The other night, as Donna and I were getting ready for bed, a timid knock came from the bedroom door.

One of the kids needed some leg-ache medicine, we figured.

"What do you need?"

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"Is there any way that when the site comes up... music plays?"

All I could think to say was, "Is there any way for me to talk you out of that?"

Sure, how about this MIDI file of Greensleeves as performed by my High School Madrigals? We totally took third place at the Shakespeare Competition with it.

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Photography has become the hobby of my latest affection. As such, I have thrown all my not-as-disposable-as-I'd-like-it-to-be income at it. Not too long ago I got the bug up my ass to make the jump from my high-end consumer-grade Canon Powershot S3IS to something more versatile. And by versatile, of course, I mean expensive.

After a couple weeks of consternation I finally muscled a few bucks out of the budget and ordered a shiny and new Nikon D40. It, and the couple of lenses I bought, arrived a few days later. Inconspicuously packaged in plain, brown cardboard like so many Playboy magazines. Oh, the glorious digital single-lens reflex love I will make with this camera.

I don't want this to be a feature-by-feature review of this camera. You can get that anywhere. But I will say that this camera is light, fast and umm... delicious. Its major advantages are that I can now take good photos without a ton of setup or fussing around with a bunch of knobs and dials. Also, it gives remarkably good head. So that's nice.

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There's no doubt in my mind that the anxiety Donna feels about me is justified. I've given her plenty of reasons to mistrust me and put her guard up. Having her mistrust and anger aimed squarely at my nuts has certainly done enough to build a few barriers on my side of the equation too.

That's all well and good when it comes to blame-placing and finger-pointing but doesn't do us much good in the world of everyday, you know, actually getting along and trusting each other. Sometimes all the years of jabbing with one hand and blocking with the other make it just plain hard for us to even muster a civil amount of decorum, let alone intimacy. It's a strange dynamic given the fact that we are both widely regarded as personable, easy-going, charismatic people.

So what's the solution? How do we both take the gloves off and stop playing defense with our fragile, damaged emotions? Playing nice gets us by on any given day, but it's just that... playing. The best coping we've come up with so far is just to ignore the hurt for a few days or weeks at a time while we grit our teeth and smile. But that only works for a little while. Eventually, it stacks up and one of us does something to let the other know that we're hurting. Something, anything at all to say, "hey, this still isn't resolved and no amount of pretending will make me as happy as I want to be."

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I hope most of you deduced that Friday was our wedding anniversary.

A week or so ago, I asked Donna if she wanted me to try to score some free tickets to a show at the theater where I used to perform. The same theater I'll be performing in again very soon. Little did you know that I'm a former C-list local celebrity. On the charts I fell somewhere between drive-time traffic reporter and back-of-the-phone-book attorney. I'm a powerful and important man. People know me.

"Sure. Get four and we'll double-date with the Bradfords."

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I am not beautiful enough to do anything I want.
She is.
The more I beg, the less I get.

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Eleven year-old Cindy makes one hell of a sandwich. It's her own personal concoction. Wheat bread, turkey, pickles, an ample helping of cheese, mustard, sliced pepperoncini peppers, some more mustard, a little more cheese, then some more mustard. Oh, and a tomato slice... and some mustard.

It's a pretty damn tasty sandwich.

Last night, knowing I would be leaving a little early for work today, I asked her if she would make one of her special sandwiches for me to pack in my lunch. She bounded off like a monkey on a spring. Not too long later, she was back.

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Pink is so not her favorite color.

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Ok. I'm finally going to admit it.

I have no idea who Ron Paul is. Also, I don't give a crap. He doesn't even use an initial in front of his name so he can't be all that big a deal.

This post will seem really funny and I'll be revealed as a gigantic idiot if, years from now, he turns out to be someone I actually should give a carp about.

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Another Fathers' Day has come and gone and, like so many in years past, I spent this one without my own father. Instead, as he has in so many ways, my grandfather stood in. Over the years, as my father came in and out of my life, grandpa was always there.

Grandpa gave me my first job. He used to pay me eight dollars to mow the lawn at his auto parts warehouse on Saturday afternoons the summer I turned eleven. Actually, I didn't do much lawn-mowing. Most of the time I used to watch him mow as he gave me detailed instructions about avoiding sprinkler heads and following the grain of the grass. That's just how he is.

Now, he stands in his living room window every Wednesday and watches the grounds-crew hired by his homeowner's association pull his weeds and edge his grass. I'm sure it kills him to not be able to bound out the front door and walk right up to the mower and explain to the poor guy about mowing at forty-five degree angles.

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Brigham Young said, "Now if any of you will deny the plurality of wives, and continue to do so, I promise that you will be damned." Also, "The only men who become Gods, even the Sons of God, are those who enter into polygamy."

Doctors in Northern Arizona say that polygamy is fueling that state's rapidly rising rate of genetic disorders.

Who do you think it makes more sense to believe?

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I'm in a strange and nostalgic mood today. It's as if I had something and it's been taken away. Like the feeling you get after a breakup or being layed-off. Like when you pour the cereal into the bowl and open the fridge only to find there's no milk so you pour the cereal back into the box and buy a granola bar at the gas station instead of having a proper breakfast. Like that.

This could have everything to do with the really crappy sleep I've been getting lately.

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If I could put together a stream of continuous thought today, I would post it here. Alas, I'm on little sleep and not enough caffeine. The world is in a haze around me and I wish everyone would keep their voices down.

All night I kept waking with strange and disconnected half-dreams that would startle or confuse me straight out of bed. I don't remember much about what it was that was in my head but it seemed to make sense enough at the time. The word 'sarong' stands out and I remember feeling like someone's parents were unhappy with me.

I'm not sure what I'm seem to be so hung-over from today but it's affecting my bwain. If I could bottle it, I'd be a brazillionaire, I'm sure.

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Daughter number three, Marie, is turning eight any day now. Oddly, there's been no talk around our house about the possibility of her baptism. I would object, that's public knowledge, and I'm sure that's why the subject hasn't come up.

Baptism into the Mormon faith isn't like being sprinkled by the neighborhood vicar. It is not taken casually and the baptisee is, and will forever be, expected to believe in the tenets of Mormonism without failing or questioning. My feeling is that that's just too large a commitment to make given how absolutely little most Mormons know of their faith, especially at age eight.

A decision like that should be made with full disclosure. A person should be aware of the claims of Mormonism, its history and its controversies. I think this is true of adult converts as well as young children. In fact, I don't think a child is even capable of understanding these things. Most adult converts typically commit to baptism before hearing anything about polygamy, the temple ceremony, the so-called translation of the Book of Abraham and many other crucial pieces of information.

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"Does it look like I have big brown circles under my eyes?"

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Should it be of any concern at all to me that the LDS church actually makes their own fruit drink? My mother just had a box-load delivered to our house. Do you think it'll be enough?

Deseret Brand Kool-Aid. Drink it up everybody.

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Just when I thought I might run out of things to blog about, Jesus came along and put a stack of blog-fodder under my windshield wiper.

Not one, not two, but three World Newsletters from Tony Alamo Christian Ministries. Jubilee!

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It's raining today. That's good because it means I get to wear my Champion Spark Plug windbreaker.

I know I've gone on quite a bit about this jacket but seriously, is your Champion racing apparel official? I didn't think so.

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I'm sorry if yesterday's picture of Beth's mangled face left any of you feeling queazy. It did me.

I'm written before about how I'm prone to some uneasiness when it comes to medical stuff. You know, band-aids, papercuts and pictures of my co-worker's father holding a kidney in his hands that she just opened one day and said, "Hey, look at this picture of my dad holding a kidney." -CLUNK-

Yeah... Stuff like that.

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This is what it looks like when the PVC pipe a five-year-old is playing light sabers with meets the ground at the bottom of the slide just before the child does.

One tooth lost. Two more loose. Upper jaw cracked. Lots of tears.

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Wednesday afternoon I got a text message from Donna.

"Should I just play stupid about the site? Because everytime I read it I get sad and mad."

She later called and told me she didn't really mean to say "mad" but that this whole experience has left her with the general feeling that I don't respect her beliefs.

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