I lay there with my head in a cage,

And pray she hits the vein the first try.

The elastic band is cutting into my bicep,

And I already know she's going to miss.

"Pump your hand in a fist," she says,

But I can see the self-doubt on her face.

She warns me that it's about to pinch,

But the pinch is nothing to me nowadays.

I heard her mutter and scowl in frustration,

And then I felt, inside my arm, as she fished,

Dug, dived, dipped and twisted the needle.

She pulls the needle out of my retching elbow,

And moves the damned elastic to my other arm.

I see her fidget and furrow her brow in concentration,

And I know she's going to miss--two more times.

I'm not crying from the pain,

I'm crying because I'm not a human pincushion.

Grace-isms

Grace is the little girl who lives upstairs; she is four years old, and one of the smartest people I know. She likes cookies, play dough and Dora shoes with velcro straps. Today she came down to bring me a bank statement and magazine ad that had come in the mail. I told her to come in and visit me while I finished fixing my hair. I asked her how her day was going, how her baby sister was and other whatnots. This is what I learned from our conversation:

Pretending is not just a game

"Is your brother and sister at school?"

"Ya, they go every day."

"Do you miss them when they're gone?"

"No, I just pretend they are here so I don't miss them."

Pretending makes you feel better, so why do we all stop pretending?! Because it is child-like? Well, I've decided I want to pretend more.

Cookies are good

"Grace, do you want a cookie?"

"Well yeah."

"I have oreos. Do you like those?"

"Yeah. I like most cookies."

If you like it; do it. I like laughing out loud while running at the gym. I like driving with really loud music. I like wearing eye shadow. I like dying my hair different colors. I like drinking milk straight from the jug.

It's okay with her if I don't get married for a long time

"Where's your boyfriend?"

"I don't have one, Grace."

"What happened to Chris?"

"We decided not be boyfriend and girlfriend anymore."

"Did he marry someone else?"

"I don't know, sweetheart."

"Oh. That's okay. You'll get married in the temple. Lots of people get married in the temple. You can't live here anymore when you get married. I hope you don't get married for a long time."

First, I was shocked she remembered I had a boyfriend, let alone his name, but as I said earlier, she is smart for four years old. Grace understands more of the world than I give her credit for. She understands break-ups, she understands you get married in the temple and she understands that getting married should take time and not be rushed. I think I'll stick with Grace and not get married for long time :)

We all look different, and that's okay

"Grace, who is your favorite Princess?"
"The one with the slanty eyes." (She pulls the corners of her eyes back tight)
"Jasmine?"
"No! The one with really slanty eyes!"
"Uhh...Pocahontas?"
"No! She has eyes that go like this!" (She pulls her eyes even tighter)
"Oh! Mulan?!"
"Yeah! That's her name. I like her."

Grace doesn't know or care that you shouldn't describe people as having "slanty eyes," because in her mind it isn't a bad thing to have eyes that slant. I'm going to stop caring so much about mine and others' physical appearance. It's okay.

Things I Would Do if I Wasn't So Tired...

I am tired--very tired. Physically, emotionally and mentally tired. If I wasn't so tired, this is what I would do:

• Make breakfast. Not just an over ripe banana on the way out the door, but a breakfast with oatmeal, eggs, sausage and toast.
  
• Get my hair dyed and trimmed since it has been woefully neglected lately.
  
• Buy conditioner, a new razor and concealer. I'm out of conditioner, I might as well shave with a butter knife and I can no longer hide the dark circles under my eyes.
  
• Do my laundry!
  
• Clean my sick nasty car out before the sunflower hulls start falling out the windows.
  
• Make marshmallow flower cupcakes.
• Watch The Vow, Haywire, A Dangerous Method, The Ides of March, Fireflies in the Garden and The Rum Diary.
• Go to my Thinking Spot (a place I haven't been since August), drink a Diet Coke and watch the clouds turn pink in the evening.
  
• Go to FHE....maybe...maybe not though.
  
• Paint my nails. Well, I'd have to clean them first, so I guess clean my nails and then paint them.
  
• Get my wisdom teeth out. Another one is popping through right now, and I wholly regret cancelling that appointment two years ago.
  
• Drink less Diet Coke. It has moved from a pleasant beverage to enjoy, to a life sustaining liquid that without I wouldn't stay awake during my Grammar class.

I Miss My Home

I miss my home. I miss everything about it. Provo has nothing of my home in it. My home has a smell. In the summer months you can smell the water in the air from the pipe. You can smell the exhaust from the tractors. The air smells of warm work. In fall, you can smell fresh cut grass anywhere you go. You can smell alfalfa, grain and later the straw--you can smell the difference. In winter, you can't smell anything at all. It is so cold that everything loses its scent. If you sniff, the inside of your nose will freeze, so even if there were a floating smell, you wouldn't know it. In spring, you smell rancidness. Dairy farms are thawing and the sewer ponds, too. I miss my home. My home looks like nothing else. The land is flat until you raise your eyes ever so slightly and all that's visible is a wall of mountains surrounding you in an oval. Behind those mountains are just more mountains. It is a bowl of mountains. A cup of mountains. An upside down hub cap used to feed the dog. You see a patch work quilt of fields separated not by stitching and batting, but by battered fences that sink somewhere in the middle, but neither neighbor will fix that part. You see animals. Cows, black, white, red and grey. You see horses. Well-trained quarter horses, sway-backed nags, powerful draft horses and shoddy Shetlands. You see trucks in the fields and tractors on the road. You see your neighbor, and you wave. I miss my home. My home has a sound. In winter, you hear snow plows scraping, sparking, grumbling, tearing down the road. You hear the snow fall. Piling up the banks. Piling on the roof, the cars, the cows, the fence posts. You hear the constant hum of tractors in the summer. You hear the che-che-che-che of the pipe's song. I'll never forget that sound. It was my bed-time song for 18 years. I miss my home.

Cheat, Steal and Lie

A little history lesson from my life: Pollyanna

Pollyanna is a board game that my family plays religiously. In fact, it is the only game my family plays. Apart from a few failed games of Clue with Dayna when we were younger, Pollyanna is the only board game I have ever played. No Scrabble, no Monopoly, no Sorry, Trouble or Life.

Just Pollyanna. The problem with this is that Pollyanna creates contention, cheating and anger. Without fail somebody always throws the board, their dice, their Diet Coke or their chair. It's a violent game of cheating and lying, and I am not above any of it.

Not only do we play one game of Pollyanna, but we have double games. Twice the fights.

This is a terrible situation. Not only do we have a blockie (double pieces on one square which prevents all other pieces from passing), but we have a triple blockie. They are blocking blockies. Good game plan.

Annnnnnnd this is how it ends. Fighting, pointing and lying defenses.

This is why I don't play games anymore. I was raised to cheat, steal and lie my way to winning in Pollyanna. I've discussed cheating methods with my dad, and watched many boards hit the ceiling as pieces and dice rained down.

Moral of the story: Cheat, Steal and Lie