feeling some heartburn, a symptom they’d warned me about on Tuesday, a feeling I hadn’t had during my pregnancy. I wasn’t worried. After all, it was probably just the power of suggestion. And besides, my friend, Mandy, had terrible heartburn during the entirety of both her pregnancies. I could hardly complain if it started in my third trimester.

But by Thursday night, I was so uncomfortable that I couldn’t sleep. I finally fell asleep for a couple hours on the couch, but Friday morning came too quickly.

To compound my physical discomfort, Friday was the day I had to train my manager on Quark Xpress, the software I used to lay out our monthly newsletter, a project she would take over in my absence. So, sitting on my couch with my laptop, my cell phone and a program that allowed me to see her work computer screen on my home computer screen, I tried to train my 60-year-old manager on a software program.

My manager is a lovely lady. But that afternoon really tried my patience. We were on the phone – her trying to figure out which questions to ask and me watching her painstakingly move text boxes and photos into place – for over an hour. By the time we got off the phone, the heartburn was bad. And the Rolaids weren’t helping.

I complained to my husband, but he thought the same thing I feared – that I was just a big baby. That the shooting pain in my chest and side was normal heartburn that other, stronger women just deal with. He was sorry I felt bad, but he had to leave for work.

I thought about calling my doctor (they’d said if I had any of a list of symptoms – including bad heartburn – to call), but by then, it was after 5. I told myself to just suck it up and deal.

Thankfully – God and His mysterious ways – my friend, Amy, called just then to check in. When I vented to her about my heartburn and being after doctor’s hours, she reminded me that I could still call the office and the on-call doctor would call me back. I didn’t want to bother anyone, but she reminded me that this is what they’re paid for. As I thought about how much I’d already paid out of pocket for this pregnancy, I decided she was right.

So I called.

October 4

[This week marks the anniversary of my pregnancy saga, so for the next few days I'm going to take some time to reflect on what happened last year and how it's affected me since.]

Before I was born, my parents had a baby. His name was Michael, and he was born in March 1976. He also died in March 1976, due to a genetic spinal disorder called anencephaly. This greatly influenced my family, especially my mom and how she related to my dad, my younger brother and me. So I’ve always been a little nervous that it could happen to me. My mother’s warnings of taking folic acid to prevent the disorder since I got married didn’t help to ease my fears.

Unfortunately, even knowing what I did, I still didn’t take folic acid supplements. (I don’t drink juice with breakfast to avoid its empty calories, and vitamins are just too yucky to take with water. I know that’s not a good excuse, but it’s all I’ve got.)

So when I found out I was pregnant last March – unexpectedly expecting – I immediately went into panic mode. Some of that adrenaline rush was normal: “How can we afford this?” “Our house isn’t big enough.” “What if I turn into my mother?” “What color should the nursery be?” “I hope Mark is happy about this.” But underneath the usual concerns was a layer of dread. A fear that history would repeat itself and we would have a baby with that disorder.

And yes, a good deal of my fear was based purely on the fact that I had not been taking folic acid supplements. I know it’s irrational, but I felt guilt along with that dread and fear.

Thankfully, a friend shared a reminder with me that worrying would not solve anything. (Yes, sometimes I need that reminder, even though it’s a pretty obvious point!) She pointed me toward Matthew 6:27, which says, “Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?” God had a plan for the baby I was carrying, and nothing I could do – from taking enormous prenatal vitamins or thinking repeatedly (not even really praying), “Please, please, please let my baby be healthy!” – would change His good plan for my life or add an hour to my baby’s life.

I should also have remembered and focused on Psalm 139:13-14, which says, “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”

These promises should have comforted me. But they didn’t. I know that God works all things together for His good, but I was so desperately afraid that His good would involve painful things for me. I know that’s selfish. But it’s how I felt. I was also afraid of the decision I would be asked to make, should my baby have the disorder my older brother had.

See, my mom knew for the last three months of her pregnancy that her baby would die. She chose to carry him to full term. What an amazing choice! And so devastating. To this day, my mom feels the effects of that decision. And she’s shared with me that she’s not sure she would make the same decision today. Knowing that, knowing how deeply she was hurt, my God-loving and Bible-reading mother, I was terrified of being asked to make that decision. I just didn’t know if I was brave enough. Or strong enough.

You’d think this would have pushed me toward God’s promises. But it didn’t. I spent the first half of my pregnancy paralyzed in fear. Once we had an ultrasound and a few tests that came back negative (which is positive), I finally let myself breathe. And start to come to grips with the fact that I was going to have a baby. I was going to have a baby! Only then did I register at Babies R Us and begin to decorate the nursery. And thank God for His unending patience and undeserved blessings.

Of course, letting go of that fear didn’t help me sleep better. (And my aching back and sore hip didn’t help, either!) Because now I could no longer put off coming to terms with one, big scary fact: I was going to be a mother! I was going to have a baby! YIKES!

October 3

[This week marks the anniversary of my pregnancy saga, so for the next few days I'm going to take some time to reflect on what happened last year and how it's affected me since.]

Before last year, I’d heard about the nesting instinct, the urge many pregnant women get to prepare their homes for the new baby. Honestly, I was hoping it would hit me hard, forcing me to clean the house and organize my life with a previously unseen passion. While I can’t say that did happen, I can’t argue with this site that says, “Nesting brings about some unique and seemingly irrational behaviors in pregnant women.”

For me, I was driven to making more lists than ever. (And for those of you who know me, you can imagine just how many lists that was.) Here’s a sample of the lists I made last year while I was pregnant:

• Projects around the house (new carpet in the nursery, fix the drooping siding on the front porch, put in new outlets and buy safety covers)
• Things to buy for nursery (bedding, paint, shelves, chair, pictures for the walls)
• Books to read about parenting (BabyWise; Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child; Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy; What to Expect When You’re Expecting)
• Healthy habits to start now (exercise, taking vitamins, stretching, eating vegetables)
• Other random, very important things to do (show Mark how to pay the bills, finalize my spreadsheet of addresses for baby announcements, organize the pantry, clean out the garage, make dozens of meals to freeze for later, put all my recipes in a binder, finish every scrapbook I ever started, sign up for that scary childbirth class, pay my library fines)

For the record, I did not accomplish all of these things. Partly due to an early delivery and partly due to a stubborn case of procrastination that can beat even the strongest nesting instinct.

October 2

[Today marks the one-year anniversary of my pregnancy saga, so for the next few days I'm going to take some time to reflect on what happened last year and how it's affected me since.]

One year ago, I left my office for the last time. A few weeks earlier I’d been told that due to budget problems, my position at the health charity I’d worked at for just 16 months was being eliminated. Out of a four-office staff of about 25, my position was the only one to be cut. Despite rave reviews about my abilities and work from both colleagues and supervisors, I was being laid off.

I was laid off when I was seven months pregnant.

To give credit where credit’s due, my friend and colleague fought the decision with every bit of middle management authority she had; my supervisor, Sally, hugged me and made nice sounds about being sorry; and the executive director promised a reasonable severance package while joking about me suing the company. And I smiled and reassured everyone that I understood. That I’d be fine. That no, I would not sue the organization.

And then I got in my car and yelled. I went to dinner with my husband that weekend and cried. I questioned why this would happen to me, what I ever did to deserve such treatment. I asked God when I was ever going to get what I deserved – a good job where I was appreciated as a person and respected as an employee. I crunched numbers and made plans and applied for jobs that I wouldn’t be able to start until my maternity leave was finished.

This is what happened when I got laid off when I was seven months pregnant.

I began preparing my co-workers for a more permanent absence than a two-month maternity leave – lists of projects in progress, procedures to follow, programs to maintain, and people to contact. I listened to my boss tell me she’d write me a recommendation letter and my manager describe being laid off as a rite of passage for young professionals. I watched my friend cry about the unfair and unwise decision, and reassured my colleagues that they’d be fine without me. Without my position.

Then I contacted everyone I know to start networking for a new job. Again. And I regretted our decision to buy new couches with some extra “found” money over the summer, knowing that money would have come in handy as I tried to make ends meet, feeding and caring for our newly expanded family with half the income needed to pay our monthly bills.

One year ago, at 32 weeks pregnant, I went to the doctor for a routine appointment. That morning, I deleted my personal e-mail, made a final list of projects to be finished and packed up most of my personal belongings. Though I’d had a healthy and fairly easy pregnancy, lately I’d been feeling bad – puffy, tired, achy – and suspected my doctor might suggest bed rest. It turns out I was half right. My doctor didn’t so much “suggest” bed rest as she did demand that I go straight home without passing go or returning to my office.

So one year ago, I left my office for the last time. Because I’d been laid off.

It still hurts today. I went through the stages of grieving; I believe they’re the same no matter if the loss is your grandpa, your cat or your job. For me, it was a job that I’d wanted and worked toward for years, a job that I’d done well and enjoyed, a job that I resisted becoming attached to but did anyway, a job that I believed was respected as a necessary component of our organization.

Since then, I’ve worked hard to resist bitterness about the decision my boss and the board of directors made. Most days I succeed, but occasionally resentment sneaks up on me. Days when I dislike my current job, days when my husband expresses frustration about the state of my career, days when my former co-workers send me donation requests for upcoming events, days when I learn that while I was at home with a newborn wondering if we’d ever be able to pay our bills again, my co-workers were receiving a Christmas bonus. Those days still hurt.

But overall, I can say that God has taught me so much about remaining faithful and confident in His power and His plan, that my husband and I are closer than ever thanks to weathering this situation, and that I am thankful I was laid off when I was seven months pregnant.

"If at first, the idea is not absurd, then there is no hope for it.”

I have a habit of coming up with harebrained ideas. Well, it's possible that not all my ideas are crazy. Some are just lame, some are expensive, some are impossible, some are reasonable and a few might just be great.

And one of my favorite things about my husband is the way he indulges me whenever I get an idea. He lets me talk it out, think it through, make plans and dream dreams. And when I realize that my idea probably won't work out, he never says a word. Well, actually, sometimes he even argues that yes, it can work!

One of my latest ideas has to do with salsa. I love Mexican food, and I'm especially interested in salsa. I love nachos, and any kind of cheese dip makes me happy, but salsa comes in so many shapes and flavors. I don't know what makes one salsa different from the next one, and I'm not sure which ingredients make a salsa taste smoky or sweet or spicy. But I know that there are dozens - hundreds? - of types of salsa.

So my idea is that just like bars and wineries offer tastings and classes to teach you about the different flavors (tones, aromas, ??) in wine, there should be a place that offers salsa tasting classes.

Turns out, after a quick Google search, others have already had this idea. So on one hand, that means it couldn't be my worst idea, right?

I'm not really going to start up a company that teaches people about salsa. I mean, even if people are doing it in a few places, it's probably not the most lucrative business. But I could probably educate myself about salsa. I'd have to start there anyway.

So that's my plan. My revised idea. I'm going to learn about salsa - what spices and ingredients work best, what recipes taste the best, how to make different types of salsa. I'll let you know what I learn!

* The quote in my title is from Albert Einstein.