The neti pot in action

Here we go (this post is rated "PG" for pretty gross):




Here I am mixing up the saltwater

...and pouring the saltwater into the neti pot...

...in one nostril and out the other!

Adventures in nasal irrigation

So I fell victim to another sinus infection this past weekend; bummer. My mother gets them quite a bit, too, so I reckon that I inherited my sinuses from her. Not that that's a bad thing, of course--the woman has a lovely nose, very fine facial bones, etc. However, our sinuses are like sponges for nastiness, filling up with automotive-grade gunk at the drop of a hat: changes in temperature, changes in climate (seasonal, political, or otherwise), we look at ourselves sideways in the mirror, etc.

So I sat there, asking myself if I really wanted to go on antibiotics again. I'm always worried about antibiotics, about the bacteria getting immune to zythromycin or whatever and then I'll end up with flesh-eating bacteria crawling all over me at the age of thirty and there won't be a darn thing I can do about it. I mean, really.

So I started crawling the internet for holistic cures--you know, herbs, potions, whatever. (Did you know that honey is a natural antibiotic?) And that's when I found nasal irrigation. The University of Wisconsin's medical school did a study where they had people with really bad sinuses flush their faces out with saltwater every day, and they GOT BETTER. Seriously. Turns out that the technique actually belongs to yoga, and there's a special kind of vessel to hold the saltwater and pour it into a nostril. It's called a neti pot.

So I got one and, yes, it's sweet. It actually really helps, as long as you don't mind the sensation of warm saltwater rushing through your nasal cavities (which is, I must confess, a little weird still, but I can dig it). Weirder still is the exercise where I pour water through my nose, down the back of my throat and out of my mouth--but that's the exercise that really helps.

Here's a picture of the pot--it kinda looks like Aladdin's lamp or something. But, I'm telling ya, it works.

An old shirt, but--ah!--so much more

I made this shirt when I was dating Melanie. She had the lovely idea of going ice skating, and I decided to surprise her. (Granted, it's not the biggest surprise in the world--not a diamond ring or anything--but life's made up of the small surprises, you know? It's the small surprises that make life interesting.)

I also wore it on several other (sometimes painful) occasions, as you can tell from the improvised script. I found the shirt the other day when I was cleaning out my closet, and, while I had to part with it, I had to take a picture. There's a lot of time and other sticky-sweet sentimental stuff invested in that shirt.

Another picture where I look a little better...

More than I've ever...

...traveled in my entire life--that was this Christmas break. Good stuff, don't get me wrong--but, man, I'm beat.

First, Melanie and I went to California for Christmas with my family. It was, in a word, sublime--beautiful weather, lovely company, meaningful temple service, all supported by haute cuisine crafted by yours truly. It's always wonderful to see my family--in particular, it was great to see Courtney, my budding photographer sister. That girl's going to be the next Diane Arbus, albeit without the high risque-ness factor.

It was home for a day, and then Mel and I took flight with her family for Honduras. (Honduras. Motto: "Burning Trash Since 1811") It was really interesting to go back to Central America. I mean, Costa Rica wants to paint itself as the Switzerland of Central America, and, in some regards, it is (mainly in its political orientation), but all of Central America is largely similar. Thus, going to Honduras was a lot like going back to the mission field.

We mainly stayed on an island to the north of Honduras called Roatán. It's pretty. I guess that it's surrounded by the second-largest barrier reef in the world, which we snorkeled. Poor Melanie got stung by fire coral, which is a funky cross between a jellyfish and coral. It was really nifty seeing all the fish, though. (My first time snorkeling, it was.)

The highlight of Honduras for me--aside from the iguana farm we visited, which blew my mind--was visiting the Copán ruins. See pictures.

As you can probably tell by my torpid prose, I'm bushed. So I'll conclude.

My fine feathered friend

It's a little blurry, but my colleague Shayne brought his raptors to school yesterday, and he let me play with them. (Well, you don't really "play" with taloned animals; you kinda appease them...) Magnificent birds--one (not pictured) is a merlin, and the other (that I'm holding) is a prairie falcon named Jedi. Most all falcons, including these, were trapped in the wild, and they never really domesticate, so this guy was all over the place. At one point, he got loose and flew straight at my face, his leash stopping him a fraction of an inch from my nose. Now I know what the poor pigeon must feel like...

Twenty-nine dollars and change

Tonight Jeff and I needed some time together, so we decided to participate in a little "challenge" at the grocery store. Our mission was to spend under $30 and get the most food possible.

Why, you ask? Two working adults, no kids, no pets... where is the money going? It turns out that we're a little short on cash this month after paying the deductibe to get our stolen/found car repaired, so we're living like newly newlyweds again starting today (because last night we were so hungry/tired that we went out for Middle Eastern food and spent $50 on the meal and another $20 at the bookstore next door while waiting to be seated). As you can see, we have our priorities straight, and we've done quite well with our budget balancing act. Actually, our philosophy is that as long as we are already "putting away a little something for a rainy day" that we ought to at least enjoy some worldly indulgences before we have ten kids and no money to our names.

Anyway, we did it. The total on the cash register said twenty-nine dollars and change. It looks like it must have been inspiration to grab those five boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and the can of Pringles on the way to the check out stand.

I was about ready to end, but Jeff just reminded me what a good husband he is. At this very moment, he is doing the same thing he does every night before going to bed. He is wiping off the bathroom counter and mirror from the splashes that occur from washing his face "vigorously". Early in our marriage, I learned that Jeff can be very vigorous with certain household activities, such as washing his face, washing the dishes, shaking bottles of salad dressing and spaghetti sauce etc., so I had to come up with some keep-this-old-apartment-looking-semi-okay cleaning strategies. Thankfully, Jeff has been very good to respond to my requests.

Now, he's not the only one making changes in this marriage. I'll have you know that at Jeff's request (and after some resistance on my part), I took down the over-the-door-hanger- bracket-thingy from the back of the bathroom door whereon used to hang my warm, fluffy bathrobe for easy access after showering so that he would not get clausterphobic and get injured in our small bathroom. Though I did not get clausterphobic or injured even once, I still made the change.

But another nice thing that Jeff did for me as a surprise was to rearrange the drawers and the closet space because he realized one day that I did not have an equitable amount of storage space. He's such a good husband! :O)

On loss; or, a night in New York City

High school is a morass; a labyrinth; a star too small to supernova but too big to slowly die. It's hard--as in difficult, yes, but also like a baseball bat slammed into one's face is hard, opposition, danger. People often tell me, "You were the student body president. You WERE the high school. You had to have liked it." Moments, perhaps. On the whole, though, the time probably would've been better spent busking for change in the local Greyhound bus terminal.

I sing, then, the praises of Texas is the Reason, arguably the best band in the world, probably the best band of emo's second wave, certainly the best band anytime their CD was playing in my car during high school. They had a self-titled EP, yes, and a full-length album called "Do You Know Who You Are," a bright light in a decade of musical puke. Their music kept me going sometimes, as banal as that statement sounds. And, like most bands I really like, they broke up right before I discovered them.

Last weekend, though, Texas is the Reason reunited for two shows in New York City. They were a New York band, always said as much, and wanted to play one last show in their native city, the show they never got to play before breaking up.

My friends and I always said that, given the chance, we'd fly anywhere to see Texas play, and we meant it, promised it with the ferocity of teenagers who cared more about their music than their--what? Most anything? Case in point: I never had a girlfriend in high school ("Why make one miserable when I can make so many happy?"), but I did see Sense Field, another Texas-ish band, about...ten?...times, even jeopardizing my part in the school play once to see them at Koo's Cafe, a converted Chinese take-out joint. (Magnificent show, by the way.) No, no girlfriend for me but Ticketmaster, my high-maintainence mistress.

And we swore we'd see Texas play, anywhere, anytime. And here was the chance. And I didn't go. I didn't go.

Sure, all the tickets for Saturday were taken, and I would've needed to break the Sabbath to go on Sunday. The short-notice airfare would've driven me to sell a kidney. But, sitting here, watching Youtube-esque videos of the show that fans have posted on the internet, I can't shake the feeling that I should've gone, somehow.

Watching one video, I started getting annoyed that the guy filming was singing along. Then I realized that it was the whole crowd singing along. There's a scripture--I forget exactly where--wherein a prophet recounts his vision of heaven, saying how he saw concourses of angels singing praises, and his soul longed to be there even though he knew he had to stay on earth. Well, that's me. My health was tepid, my timing was shot, the money was dear, but I should've gone, and I'll never forget it.

It costs so much I know.
But I guess I need to know what it would have felt like to be right.
But I'm getting tired all over again so hurry up and get here because I'm still waiting...just like I've always been.

Thanksgiving--Part Three

So we had three Thanksgiving dinners this year:

Part One - At Brent and Nancy's house, my uncle and aunt. Really nice, with most of the Tucker family in attendance--everyone, actually, except for the California contingent and my cousin Shawn. Dang good food.

Part Two - At Melanie's grandma's house. Twenty-three people, if I counted correctly. A lively bunch, to be sure, and everyone had the best of intentions, but the turkey gave me food poisoning. Not that I blame the cook, of course, who shall remain nameless, but let it be said that she's caring for an elderly man in hospice, so she can serve a raw turkey for all I care and I wouldn't cast aspersions on her. All the same, not a fun night afterward. I won't go into details.

Part Three - Upset that I got food poisoning, I decided to cook a Thanksgiving meal for Melanie and me. I wanted turkey, and I wanted lots of it, and I didn't want to spend the night on the toilet thereafter. Thus, I bought two three-pound turkey breasts from Smiths, made up a spice rub and a maple-butter glaze, made some mashed potatoes, sauteed some onion and celery and made stuffing with it, cracked open a can of cranberry sauce--et voila! Thanksgiving dinner all over again, just in time for Melanie to come home from a hard day at the ol' library. Here's a picture of the two loveliest birds I've ever seen:

Lost and found

Last Thursday morning, I went outside to get in my car, drive to work, nothing strange. However, my car wasn't there. Nope. I wandered all over the parking lot--no Miracle Machine. Poof--vanished into thin air.

It was slow sinking in--my car had been stolen.

So I called 911. I mean, I realize it's not exactly a life-threatening emergency, but I was fed up, what with my car having been broken into twice before. Can't the police patrol our area more? It's not like that much goes on in Murray City in the wee hours of the morn, you know.

Yeah. Police come, case number issued, I call Melanie at the dentist: "Yoah cah got stoahin?" (Poor thing was having a cavity filled.) (Actually, that's an exaggeration, but you catch my drift.) She comes home, gives me her car, I drive down to P-Town.

At 1:30am on Monday morning, a plain-clothes policeman found it in Midvale--with $2,000 worth of damage on it. Alas, what was lost now is found.

Call me master.

I passed my thesis defense. Done. Over. Finito. Now I just have to do it over again--bigger and better--for a PhD, which I have yet to be accepted for, and I'll be set, provided I publish, over and over and over again.

Ah, academia. You are a cruel mistress, but I love you.

Okay, more pictures

Here they all are.

(I grew up listening to so-called "indie" music, where album art often consisted of blurry pictures. It looks like I'd be a hugely successful album designer with this one.)

Here's Libby at Leatherby's, the ice cream shop by our house, drinking a massive hot chocolate.

That sweater didn't stay clean for long. (And there was an Everest-like mountain of napkins on the table by the time we left.)


Two of the cutest girls you've ever seen. Somebody get that blonde an agent!














Here are all of the girls at Gardner Village, this historic site-cum-shopping mall that has all these witch mannequins on display at Halloween. Freezing cold, it was.

This was taken on "Witches' Night Out," an event sponsored by the powers-that-be at Gardner Village wherein grown women dress up like their inner witches and dance around to Shania Twain. It was disturbing. (The Wicked Witch of the West was out--cackling, even--and dressed in full greenface glory. Freaky, even for Mel.)

At $0.25 a piece, there's only one this time

Please don't feel slighted that there's only one picture here, and that picture is of our niece, Abby Petersen, and not both Abby and Libby--Verizon has disabled their phones from transmitting pictures from the Motorola V3C RAZR via mini-USB or Bluetooth, thus forcing me to email myself my own pictures.

Sorry, that's a bit of a rant. So a picture of Libby will be up soon. But, for now, bask in the intolerable cuteness of Abby--just check out those deep green-brown-gray eyes. AW!!!

What I teach my creative writing students

This is what came out of an in-class exercise I conducted the other day; we're in the "creative nonfiction" unit. Here's "I Took a Breath:"

"I took a breath this morning—something I normally do, something which I generally enjoy—but the air smelled like a mix of eggs and bacon, both left out too long. It isn’t the first time this has happened, either. See, my wife and I live above the “model apartment” in our complex, the apartment that the management keeps professionally cleaned and decorated (they even replaced the plastic doorbell button that comes standard on all Clover Creek Apartments with a shiny, brass one); it’s the apartment that the management showed us when we toured the complex, and I guess the model apartment did its job, because now we live right above it.

"The problem is, since nobody lives in the model apartment, the plumbing dries out—nobody runs water through the pipes. Without water in the traps to hold back the sewer gas, methane (and who knows what else) leeches up through the plumbing, up through the ceiling, and into our pad. Like I said—bacon and eggs.

"And, sure, my wife and I both feel nauseated, taking a shower in a bathroom where steam from the bath mixes with methane and floats around the room like a breakfast-themed nerve agent, but I’ve got to wonder—if I were hungry enough, would the smell actually be appetizing? I mean, it does smell like two of my favorite early-morning repasts, albeit with some rot thrown in.

"The moment in my life when I was the hungriest was probably when I was a Boy Scout being inducted into the Order of the Arrow. (The Order of the Arrow is an honorary society inside the Boy Scouts for serious scouters, those who like to do additional service projects and dress up like Native Americans, conceivably at the same time.) The induction is supposed to be secret, a surprise for those taking on the challenge: First, participants are sworn to silence.

"Check, I thought, standing by a campfire. I can do that.

"Next, participants hang a “burden” around their neck, a branch attached to a length of string. I picked a big one. I can take it, I thought. (It turned out to be a chunk of tree root, not a branch at all, not that it mattered when I’d bend over and the root would smack me in the nose.)

"But then participants promise to abstain from food, all while performing “hard labor.” (I built tent frames. I had a two-by-four fall on my head. I broke my vow of silence, and—the way I was shouting—nobody was about to reprimand me.) So, yeah, after building tent frames and hiking around on flat prairies during a lightning storm (Idiots, I thought) and learning the secret handshake, I was starving."

I hope to add to it, since I'm intrigued by the idea of writing essays. I'll probably say something about the resemblance of the Order of the Arrow initiation to a Freemasonry induction ceremony or something. Something.

The plural of Lexus is Lexi

Last weekend, I was down in ol' Orange County test-driving the new Lexus LS 460. It was a prototype model--there are only, like, eight in the world. Anyway, it was quite fun.

Funny thing, though. The longer I live in Utah, the less those cars appeal to me. I guess it's a case of shifting priorities--in California, where the weather is never inclement, it's nice to think about fast cars and such, because, hey, you don't need four-wheel-drive. In Utah, however, I'd love nothing more than a pickup truck with knobby tires and about fifteen bags of something heavy in the back. No way that'd skid in the snow! (Well, maybe, but you know what I mean.) Not a big pickup truck, mind you, because I'm of the opinion that people who take a perfectly good pickup truck and then jack it up on massive wheels and shocks are trying to make up for something in their lives; I'm guessing something about their body they feel inadequate about. No, just a good, solid pickup that gets decent ratings on Edmunds.com. I guess Nissan's pickup is pretty good, but it's also pretty big, and that veers dangerously close to my aforementioned point.

Let's try that again...

Jeff wanted me to write about the experience from my perspective. I don't really know what to say, but here goes....It looks like we're going to have an early winter this year. Large flakes are falling already and inside the house to boot!!

I'm really sorry Jeff's losing his hair, but to me it's not a big deal. Women don't care about hair loss as much as men think we do. However, I think now he's learned a valuable lesson--he needs to wear a hat or sunscreen.

I had to brush through Jeff's hair about five times today because it was itching and flaking so badly from the sunburn. Jeff's contemplating wearing a hat to church in an attempt to remedy the "situation." This could be real trouble if you pair it with a black suit.

I'm sorry if anyone thinks we're weird! Just having fun! I just informed Jeff that a few days ago I told our newfound cousins in Wales about our blog, and he got a worried look on his face.

My new haircut, and the consequences thereof

Well, as many now know, I buzzed my head a couple of weeks ago. (Why did I buzz all my hair off? I suppose it was a matter of being proactive--I don't like the idea of Mother Nature taking all my hair, me standing by like some passive observer with no vested interest in the process. If my hair's falling off, then I'M going to be the one to say when.) Many of you also know that Melanie and I climbed to the apex of Mount Timpanogos on Labor Day. (For more information on the climb, see the "Petersen Patrol" link at the right.)

I didn't realize that my hair had thinned to the point of sunburning my scalp. Thus, I'm literally losing my head these days. A big chunk fell off this morning, and so I scanned an image of it. I've been trying to upload it, but it's not working...perhaps I'll figure out what's up soon.

On jeans and the drying thereof

So I only have one pair of jeans; well, that's not entirely true--I have additional pairs, but they don't fit me as well, hugging my legs like those narrow-fit monstrosities that Elvis Costello used to wear during the '80s. Yeah, ergo, one pair.

Having only one pair of jeans causes a small logistical problem when that single pair gets dirty (as they did yeterday, when I sat on the riverbank communing with our resident ducks)--what do I wear when the pair is being washed? Oh, sure, it's easy enough when I'm teaching, since I have other, more dressy options. But on a day like today, when I want to be casual, easy-going, lighthearted? No, a nice pair of trousers simply won't do, even a pair of slightly-more-casual, suburban-borne, annonymizing Dockers (or a variant thereof). I want jeans, dang it all to heck.

Wait, you say. Why is it such a problem? Just wash 'em, pop 'em in the dryer, and you'll have a fresh pair of jeans in--what?--thirty minutes? An hour, at most? Ah, but it's not that easy. See, dryers have long been my mortal enemies; they take a perfectly fitting garment and render it into D.I. fodder, shrinking it beyond any level of recognition or comfort. So I don't dry my jeans. I want to keep wearing them for longer than a month.

So I usually leave the jeans draped over a wooden chair for them to air-dry. Lately, I've found that the drying goes much quicker if I leave the chair on the balcony, where the dry Utah air can circulate. Plus, we've been having hot weather. Hot weather + dry air = quick drying.

But today wasn't hot, and there wasn't much of a breeze. I was frustrated, since I wanted to wear those sopping-wet jeans; that is, I was frustrated until I had an idea.

"Melanie," said I, "how long would it take those jeans to dry if I held them out the window of a speeding car?"

"I don't know," she said, looking up from her omnipresent book. See, that's what a great wife Melanie is--whereas other people would say something like, "Don't know, don't care, don't want anything to do with it," Mel actually considers the idea.

"If I held onto 'em, would you drive?" I asked.

"Sure," Mel said, and we boarded the Cherry Bomb.

I wanted to try the experiment at freeway speeds, but Mel--wisely--thought that may attract unwanted attention. So, instead, we drove around our neighborhood, occasionally waving at members of our ward who were furrowing their collective brows at us. ("That's one way to avoid using a dryer," one woman called after us; yes, dear, that's right...) When we returned home, the jeans were pretty much dry; oh, sure, there were a few damp spots, mainly where there are multiple layers of fabric, but I think I can wear 'em. Here's the data for anybody wishing to repeat our experiment:

Time spent driving: 9 minutes
Average velocity: 25 mph
Distance jeans were held away from car: Approx. 5 inches (enough to avoid contact with dirty car exterior)
Jean fabric: Cotton
Dryness quotient: 85%

Now, I realize that several factors could distort these results. The day's temperature, of course, could modify results, as could the relative humidity. Greater velocity could certainly speed--or, conversely, slow--things up. And the jeans had been drying for a little bit before we took to the road. (I'd love to try this experiment with fresh-out-of-the-washer jeans while driving down I-80 past the Bonneville Salt Flats at 100mph; I'd bet that I could shave a few minutes off of the drying time.)

Plan for the weekend

Yes, this is the last post for the day because I need to get to work. I've actually decided to use our blog as a family journal. Every few months we'll print off our posts and put them into a three ring binder. That way I won't feel guilty for my lack of consistent journal writing.

This weekend we plan to (1) take a brisk walk to stretch out Jeff's tendons which have shrunk and caused him a lot of pain since he broke his leg and (2) learn how to use the pressure cooker I bought two years ago. This will help with the beans and rice emergency preparedness plan. Sounds like fun!!

By the way, I was quoted in the West Valley Journal yesterday in an article about our Mexican children's art collection at the library. Apparently I am a Service Libirian at Hunter Library (where's the spell check editor guys?) Should be Youth Services Librarian. I should just introduce myself as a children's librarian and things would go a lot smoother. I guess at least they got my name right. A few years ago our publicity person, Tauni Everett, was referred to as Tuna Everett in a newspaper article.

More thoughts on marriage

You know how when you go to a wedding or a bridal shower you are sometimes asked to write down some marriage advice to the new couple? I never know what to say, really, but I do have an observation which might prove useful. As I've told my sister, Ashley, in the past while lecturing her...."I've learned a thing or two in my time..."

Everyone is a lot happier (both the husband and the wife) when certain personal staple foods items are always available at home. With Jeff, I've learned that this means: skim milk, bread, orange juice, and cereal (all breakfast foods), and protein bars (for his hypoglycemia). For me it would be cheese. Our mutual necessity foods are black beans, rice, and tortillas.

If you are aware of your personal staple foods and are both dilligent in making sure they are always available, then even if there is no time for a nice meal, both of you can scrounge up your own concoction.

Perhaps this seems obvious to everyone else, but it's taken me awhile to learn this. This has really come in handy since I've learned that while I do like to cook, meal planning absolutely stresses me out.

By the way, Jeff and I have decided that the majority of our food storage will consist of white rice and black beans. I can see it now...in the event of an emergency, everyone else will be scrambling to figure out how to grind wheat and incorporate lima beans into a meal, and we, in contrast, will be living it up with our rice and beans. As you can see, our missions have helped us prepare for life in many unexpected ways.