* Amara asked about the Nightmare Gallery in Salem. I must say, a love for frightful things is not something Sam and I have in common, so as we were going in to said gallery, while he was saying, "Ohboyohboyohboyohboy," I was saying, "Ohnoohnoohnoohno." But it wasn't bad. It was just a museum of horror movies. The weird part was that after nearly three years of hanging with the Sam, I had seen WAY more of those movies than I ever thought I would. I recognized characters, remembered lines. THAT was the terrifying part.
* It's gorgeous outside, just gorgeous. I took a run, lapping up the vitamin D on my bare shoulders. A little puppy insisted on conversing with me. I stopped at the park at the top of that tall-tall hill, sat on the stone wall, looked at the city, and cried for my friend Scott, who died last summer in Provo canyon. Didn't know I was still mourning that. Anyway, aside from that, it was such a happy outing.
*The other night I dreamed that Marjorie Hinckley (the sweet, sassy, lovely wife of the last Mormon prophet, Gordon B. Hinckley) came to see me and told me I was an okay human, that God doesn't think I'm wormy. That's gotta be on my top ten list of favorite dreams.
*Yesterday we had our picnic at the park on the tall-tall hill. I was craving pizza, so we got it from our favorite place loaded with veggies, my half without cheese and sausage. And before you cry for me, Argentina, let me say that I snagged a very small sliver of sausage, put it in my mouth, and spit it back out. I kid you not, it tasted like a pig had defecated in my mouth. If any of you are aware of my former weakness for sausage, you will know this indicates conclusively that my tastes have changed. Hallelujah. You know what tastes good? My mom's special spinach and fresh mint and pineapple juice smoothie. That tastes better to me than anything right now. Boy, it's good. Don't knock it 'til you try it.
*Oh, oh, and this was fun. Tried to have a conversation with my students about poverty, centered around an essay by that woman who wrote Nickel and Dimed. One of the women discussed in the essay is pregnant and eats a bag of Doritos for lunch. Somehow this devolved into several vocal students insisting that it was selfish and wrong for poor people to have children, that she should have spent her money on an apple instead of Doritos, that if the poor would just blahblahblah, etc etc. And instead of being really mature and teacherly, and guiding them with socratic questions to enlightenment, I just sputtered and muttered and verbally (uselessly) stomped my foot. Ah, Teaching. How glad I am you're over in a week.