Saturday, June 29, 2013

Lurching from One Topic to Another, As Usual

Ah, summer. The chirp of crickets, the croak of mating frogs, the searing heat that threatens your sanity. We actually went to the park in the afternoon, with the temperature nearing 100 deg. F (37 deg. C). The boys and a couple of the girls actually played in the sun while Husband and I sat in the van with all the windows open, sweating unattractively. We would have gotten out and sat in the shade of the pavilion, but a big ol' group of people were having themselves a picnic and had claimed all the tables. The pavilion provided the only shade in the entire park, so we stayed in the car. I sat and considered how having a big picnic in the middle of the afternoon on a swelteringly hot day was as much a sign of insanity as going to the park to play.

My husband's nephew is visiting from Wales. He's a tall, strapping lad of 16, and he happens to be attractive and speaks with a lovely, strong accent that is sort of a mix between Welsh and English. Gabrielle, who is his age, has a group of friends who adopted him right away, and the young men in our ward are impressed with his excellent soccer skills. Right now he's with my daughters at a very large pool party for the LDS youth in the city. Between sight seeing with my in-laws, helping FIL in the garden, and being pulled off to various activities with the young people, I hope he has a grand time on his first visit to the States, which extends to the end of August. MIL and FIL have planned to take him to all the best buffet restaurants, as all-you-can-eat places are pretty much non-existent in the UK. Nephew, being naturally thin and sporting a hollow leg, will probably not go home any heavier despite his gastronomic extravagances. If nothing else, the heat will melt all the fat off of him before he gets back to Britain.

Hey, I wonder if I could just cook myself outside for a while and watch the fat melt away...

Speaking of fat and dieting and being tired of thinking about food and feeling guilty about eating certain foods and not eating others, I think I'm finally to the point where I'm starting to lick the dieting mentality entirely. I don't go on a lot of diets simply because I know at the outset that I do not have the will power to stick to them--especially if I know I'm going to feel desperately hungry for days and weeks at a time. But I do have a dieting mentality, and that makes even choosing a snack a long and arduous chore, an act of considering how "good" I am with some foods and how "bad" I am when I slip.

You can actually read too much, I think, and when you take in a lot of information that will naturally help your already healthy sense of shame and guilt over how you take care of your body, and then the information starts to contradict itself and create real paralysis in decision making abilities, it's time to just. let. go.

Remember when I was writing about gratitude a couple weeks ago? I realized something that I already knew intellectually but had not yet learned emotionally. I decided to be sincerely grateful for EVERYTHING in my life, including my body exactly how it is. I mean, this body has birthed six healthy children and kept me from getting sick even when everyone around me has been dropping like flies. I can move and work and play and walk (okay, I can't jog or run, and my hips and back like to scream at me a bit), and I am sincerely grateful for this absolute miracle and gift.

And being grateful has started to open up my understanding and help me see new things. I am looking at food in a different way. I'm responding to my desire to move and exercise as a method of enjoyment of my body rather than a chore I must perform in order to reach a desired weight so I fit whatever beauty standard I think is acceptable.

Friday, June 21, 2013

Introducing Inexplicable Clip-Art

My Friday morning plans were cancelled, so I have a few moments to bother y'all with a new post. Just so you know, I was up and dressed and ready to go. I even had my hair pulled back into a pony tail, which is unusual for me; while it gets my hair out of the way (and it's grown long enough to reach my shoulder blades now), pony tails give me an almost instant headache.

Why the focus on hair style and cancelled plans? Jazzee, our day dog, is moving. Well, her mom is actually the one making that decision, though the way Ruth talks, Jazzee is merely a hairy human and probably has an IQ higher than most people. If Jazzee were allowed her say, I'm sure she would protest. After all, she has her yard and her bed and her basket of toys and she gets to come play with kids during the day. Why in the world would she think of moving away? But Ruth is going to live with her son in a different state, and Jazzee will be going along because Ruth loves her to pieces and can't do without her. Jazzee will adjust because she has one advantage humans do not, hairy or otherwise: she doesn't analyze and dream about the past and the future.

So a bunch of us went to Ruth's house this morning, prepared to haul out the furniture and all the boxes we've been steadily packing for the last two weeks. It's amazing how much stuff one person can accumulate, even when she claims she "doesn't have much."

Anyway, when we pulled up and saw other kind volunteers milling about, we found out Ruth's son was just leaving his house, which is not in this state and which is a lengthy amount of travel time away from where we are. Miscommunication. Plenty of bogus phone calls made based on that miscommunication. So Ruth's moving plans are put on hold until tomorrow, and Jazzee gets a day of reprieve.

This gives me time to explore what I would like to call

Inexplicable Clip-Art

I bought a book of 80s-style clip-art at the thrift store because the pictures amused me. This one, in particular, is ready to tell some sort of tale, so let's explore a little, shall we?


What child has ever willingly posed for a picture with clowns?

I don't care if it's the circus and your kids are panting with excitement to see the elephants, when the clowns get too close, there's going to be screaming. Who can trust a being with such a huge, fixed, brightly painted smile, weird hair, and a penchant for squirting you in the face with innocent flowers? I think this little girl is secretly crying inside and will probably be scarred for life. Look how she's clutching her doll (which is also a clown, by the way) so tightly to her chest, hoping it will shield her from the clown on her right, who is holding one of those "innocent" flowers.

Her mother is telling her to say cheese, but she's just waiting for the right moment to bolt.

Any small person who is faced with some sort of creepy and unnatural creature is going to have some fears about it. I was the Easter Bunny at a mall for a season some two decades ago, and I can guarantee that no one under the age of seven who was forced to sit on my lap for a cute photo did so without screaming. Some of them even peed their pants, which, of course, wet my fur. Those kids are grown up now and still wondering why they feel vaguely frightened when they see those pictures.

Funny story: my across-the-street-neighbor came in with his girlfriend and paid to have their photo taken while they perched on my knees. How cute and charming of him.

They probably assumed I was a guy, but the much younger and far more slim version of myself was in that overwhelmingly warm and furry costume and horribly heavy bunny head trying not to groan out loud at their combined weight that threatened to break my femurs. I think I'll post that story on his Facebook page right now because I don't think I ever told him about it.

Thursday, June 13, 2013

Sir Ken Robinson Says It Better

This, this is what I have thought about concerning education in this country but have not been able to articulate. Fortunately, Sir Ken Robinson is incredibly articulate as well as delightfully amusing.

I encourage you to watch it. You'll be enlightened and entertained.

I have frequently thought about this subject because I love to learn but I hate school. I loved school when I first started elementary in our small Idaho town, but I learned to hate it with a burning passion once we'd moved to Northern Minnesota. Why? Because in Idaho, the teachers fed the creative spark that they saw inside me. In Minnesota, I was forced to toe the line.

In Idaho, we still did worksheets and boardwork and all the clerical work that must be done to meet district policy; but during my free times, I was encouraged to explore my love for reading and writing. I was allowed to read books that challenged me, which were far above my grade level (I attribute that to my parents, who refused to allow a television in the home and who read to me from the time I was very small). When I wrote plays, my teachers allowed me to select fellow students to play the parts and rehearse and then perform them during class times.

I felt a constant support from my teachers, who always encouraged me to reach ever further to develop my talents. Even in kindergarten, the teachers would hand us a hammer, some nails, and some wood so we could make things. We were allowed to play with each other for a large part of each school day, and learning was part of the play.

What happened when we moved was like a dark and horrible cloud descending to dampen my enthusiasm. Suddenly, my interests and talents were to be squelched because they did not fit in with the curriculum. Teachers didn't want to know how I was processing and analyzing information into a bigger picture of life; they wanted me to spit back memorized facts and figures so I could pass the tests so the school could get needed federal funds. The fun was gone. My education was no longer about learning how to learn.

So I did what any self-respecting and eager student of life would do: I decided to get my education despite my schooling. I read the classics and listened to the best music (which, again, was bountifully available in my home because I have two classical musicians as parents). I tried to keep that desire to learn more and more alive in myself, and finally I found that school did provide a sort of catalog of what there was to learn about, even if it fell far short of actually teaching me much beyond rote memorization and team projects.

I'm not brilliant or a genius, but I'm happy to say that I absolutely love to learn. I cherish the fact that the more I learn the less I know, and that, to me, is absolutely exhilarating. Just don't give me a multiple choice test, because I still choke.

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Gourmet Grilled Cheese Sandwiches

Since I am on a short food theme here (see my last post), I just wanted to let you know that my grilled sandwiches are better than any restaurant's. At least, that's what my husband says, and he isn't one to lie about stuff like that just to make me feel good. For instance, I have yet to perfect my rendering of creme brulee to his exacting standards.

Grilled sandwiches are our staple lunch every Sunday after church. They're quick and easy, and when served alongside a bowl of soup, they satisfy the empty hole inside of you that has developed slowly throughout the three hour meeting block and culminated in embarrassing stomach gurgling noises that make your MIL chuckle quietly to herself during Relief Society.

But grilled cheese sandwiches do get a bit boring week after week, so I play around with them. Those who are adventurous enough like to try out my new concoctions, discussed below.

Making multiple sandwiches is easiest on a large electric griddle, but if you have ciabatta bread and a little time, a George Foreman grill is great for making paninis, or pressed sandwiches (or you can buy a panini press, but then it's only good for paninis. The George Foreman grill is also good for pieces of meat, vegetables, and other stuff you want to grill indoors.).

Cheese is important here, but cheese is expensive, so we usually have medium or sharp cheddar, depending on what's more on sale during any given shopping trip. I like the bite of a good sharp cheddar. I suppose cheddar is a bit like vanilla ice cream--somehow it has turned into the generic flavor--but when you find a good cheddar, there's nothing bleah about it. When I'm feeling crazy, I splurge on Swiss or Gouda. Or Edam. Or a mild Havarti. And pepper jack is amazing in a grilled sandwich. Fresh mozzarella with basil and pesto? Heaven. And I absolutely adore feta. Oh, gosh. Mmmmm. Cheese...

Once you have your chosen cheese, it's time to add stuff. Here are some ideas, and there really is no limit to your choices. Or, rather, the only limit is in how much room you have for your sandwich.

Grilled Cheese Sandwich Add-Ins:

thinly sliced meat (leftover beef roast, turkey breast, chicken breast, pastrami, etc.)
thinly sliced red or sweet onions
sliced cucumbers
thinly sliced apple
chopped herbs like cilantro or parsely
whole basil leaves
any type of pesto
softened cream cheese mixed with blue cheese crumbles
apricot preserves
lingonberry jam
cranberry sauce
sliced, roasted vegetables, such as zucchini, sweet peppers, summer squash, eggplant, or portabella
sliced, seeded fresh tomatoes
tuna mixed with mayonnaise

Okay, those are just a few ideas, but now I've worked myself up a hunger. As it's lunch time anyway, I'll quit boring you with this particular topic and go make myself a loaded grilled sandwich.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Sing a Song of Pop Corn

I like popcorn and I eat it as a snack on a regular basis. I'm sure this little tidbit of information about me isn't exactly scintillating, but I am trying to encourage my consumption of healthy snacks. I am one of only two people in the house who really likes popcorn, so I never have to worry about leaving my popcorn unguarded and finding it later when there's nothing left but the crumbs and the grannies.

I don't believe microwave popcorn has anything beneficial to offer except a long list of chemical ingredients I can barely pronounce, so I make my own. I also dislike air-popped popcorn because it's hard to give it any flavor without pouring on plenty of oil and butter (I know, I know that air-popped popcorn has fewer calories, but there's just no flavor! It's like eating rice cakes or Melba toast, and what's the point of eating stuff like that unless you're literally starving and don't care about how a thing tastes?).

I cook my popcorn in a pot on the stove and it takes all of five minutes. (At one time, naive and less skilled in the kitchen, I went to Bed Bath & Beyond and actually bought an on-the-stove popcorn maker for over $20. I only used it a couple times because it was awkward and turned popping corn into a chore. Now I don't even know where that silly one-use pot has gotten to.)

Here's how you make popcorn on the stove:

Find a pot with a lid and a handle. The size of the pot doesn't matter except that it determines how much popcorn you can make in one batch.

Turn on the burner to medium-high, set the pot on top, and pull out your coconut oil and your stash of organic popping corn (if it isn't organic, try to make sure it isn't genetically modifed (GMO) at least!). Plop a blob of the coconut oil into the pot--enough so that it covers the entire bottom of the pot as it melts (I love coconut oil and I use cold pressed extra virgin oil because it imparts into my popcorn a subtle coconut flavor. But when I run out of the more expensive cold pressed extra virgin oil, I am fine using the refined stuff.)

While the oil melts and heats, drop in one kernel of popping corn.

Now stand there and watch the kernel while you're listening to talk radio, thereby enriching your mind while you seek to enrich your body. Eventually, the kernel will start to sizzle and then POP itself into fluffy goodness. I find that the more closely you watch the kernel, the more likely it is to pop itself out of the pan. That may have something to do with quantum physics.

While you're pondering how noticing the actions of a kernel of popcorn can literally influence its behavior, pour in enough popcorn kernels to cover the bottom of the pot one layer deep. I usually add a smidge more (that's a scientific measurement, of course) so the kernels are packed closely together but still touching the oil.

Put the lid on the pot and give it a gentle shake as it sits on the burner in order to keep the kernels from burning. Give it a gentle shake every few seconds while the oil heats the kernels and they begin popping like crazy. When the popping sounds stop, take the pot off the burner and look under the lid to see what awaits you.

Quickly pour the popcorn into a large bowl and add your seasonings. Walmart carries a few flavors of popcorn seasonings that are very delicious and low in calories (I haven't checked the ingredients because maybe I don't want to know, okay?). I really like a few sprinkles of Ranch flavor and a few more of Nacho Cheese flavor, topped off with some ground pepper. I also add some Nutritional Yeast Flakes for a sense of righteousness. Combine sugar and salt for kettle corn, or get creative with your spice cupboard: Mrs. Dash is a great popcorn flavoring, as is some salt and garam masala. Or you can melt butter and drizzle that on, too. I'm good with that.

Friday, June 7, 2013

Cancer Free for Three Years Now

Husband went in for another of his six month checkups at the cancer hospital yesterday. We always make a day of it and go to The Big City together, though he could very well get himself there on his own. It's just more fun together.

After long waits in the crowded and busy clinic, results were in and they were perfect. Still cancer-free after three years.

Sometimes I forget he had leukemia. The horror of finding out he had cancer and the aftermath of it all were more stressful than anything I've ever dealt with before, but it was over within a very short amount of time. We didn't have to go through months and months of chemo and radiation, worrying that the cancer would not respond or would return more aggressively than before. Husband felt awful and it was very hard, but it was lived through fairly quickly.

We're blessed. Truly blessed. We're still shelling out for those medical bills, but it's a small price to pay in the big scheme of things. Every six months, I feel again just how blessed we are.

Wednesday, June 5, 2013


Twitter, like Pinterest, is something I've mostly avoided. I don't even have a Pinterest account because I figure I waste enough minutes and hours on Facebook that I can't justify getting involved with yet another internet time suck. When I make my living working on the computer, it's all too easy to find distractions.

I just caught up on my book club, pie, and entertainment interests on Twitter after literally months (and possibly years) of being away. For some reason, I hadn't seen it all before. I didn't know how much I had missed.

I got a pretty negative impression of Twitter after I'd first signed up and immediately received a message from an internet prostitute that caused my eyebrows to climb into my hairline. As I hadn't indicated whether  I was male or female, I guess the woman (or company software, most likely) figured there was a 50/50 chance I'd be interested. They probably target all new male or non-gender-specific account holders. She quit following me when I failed to take the bait.

I have no real point here. I now suspect that the part of my brain that wants to go outside and play has once again successfully distracted me from my editing and writing responsibilities. Well played.


When I was 12, my aunt and uncle asked me to babysit my cousin, who was a toddler. It was my first babysitting job away from home, and I was terribly nervous. What was thrilling about it, however, was that they had a television, and we didn't have one. My parents didn't believe that television offered anything more important than books and outdoor play, so they had resisted the siren call of easy entertainment since before I was born. Thus, the idea of being able to sit and choose whatever I wanted to watch after I'd successfully put my cousin into bed for the night was very exciting. My younger brother was so jealous he begged to come with me, and since I was nervous and apprehensive about being a babysitter at someone else's house, I brought him along for moral support. Happily, my cousin was just fine, and Robert and I got some tube time.

Over the next few years, my aunt and uncle had two more children, and I continued to babysit (though being able to watch television wasn't nearly as novel once my parents relented and bought a set). They moved from the area when their youngest, a boy, was still a toddler, and their oldest was seven. Since that time, I've watched them grow up through pictures sent in letters and Christmas cards. I went to college and then to another country to serve a mission and got married and started having kids and missed all the family get-togethers where I would have been able to see them again.

Yesterday was the first time in over 20 years that I got to be in the same room with these cousins. The oldest, who is my brother Aaron's age, is all grown up and married, pregnant with her second child and a loving mother to her sweet little girl (who immediately adopted Elannah as her very own). Her sister is also all grown up, and their youngest brother now towers over me at 6' 4". The younger two are happy in their career choices, though they have yet to find "the one" and take the marriage plunge. Good looking kids, all. Their mother, my aunt, is also radiant and beautiful. She hardly looks older than her daughters.

I don't have many cousins -- just 10. My mom has three sisters and my dad was an only child. I still haven't seen one set of cousins since I was in my teens, and we aren't close only because of age differences and the fact that we were always so spread apart geographically. Fortunately, the one cousin who is close to my age (one year younger) is my friend on Facebook and we continue to keep in contact.

This post won't be interesting to anyone except me, but I wanted to document the occasion for future recall. Key memories: the park with Subway lunch; a lovely walk with cousins by the river; keeping Little Gary from falling into said river; and frisbee contests.

Monday, June 3, 2013

Audrey Believed in Pink

I was standing by the cheese in the deli section when a friend of mine rounded the corner. 

"Hi!" she said merrily. "I thought I saw you before, but then I thought to myself, 'Eva doesn't wear pink.' But now I see it really is you!" 

Yes. I was wearing pink. I have no particular aversion to pink, and I've made a deliberate and conscious effort to brighten up my clothes choices lately. Plus, I have mysteriously lost my one pair of black ballet flats that I own and had to slip into my backup pink ballet flats (I got them on sale, cheap, and they fit well and feel good). A pink shirt seemed like just the thing to justify the shoes, which tend to draw attention. I accessorized with pink dangly earrings. To relieve the overall pinkness, I'm wearing denim capris. My hair is still brown and my eyes are still blue. I do not wear bright pink eyeshadow; however, I often indulge in a little bit of dark pink lipstick (though not today, not with so much pink. A nude lip seemed like the better choice when I am otherwise imitating a flower.).

How a woman with a couple dozen pairs of heels can find herself owning only one pair of sensibly colored flats is beyond me. One of those pairs of heels are hot pink strappy sandals that I have yet to wear in public, btw.

Why am I giving you this little peek into my life at this moment? Because I've been working on a major project for a client all day and I needed a break. Sometimes the editor needs to write. Sometimes I have to remind myself I actually went out of the house and accomplished some grocery shopping. Sometimes my brain needs time to not think about a thing in order to have it all fall into place.

This particular project is a non-fiction book I'm helping to get ready for publishing. It's rather unpolished, and there is a lot of organizing of information to do before the actual polishing can be accomplished. It will take weeks. I'm charging accordingly.

So I slipped out to the store for some stuff to make lasagna for dinner, and now it's time to put the lasagna together and get it into the oven. I'm just afraid to go downstairs, which has been inhabited by all the neighborhood boys today. I've heard a lot of running around and yelling -- mostly happy yelling, I think. But they're boys, and they do not have any concept of tidying up behind themselves. 

Come on, eyes and brain. Let's get up and get busy. And let's ponder the fact that while pink may not be an actual color, it is certainly a pleasant sensation in the brain.

Sunday, June 2, 2013

It's about Gratitude, but I Manage to Throw in a Birthing Story as a Bonus :)

I went to church today but only lasted the hour and ten minutes of Sacrament Meeting because my neck was still so painful. Husband took me home and went back to church, and with everyone gone for a little while, I enjoyed a surprise nap.

After Husband and the kids returned home and I had been awakened, I re-read Corrie Ten Boom's The Hiding Place during the afternoon and evening. I love that book. It is an amazing reminder of the power of God to turn any situation into a chance to do good, even when things are their most bleak and awful. I can't imagine being a prisoner in a concentration camp, much less saying a prayer to thank God for the very fleas that infest my wooden bed and yearning for the chance to bring healing to the guards who treated me to inhumanely.

I've been learning again about the power of gratitude, which is a lesson that I haven't yet mastered. It's like there's a switch in my brain, and when it's flipped to the "gratitude" position, everything in my life becomes easier. Nothing will change except my perception, but isn't perception what drives our very reality?

When I was in labor with my fifth child, Joseph, I found myself without the possibility of an epidural. It was a Saturday, and the only anesthesiologist available in the entire hospital appeared to be in the operating room. I was feeling old and tired. Much too old and tired to endure labor without some help. But since no epidural was coming, I suddenly found help after muttering a desperate and earnest prayer for strength to endure, to assist my body in delivering the baby, and that my baby would be healthy.

Like gratitude, it was like a switch had suddenly been flipped. I went from wild-eyed agony to calm. I was still in pain, of course, but I could now move through it and concentrate on letting my body do its work. It required deep meditation on my part, and if I was touched or spoken to, I lost that tenuous connection to the calmness. But each time the connection was broken, I prayed again, and immediately the switch flipped back on. It was such a powerful thing that I still tear up at the memory. The sudden shift in perception of those hours is what makes me always remember the difference between feeling disgruntled with the world and feeling real gratitude for everything.

If you believe in God as I do, you believe in a supreme being who is infinitely loving and merciful. Everything in this world and every experience we go through is part of a larger plan. By having gratitude for the good and the bad, you are allowed to feel the joy of living in that larger plan, of being a part of something grand and beautiful. Without gratitude, it's as if the colors are dimmed and the world is reduced to your momentary pains. There is no relief from the dull march of days without the ability to look around you with wonder and love.

I'm never sure when I've ceased to be grateful until I wake up to myself muttering and complaining during my very own little pity party. What? I think with horror. When did this happen? How did I forget? And how do I get back to feeling grateful when I can't imagine anything but hardness and struggle and dissatisfaction? So I start praying for the gift of gratitude. Sometimes the answer is immediate and the switch flips and my perception changes. Sometimes I have to work for it. Either way, I'm so glad when gratitude has returned to my heart. It's a much better way to live.

Just thoughts for a Sunday afternoon. I'm very grateful that I can learn from others' experiences. But I am also sincerely grateful for my own experiences in learning and re-learning true gratitude.

Saturday, June 1, 2013

Sheer and Utter Indolence

Two of my children asked me the same question today at different times: "Mom, why do you like foreign movies so much?" 

I woke up with a severe pain in my neck on Thursday, and it wasn't metaphorical. So, in between hobbling around making sure my smaller children actually got something to eat and hissing through my teeth in pain or dabbing away an errant tear every time I was forced to bend or turn, I lay down and watched movies. I watched movies all day on Thursday, squinting at my computer monitor from the bed in order to read the subtitles while the actors babbled on in French, Hindi, or Korean. 

On Friday morning, I woke up pretty much pain free. Sadly, one hour after getting up, pleased at the speed with which I had healed, I slipped on my way up the stairs and jarred my back and neck so badly I was forced back into bed. So, on Friday, I watched movies in Norwegian, Icelandic, Japanese, and Hindi (again) (I have a thing for Indian cinema). 

Today, I have actually been out of doors, and the regular doses of ibuprofen are keeping me from crumpling, though being upright for long leaves me aching and grumpy. More Indian movies, then, and thus, the questions. 

"You know you're slipping discs!" exclaimed Ruth, Jazzee the Dog's real mom, when I talked to her on the phone. "I know all about spine problems, considering I've had eleventy-billion surgeries on my crumbling vertabrae!" (She didn't really say "eleventy-billion," but I can't remember how many surgeries she said she's had on her back, and eleventy-billion is close enough). She sounded just a little bit pleased that someone could share her pain, though I know she doesn't really mean it. I'm pretty sure.

Whatever is causing my irritating back muscle spasms, my education in foreign film has continued from my time at college, where foreign film watching was required in one of my classes. I remember a night when my roommate and I had sat through two of the three reels of one of Akira Kurosawa's epic period dramas, Kagemusha, two hours into the three hour total. When the third reel started, we were puzzled by the picture. Was this artistic license? Were we watching horse riders as a reflection on a still lake? Nope. The reel had been wound upside down and backward -- not that we could tell from the fact that the actors were now speaking backwards Japanese. A backlit head popped out of the projector booth window and told us all to come back tomorrow. 

I never did finish that movie. I had a life, and I couldn't sit through the first two hours again just to get to the end. 

Now, however, I'll sit through two and a half hours of something in Hindi mixed with English just because I never know what to expect next. Even the French movies were fun, and the Norwegian one was really good, as well. I always like Korean cinema. 

Now, if only someone would pay me to watch foreign movies, I wouldn't be so worried about getting back to work. Fortunately, Husband hasn't let the kids starve, bless his strong back.