Birthday fun

Yesterday was my (26th) birthday, and I have to say it was one of the best birthdays ever--well, adult birthdays anyway. I took the day off work, so I started the day out by sleeping in. Then Josh and I decided to go to IHOP for a late breakfast. Upon stepping outside, we noticed these on every tree we could see:

They were also posted all the way down the street.

I tried my best to look suspicious (but didn't really pull it off).


It turns out these two were responsible:
(Katri and Kristin)

I did have to go to one Honors meeting, but at least I got a "Y" donut out of it...
After some shopping, napping, and reading, I enjoyed a BBQ and badminton party in our backyard.

My neighbor Ray gave my sister, Diana, a ride in a bike contraption he'd made. (Isn't her hair cute? She shaved it almost bald a few months ago.)


After eating our preferences of hamburgers, turkey burgers, or veggie burgers and delicious roasted veggies from our garden, the badminton began.
Diana and Jolyn made a great team.

Check out the car behind me. It's my mom's "new" 1960-something Chevy Impala (handed down from my grandpa).

Josh and my dad proved formidable opponents.

But if looking serious mattered, Jesse and I would have won.


I got lots of great presents, including groovy sandals from Jon and Diana's trip to Israel, fun books and stationery, and a WASHER AND DRYER (to be delivered next Friday).

Farewell, laundromat

It's official. We're going shopping for a stackable washer/dryer unit today. As I bid farewell to the laundromat that has served me well over the last 2.5 years (I know, we really should have invested in above appliance(s) sooner), I realize there are several things I will miss. First, I will miss getting all of my laundry done in one shot, including big blankets and rugs. I will miss the owners, a couple originally from Mexico with adorable kids, whom I've gotten to know quite well. I will miss the Slurpees from the 7-11 kitty-corner from the laundromat. I will miss the mandated time away from other tasks at home during which I can do nothing else but grade or read (I was never one of those people, legally insane I'm sure, who just stand and watch their clothes tumble around). I will miss the air conditioning. I will miss making up biographies for the many characters who also frequent the laundromat.

But oh the joy that awaits me. I am soon to be in multi-tasking, clothes-folding-on the-couch heaven.

Name change

Considering that it's been a month now and Josh hasn't contributed anything directly to this blog, I decided the title "Josh and Rachel" was false advertising. Rachel (and Josh) more accurately represents the contents of this page: lots of random Rachel thoughts (that are sometimes about Josh).

The American Dream

I'm at my office late tonight because I stayed after work to revise my syllabus for the honors freshman comp class I'm teaching this fall. The class theme (of my choice) is the American Dream. My students inevitably begin the semester defining the American Dream as "the opportunity for anyone to succeed in America [read buy a house with a white picket fence] if he or she [though a he is usually implied] works hard enough." Throughout the semester I attempt to complicate this definition by exploring the racial, gendered, political, and socioeconomic components of the American Dream in addition to its spiritual and personal components.

So anyway, as I'm sitting here selecting readings from African American and Latino authors writing about self-definition and limitations imposed by racism and back-breaking labor, I find myself unconsiously scooting my chair over to allow the newly hired Hispanic cleaning woman to empty my trash.

She must have replaced the Peruvian economist who was living precariously (though not entirely illegally) as a night janitor in order to provide a coveted U.S. education for his two daughters--this despite the fact that he had nothing good to say about the U.S. and not only missed the predictable food and close-knit communities of his native Peru but also, shockingly, its medical care. During late nights in the office while I was finishing my thesis on problematic representations of Mexico (and Mexicans and Others in general) in American literature, he would corner me for minutes--sometimes hours--for conversations in Spanish about global economics, religion, and politics. Then he would inquire about and repeat after me the English words for asking someone to move aside so that their trash can could be emptied.

I think, I write, I teach, but I want to do.

Happily surprised

So, I've heard horror stories about teaching English 315 (Advanced Writing in the Social Sciences) during Spring or Summer terms. It's such an intense class (8 short weeks) and is often filled with just-about-to-graduate seniors who could not care less about learning to write in their disciplines.

Not the case!

I was very impressed with my students this Summer term, who did not complain at all even though they were basically writing a hefty paper (or draft) a week. No whining, just a lot of hard work. And then I checked my student evaluations today and they're through the roof! Much higher than every other semester. And even though this is shameless bragging, I have to include this one comment because I think it may be the nicest one a student has ever left me. Comments like this help make being underpaid and overworked worth it and motivate me to gear up for Fall:

"This was an amazing course. Rachel is one of the best teachers I have had at BYU. Seriously, I've never ever had a teacher more on top of grades, or who gave back more productive, helpful feedback on writing assignments. I think that all the other teachers in the English department should pay attention to how she runs her class and copy what she is doing. Rachel was very kind, and I turned in my assignments and really learned from them. This is one of the only classes I've ever taken at BYU where I felt that literally 100% of the class time was useful to me. It was an exceptional course from an exceptional teacher."

So today I'm thinking about how important it is to hope for the good rather than expect the bad.

(I promise that the self-congratulatory, feel-good posts on this blog will be few and far between.)

Winding up

Though November 2008 may seem far away, in political time, it's just around the corner, especially with a rash of presidential candidates participating in an unprecedented amount of early fund raising and several states moving their primaries up in an effort to remain--or become--politically significant. And the political junkie in me is getting excited.

What's more, as of last night I am now on the local Dem's "message committee," which involves shaping the party's image rather than allowing it to be shaped for us by Republicans (Democrats? You mean Devil worshipers?). This will involve both editorial and design work for press and ads. It's right up my alley and I'm glad to be involved in a more concrete way.

Speaking of committees, I'm also on the enrichment committee at church, and we just had a "state fair" focused on community involvement. I set up a couple booths, one of which offered voting registration forms and other information. I had lots of fliers left over, so I thought I may as well share one virtually.

So here's to voting in 2008--no matter what your party. (In fact, intelligent, informed Republican voters really have the most to offer Utah considering that the Republican primaries are where all the action in this state takes place and some ghastly Republican candidates get elected on the basis of party affiliation alone.)

Hot house

As you already know if you slogged through the Timothy Trilogy, our car has no AC--but neither does our house. By opening our numerous windows each night and closing them first thing in the morning, the house's temperature stays reasonable, especially thanks to its thick (nearly 100-year-old) walls surrounded by several mature shade trees. But that's an average summer. With this summer's stretch of 100°+ days and no-lower-than-75° nights, we may as well have grown our tomatoes inside.

Since I'm always cold (my core temperature ranges between a cool 96° and 97°, giving me official reptile status) and I sit in a ridiculously over–air-conditioned office all day after teaching in a ridiculously over–air-conditioned classroom, I am happy to shed my sweatshirt layer and relax in the heat at home. If I do feel warm, our portable floor fan sufficiently cools me down.

Not so for Josh. He's a heater (I haven't checked his core temperature, but I'm pretty sure he could boil water if he held it in his hands long enough). And when he's not working from home all day, he's on a set where any AC to be had is turned off during every shot because it's too noisy. The other day, Josh made the sad realization that this condition would never change: "I just realized that no matter how well I do, I'll never work somewhere cool." Here's hoping they invent stealth air conditioners, honey.

So the above picture is of poor Josh in our hot house. Oh--and if you've called lately and he's been snippy, try back in the fall. His mood improves considerably.

The Timothy Trilogy

The tale of Timothy (our 1993 4-Runner) is long and sordid, so here's the Reader's Digest version (in 20 brief acts):

1. Josh buys the car who would come to be known as Timothy from a man who, he finds out later, brought pizza to the mechanics whom Josh had hired to investigate the merits of such a purchase.
2. Thanks to a faulty oil gauge, Engine Meltdown (the original) occurs as Josh is driving to his former job at Park City Mountain Resort.
3. Josh researches his options and decides--since he's still paying the car off--that it makes sense to get the engine rebuilt and that Clegg's Machine Shop is the place to do it.
4. Josh's mom tells the tow-truck driver to take Timothy to "Clegg's," which he interprets as Clegg's Automotive (next door to the machine shop but, confusingly, unrelated to the former and not known for engine rebuilding).
5. Clegg's Automotive "fixes" the car.
6. Josh and I get married. We spend a fabulous honeymoon on a cruise in southern CA and Mexico. On the trip back from LA--in the middle of nowhere (a.k.a. somewhere outside of Beaver, UT)--Timothy experiences Engine Blowup: the sequel to the meltdown.
7. After surviving a round chastisement from a torn-out-of-bed tow-truck driver who blames all of Timothy's problems on us, we hunker down in a hotel behind that Chevron with the huge rocking chair and wait for the male members of Josh's family to rescue us.
8. Said family members (heroes) arrive, place Timothy on a trailer, and get slightly past the site of Engine Blowup, the sequel, when their truck tire blows. Our rescuers are rescued by small-town cops, and Timothy finally makes it back to Provo.
9. Still under warranty, Timothy is "fixed" again by Clegg's Automotive, who acknowledge that the first job had been faulty.
9. Timothy serves us very well for the year we live at Sundance. Without his 4-wheel drive we would have been stuck in our house, or in the valley without a house, for much of the winter. He is able to rescue many a stranded driver on the way up to Sundance too.
10. Timothy's transmission dies. Considering all the money we've put into his engine, we decide to fix his gears.
11. One week later, his head gaskets blow.
12. Considering all the money we've put into his transmission, we decide to fix his engine.
13. Not wanting to fool with Clegg's Automotive anymore, we get a recommendation to go to Smith's Garage. We do. Smith of Smith's garage "fixes" the head gaskets.
14. Josh is again driving to Park City, this time for a job at the Sundance Film Festival, when Engine Catastrophe: the final installment (oh, please!) strikes. (Incidentally, Josh loses the job, having shown up 4 hours late his first day.)
15. We take Timothy to Smith's, who says he's thrown a rod. Several weeks of tortured contemplation pass. We finally go to Clegg's Machine Shop (the ones Josh intended to fix Timothy in the first place) and plead. Out of pity, they agree to fix the car and only charge us for parts.
16. After Japanese Motor Exchange--who R&R's engines for Clegg's (I've learned all the lingo)--removes Timothy's damaged engine and reinstalls the "fixed" version, we learn that there is still a problem. Smith's must have screwed up the gaskets. The engine has to be removed again.
17. After some fanagaling, Dave Smith returns our money--hooray!
18. Clegg's Machine Shop finds that in fact Smith's has totally and utterly (that's redundant but appropriate) screwed up Timothy's gaskets, which--to make an already long RD version shorter than it could be--Clegg's ultimately fixes.
19. Timothy goes in for his transmission check-up to find that the computer chip telling him when to shift is broken. The mechanic's remedy: "your automatic is now a manual." Works for us.
20. What we thought was simply a lack of freon in the AC turns out to be a major system hole. It will go unrepaired.

Though I would have never spent a dime on a gas-guzzling, environmentally-unfriendly, over-sized hunk of metal such as Timothy in the first place, I have now developed an affection for him akin to what I imagine I'd feel for a terminally ill relative (perhaps a distant one). I realize the time we have with Timothy is probably short and we need to focus on getting the most from each day that he's with us.

However, we're praying that this trilogy and any installments to come are separated by at least as much time as the two blocks of Star Wars movies.

Josh is back

After over a year of working on 1-3 film projects at a time--straight--I think Josh is finally "home" for a bit. Home in scare quotes because he's going to be editing like mad for the next few months, but I'm hoping the 12-to-20-hour days are over. This last year took him throughout the western U.S. and to Europe a couple of times--the last time without me for a month! (By the way, years to me will always follow an academic schedule, with late August being the equivalent of New Year's.) Because working in film is so intense and, as mentioned, requires such long hours, most people take off a month or two (or three) between projects. Josh has lasted an amazingly long time under a lot of pressure and without such a break (or any break at all).

Recently he said "no" to a project, however, which has been for the best. We both tend to take on too much (as anyone reading this likely knows already). So here's to both Josh's hard work and to increased future selectivity!

Garden goods

This was our first year planting a garden. I'm in love. It's so satisfying to be able to pick delicious veggies from our backyard for free. These pictures show what I harvested last night: zucchini, summer squash, cucumbers, lemon cucumbers (the round yellow guys--I'd never had them before, but they're really crisp and good), three tomato varieties (love the lighting ones), and one of the famed pumpkins (not picked last night, as you know).

The life of an addict

I just spent $5 on chapstick. And it is worth every dollar. Hold on--I'm going to apply some more.

Okay. The five bucks bought me "chap defense lib balm" of "organic formula and pure plant origin" and a "peppermint-tea tree" flavor. It's also "suitable for vegans." The labeling doesn't specify what such suitability is based on. Apparently those dumb vegans don't realize that "pure plant origins" means a lack of animal-derived ingredients. Either that or "suitability" is instead a fashion hint--I mean, those vegans don't think they can wear red lipstick, for crying out loud, do they?

But I did not deem my $5 well spent because this chapstick--I mean chap defense--so artfully led me through the complexities of vegan beauty rituals. The fact is, I am a hopeless addict. I would have purchased a cherry-flavored lip smacker for ten times the cost just now. Never again will I rely on Blistex Lip Infusion Moisture Splash with its opaque packaging and paltry conditioning properties. I didn't realize it was gone until after I got to work, where I lasted a commendable 20 minutes before driving to the nearest chapstick vendor, which happened to be Borders. Borders offers bliss.

And so it is that I'm feeling especially empathetic toward heroin users and alcoholics this morning.

Another one bites the dust

Another pumpkin down. Forget my whimsical musings--where can I get some kid repellent?

Gone public

Our backyard is the Hardy to our Laurel of a house. Relatively, it's huge. Upon seeing it for the first time, most visitors assume it's an empty lot adjacent to our property. And of course we, being in that childless mad-dash phase of life, don't spend much time back there (though are planning a badminton tournament as soon as the weather cools--anyone in?).

This deserted stretch of green is interminably tempting to neighborhood children. My favorite lives next door: Nando (from Fernando) is the son of a man from Aguascalientes and a woman from Orem, who has made the uncommon journey of assimilation into Mexican culture while living in Provo, Utah. Since the time he was three, Nando has helped me with heavy-duty yard work, and not in that cute but actually unhelpful little kid sort of way. He will silently watch me for a few minutes, go fetch some tool or instrument from his house, and begin solemnly moving dirt, piling up rocks, raking and bagging leaves, etc.

About a month ago, some new--very blond--kids moved in to the apartment buildings across the street. I've never met their parent(s?) but I often hear their dad bellowing at them from afar. They have tough exteriors. They have nowhere to play. A week ago I came home to see the blond girl (Brittanica, like the encyclopedia, you know?) and an unfamiliar girl from down the road (Bela is her name, or Isabela in thick Spanish, and do I speak more Spanish or English?) sitting on a blanket in the back yard. They ask, "can we have permission to play in your yard?"

Two nights later I come home to see two not-quite-orange pumpkins sitting on the back porch--pumpkins I was specifically leaving to fatten on the vine until Halloween. Josh reported several kids fleeing the scene of the crime and even found the murder weapon, a small knife, underneath some giant squash leaves. I felt so angry and so entitled to that anger. I had been taken advantage of. I paused on the sidewalk halfway to my neighbor's porch, preparing a speech in Spanish in my head. Nando opened the door and before a well-formulated line escaped my lips, he blamed the premature pumpkin harvesting on the "stupid" kid across the street. The kid across the street responded (many times, like a mantra) "I swear to God I didn't do it." The next day I learned that the third suspect, Bela-Isabela, is one of six children, two parents, and an uncle who just got kicked out of the house they were renting. They're "going to live in the van for a while" if they can't find another house soon. But she seems to have forgotten this a few minutes later when I glance through my window to see her dark head nearly touching Brittanica's pale one as they apply make-up to each other's nine-year-old faces.

We've talked about fencing in the backyard, but I wonder what we would be fencing out.

NYC and DC sampler (from our June trip)

Josh almost cried when he saw this--really. Seinfeld is a member of our family.


Me being sneaky at the Watergate.


We got to NPR HQ the second their once weekly building tour ended. I was very sad, but Josh got me to smile for a couple of pictures. I hadn't been disappointed, after all, before I knew there was such a tour.


This picture is so cheesy. I love it. (Supreme Court building.)


The lobby of our DC hotel (where we stayed for our anniversary). It was gorgeous.


Most of all, we were happy to finally get to spend some time together!

My attractive face

I have an attractive face. That is to say, my face attracts things. Something about the structure of my teeth and gums makes it physiologically impossible for them to remain unadorned whenever I eat anything. This goes especially for the color green. If it's green, my teeth like to wear it proudly. Perhaps they're Irish. You might think that such an affliction would put me in the habit of doing like my friend Sharon does--checking with others post-meal to ensure her teeth are appropriately naked. Nope. Rather than taking that time-tested and practical route, I prefer the eternal optimism (and you thought I was a pessimist!) of hoping that what has proved true for the last 25 years will not be true this time.

Which brings me to the pen marks. As a teacher and editor, I most always have some sort of pen in hand. I was 90 minutes through class on Monday when one of my students timidly mentioned that I had a blue mark underneath my chin. I did not mind this unsolicited observation one bit. But something about the somewhat personal act of a licked finger applied to an under-chin unleashed a volley of other observations--I had pen on my cheek, a dot by my mouth, etc. I'm still not minding (and am rubbing my face like mad) but am beginning to wonder why it took 90 minutes for my students to reveal to me that they were not in fact listening to my detailed explanation of topic sentences but were instead staring at something from Harold and the Purple (well, blue) Crayon.

And then there was today. My now year-long (amazing!) routine of daily morning gym attendance has been put on hold by a bum knee. The result is that instead of having been awake for at least 3 hours before my 8am class, I rolled out of bed at 7:35. I made it to my first conference at 8, but with something new "stuck" to my face (and neck)--pillow lines. I better not ever get a PhD. I don't think my face can live up to the profess(ionalism) of being a profess(or).