Here comes Peter Cottontail, hopping down the bunny trail ...

Most people celebrate Easter by going to church.  It just so happens that our church's bi-annual General Conference falls on Easter weekend this year, so the local congregations had their Easter messages yesterday.  There were messages about our Savior and his resurrection, and beautiful musical numbers.

Then we went to Primary.

Oh Primary--every Sunday is an adventure because of it.  Only this Sunday's delightful story wasn't because of the little kids, but instead because of the lesson that the teacher gave during Sharing Time.  (For those who are not members of our church, we have meetings for three hours on Sundays - for me and Paul, the first hour is Sacrament meeting (kind of like Mass or a worship service), the second hour (for us currently) is Primary/Sharing Time (where the kids ages 3-7 have "singing time" where they practice new songs, learn scriptures, and have a big group lesson, and the third hour is Sunday School which is where the kids split into classes by age (Paul and I teach the 6-7 year olds)  Also, please understand that nobody in our church is a paid or professional clergyman and I am not in any way disparaging my religion by sharing hilarious anecdotes about the going ons that happen during our Sabbath meetings.  The Church is still true even if its members are imperfect.).

So the woman who was giving the Sharing Time lesson today had obviously tried really hard to prepare - she had pictures for the kids to look at and a story to tell them about our current prophet from when he was a little boy.  Kids love that kind of stuff.  But she started her story by reminding the kids that next week is Easter and then asking them "Who comes on Easter?" 

The kids, excited to know the real answer, shrilly shouted "Jesus!" with enthusiasm.  The teacher kind of hesitated, then said "Well, ... yes, ...Easter is about Jesus.  But who else comes on Easter morning?" 

This is where Paul and I exchanged glances and used telepathy to communicate: "Uh-oh, this doesn't look so good."

The kids, slightly less confident now and wondering whether this was a trick question, answered, "The Easter Bunny?!"  The teacher smiled widely and confirmed the correctness of the response, and I was definitely sure by then that this was going to be bad.  The rest of the lesson went something like this:

"Now I'm going to tell you a story about bunnies.  But not the Easter bunny.  More like a Christmas story.  About Christmas bunnies."  (I'm thoroughly confused by this point).  "When President Monson (our current prophet) was a little boy like you boys and girls, he had a friend whose family was really poor.  Everybody was really poor back then because it was the Great Depression.  But it was Christmas Eve and all that his friend's family had to eat for Christmas dinner was hot cereal."

"But President Monson had two pet bunnies."  (See where this is going?  I was practically sobbing with giggles already.)  "He loved his pet bunnies.  They were his favorite pets.  He had raised them.  But he thought that it was really sad to only have hot cereal to eat for Christmas dinner.  So he took his pet bunnies over to his friend's house, and gave them his pet bunnies, that he loved and raised, for Christmas dinner.  And they ate the pet bunnies."

The story maybe could have been salvaged had she not focused on the fact that these were his PETS.  And maybe called them "rabbits" rather than "bunnies".  But I have my doubts.  Paul compounded the terror by leaning over to the three seven-year-old boys in our class who were old enough not to be as aghast at the story but still believe in mythical gift-giving creatures and wickedly asked, "So they ate the Easter Bunny?" 

At the end of the story, after the lesson (which I think was maybe about sharing or sacrificing or something - she kind of lost me along the way) was imparted, the teacher asked "Have any of you (3 to 7 year olds) ever eaten bunny?  I haven't, but I imagine it tastes like chicken."

I don't know who was more traumatized, the children or me.

Allergy Season

This morning before 9:45 I had cried off all the mascara on my right eye because it was so agitated from allergies even though I didn't even attempt to wear contacts today.  I knew I looked like a freak with one eye all mascarified and the other eye puffy and red, fringed with transparent blond lashes.  I just closed my office door, resigned to the fact that I shouldn't even bother with eye makeup for the next few weeks until the pollen count dies down. 

My left eye went beserk around 12:00 and then I had nude lashes for the rest of the day.

Noteworthy. Or not.

I'm making an e-confession for Paul because I learned something about him this week that I had never known before.  Probably because this is a fairly recent development.  Turns out his taste in music is not what I've always thought it was.  He has always been a big Neil Young or the BeeGees fan, but as we've been driving around lately, Paul has been turning on the radio to a particular radio station, 99.7, that basically only plays ten to fifteen songs.  Pop songs - super poppy pop songs.  And he has been singing along lustily with Ke$ha (who I have never heard of but who was on TV the other night singing her inexplicable hit "Blah, Blah, Blah"--Paul was agog that I had never heard it or of her), Fergie and the Black-Eyed Peas singing "Imma Be", that "Tik-Tok" song with the relentless beat, or the song with possibly the most insipid lyrics of all time that go something to the following effect:  "You can call me Mr. Flintstone 'cuz I'm gonna make your bed rock."  Classy, right?  There is another song that I've only heard once where a guy is comparing his, shall we call it affection, for a girl to the fast food experience, analogizing to IHOP, drive-thru, carry-out, etc.  I still don't quite understand the connections and frankly, I'm more than a little frightened to spend time thinking about it.

But I find it hilarious that Paul not only listens to this station while he commutes to work, but that he likes the songs and knows all the words even though he is more of a beat/music person and I am the one who pays attention to the lyrics.  In a way it's maybe like finding out that your spouse of almost-six years speaks Swahili on the side and you never knew about it.  Maybe not.  I'm kind of flabbergasted and cracking up over this quirk.  Even more so when Paul serenades me while driving in our car with phrases like "I love your sushi roll, hotter than wasabi, I race for your love, shake and bake Ricky Bobby" (if my mother is reading this post she will have no idea what those lyrics are about - don't worry mom, I'm trying not to post explicit stuff on here; these words don't mean anything to me either).

Paul just looked over my to see what I was typing about and informed me that our conversation about this the other night was confidential.  I told him not to worry, that I thought his penchant for pop beats is funny and I'm not judging.  He responded in classic form:  "It isn't good for my bad-boy image if you think this is funny.  I'd rather you were judging."  He was perhaps only half-joking.

Adventures in Primary

In sharing time today, the teacher was reading the scripture from Isaiah describing a person as "wonderful, counselor, mighty God, everlasting father, the prince of peace" and asked the children who that scripture was talking about.

The answer (given by a 5-year-old boy):  Obama.

Potpourri

Today we went to Pleasure Point.  We ate at Pleasure Pizza (this is sounding like a poem, but I promise it's not) - artichoke-pepperjack and hawaiian.  We then saw some old dude changing out of a wetsuit who flashed us good when he did a high-kick to step out of the clinging black foam neoprene. 

I convinced Paul to go down the wooden stairs along the cliffs with me to the beach so that we could watch the surfers more closely.  As we walked along the sand we came to a rocky area that jutted out so that each time a wave came up the beach was covered.  Between waves there was a ten to fifteen second or so break where there was just wet sand making it possible to get by without scrambling along the slippery rocks if you were quick.  I pointed this all out to Paul and then started reciting "Jack be nimble, Jack be quick" to myself waiting for a break in the waves and watching the surfers.  I got so focused on the nursery rhyme that I forgot why I was reciting it in the first place and stepped out at the wrong moment, getting wet up to my knees with salt-water and sand.  Paul, in the meanwhile, had scrambled along the rocks and was looking back at me like "How did you manage that?"

Then we saw a pod of dolphins swimming out by the surfers which was pretty amazing. 

Before we headed out this morning though we went out on the Los Gatos Creek Trail so I could go for a run.  Paul just walked because he had already run about 15 miles for the week and had developed a blister last night.  So while he walked, I ran.  And I would say jogged, because that is what I usually consider my pace to be, but as I started passing people I realized that after more than a year of almost exclusive treadmill running, I have actually developed a pretty decent pace.  Not that I'm fast (even though I prefer to wear orange running shoes, something I have only allowed myself to do since completing my first marathon - my theory is that only real runners can wear orange or yellow running shoes), but a 10 minute per mile pace isn't too shabby for me.  I passed multiple joggers (and they weren't all like 80 either, so I feel pretty legit posting about this), ran twice around a body of water bigger than a pond but smaller than a lake (is there a name for such a thing?), then walked back down the trail with Paul who had caught up while I looped the pond-lake.  It was glorious.

This week I read a book and thought, "This writing is sad.  Like really pathetic.  Like, I wrote a better book than this in the 6th grade.  How in the world did this guy get published?"  And then I started daydreaming about what it would be like to a published author instead of a lawyer and then I remembered how I have written 35,000 words of a novel and then fizzled out on it and really should get back to it if I ever want to have any room to criticize.  Then I forgave the aforereferenced author just a little bit and congratulated him on sticking to it until the thing was written even if it was junk.

Also, I have a pimple.  It's under my left eye and hurts like a bugger.  Because I have the hormonal system of an eleven year old girl, I only get a zit every other year or so, thank goodness.  But still, I might as well whine about it.

Finally, I wish I could plan a trip right now - maybe to Bora Bora or the Seychelles or something.  It's too long that I have been earthbound and I would like to get up in the air and out of the country.  For now though I just escape with The Amazing Race, Survivor, or travel books. 

That's all.  Random, I know.  How are you spending your Saturday?

Our Apartment

Some time ago I promised law school friends who are moving out here at the end of this summer that we would post photos of our apartment so they could see what it is like.  It's been a month now probably and we are just now getting these up.  Sorry Adam and Diana. 

Here is the living room:

Dining room:

Kitchen (with laundry room door at the end of the kitchen where the window is):

From the corner of the dining room so you can see more of the layout and flow:

Laundry room:

Guest bedroom:

Guest Bathroom:

Master bedroom and closets (one on each side):

Master bathroom (nothing special you can see, we need to work on this):

Patio and storage closet:

That's it!  I hope that helps guys.  Can't wait for you to come out here!

Cookie Time

Seems like everybody I know has been updating their facebook statuses to talk about Girl Scout Cookies lately.  I'm not dissing on anybody or anything, but you know something, I don't like Samoas.  I always thought I did, but last year I had some after a couple year's hiatus, and really, I'm not a fan I guess.  It was surprising.  But I do like Thin Mints.  And I think the peanut butter ones are tasty too.   

I was walking down the hallway at work today when I ran into a little girl in a green skirt and green vest pushing around a cart of primary color boxes of cookies.  I ignored her (not that she tried talking to me or anything) then went back ten minutes later when my will power was sufficiently depleted and asked if she was selling or delivering. 

"Delivering" she replied. 

I was both disappointed and relieved and came home empty-handed.

And typing this post up, I started remembering one of my favorite movies from my childhood.  Have you seen Troop Beverly Hills?