Margaret is the pianist for the primary here in our Portland ward. She really likes to play for the children, and it's a great excuse to practice the piano, which surprisingly gets put off when it comes as a choice between watching Prison Break and practicing piano--go figure! Yesterday she played at a primary program that lasted the entire sacrament meeting. It was funny to see the primary workers almost outnumbering the primary kids--there are only 10. Margaret did a great job playing all the songs and she even got to play the closing hymn for the whole ward. I was totally proud of her.

It's funny how playing the piano is such a rarity outside of Utah these days. A while ago, a friend from Utah was visiting and we went on a tour of a traditional Portland tourist trap site, Pittock Mansion. When we were paying the entrance fee, the woman asked us where we were from and our friend said, "Utah." Then the lady said, "Oh, which one of you plays the piano." The three of us looked at each other quizzically, and the woman continued, "I've found that every group from Utah has at least one person who plays the piano." Instead of going on a tirade over the woman's blatant stereotyping (I mean, who's got the energy these days?)Dave and I both pointed at Margaret and said that she did. The woman told Margaret, "When you get to the music room, feel free to jump over the rope and play the piano in there." We thought that was a little random, but when we saw the music room, I knew Margaret had to play. The Pittocks were totally into music and they had their mansion designed to carry the music that was played in the music room throughout the house. Margaret sat down and played a Mozart piece and it sounded incredible. (Even though I was hoping she would play something from the new music book I'd gotten her "Songs of Light--music inspired by the art of Thomas Kinkade," but unfortunately she'd already burnt it--can you believe it?) I had to laugh, though, when I looked up the open stairway foyer that people up all four floors were leaning over the railings listening to the music that could be heard everywhere in the house. I was about to start tap dancing on the parquette floor of the foyer to attract some attention on myself, when I thought that Margaret was probably a lot more deserving of the other people's praise. (And I'm glad I didn't, because without my satin dance ensemble, I probably would have looked ridiculous!)

Today Margaret and I went down to the Portland Art Museum to see their new exhibit on the Hesse family. They were a royal house in central Germany, and the art and artifacts they had there were amazing. One thing that we couldn't believe was a 30-foot long table "centerpiece" that was made of gilded bronze. It had hundreds of candelabras, elevated trays, and decorative sculptures. I think we need something like that for our Thanksgiving table setting. All we have decorating our table right now is some pumpkins left over from Halloween, and they're probably not going to last until Thanksgiving--they're already giving off a slight odor which is never a good sign. We also got to see a whole collection of miniature Fabergé eggs, that were pretty impressive--given how small they were.

Since this was an American museum, the exhibit path ended right in the gift shop--isn't that convienient? They had all sorts of re-creations and books, but what caught my eye was a selection of REAL (albeit modern) Fabergé eggs! They had little ones, full sized ones, solid ones, ones with little carriages in them. I was amazed that they were all there just in the museum gift shop (of course there weren't any prices, which I assume means that if you have to ask how much one is, you can't afford it.) I told Margaret that we should get one, not because it is a beautiful piece of art, but because it would sound so cool to refer to it in the house. Can't you imagine what visitors would think when they heard lines like, "That Costco toilet paper is under the table that the Fabergé egg is on," or "The Wal-Mart coupons are sitting next to the Fabergé egg," or "Who put the Fabergé egg in this carton of REAL eggs?" See? Don't you agree that having one of those in the house would really class the place up! Especially since right now, we're decorating with those plastic easter eggs that split in two and are filled with jellybeans.

I've been wanting to see the new movie Jarhead since it came out, but Margaret didn't really have any interest (which didn't really make any sense--she's usually the first to want to go to every war epic, hyperviolent thriller, or mindless killing movie that comes out--oh wait, that's my brother Jayson!). Anyway, I met up with a friend to see it last night and was glad I saw it. After the movie, since neither of us had eaten (compliments of rush hour traffic, both of us had to head to the theater straight from work), we headed to the P.F. Changs next to the theater for something. We ordered a bowl of hot and sour soup that ended up being a vat full enough to feed a small Vietnamese village, so needless to say, there was a lot left over. I had them put it in a to-go container, because Margaret really likes that soup, and it was my way of making up for the fact that I'd ditched her for the evening (since last night she'd brought me back a piece of stale sacrament bread that she'd found on the floor of the chapel from her primary practice last night--I sure hope that the blessing hadn't worn off yet). I had brought a baggy of dark chocolate M&M's to smuggle into the theater, but had forgotten them, so when I got back in the car to drive home, I found tham and was blissfully snarfing them down and was almost home when I realized that I had left the container on the table. Don't you hate it when that happens? When the food is sucky, or even ok for that matter, I don't feel guilty about throwing it away, but when its good, and the next day you're hankering for the rest of your meal, and go to the fridge to get one more bite of that Chili's Southwest eggroll (aren't those the best?), totally anticipating the left over goodness, only to discover that there is no box in the fridge, and remember that you so stupidly forgot the box that is in the landfill by now!--THAT'S what kills me. Plus, it was my only evidence that we went to the movie and had some food later--now Margaret will probably think we just spent the evening at Jiggles!

I would just like to announce to the internets just how good a husband I am. Last night, Margaret had to go to the church to play piano for a primary program practice. The practice session lasted from 6:30 to 8:30, and so she had to miss out on our weekly ritual of hanging out with the Portland gang and watching Gilmore Girls "My Name is Earl." Well, being the dutiful husband, I sat through the ENTIRE episode so I could tell Margaret all the sordid details when she got home. Imagine my surprise when she didn't ask me what happened! It's as if she could go on with her life without knowing if what's-her-name reconciles with what's-her-face without losing sight of something or other, while still maintaining who-knows-what! The next thing I know, she'll want to stop watching THE SIMPSONS! Then I'll know that the whole world has gone crazy! (Well, maybe not THAT extreme--however if I every want to stop watching The Simpsons, start packing your hand cart, because the call to walk to Jackson County will be right around the corner!)

I was at the Apple Store today and--joy of joys--actually HELD a Video iPod! It was like the moment of splendor when the Nazis opened the Ark of the Covenant on Raiders of the Lost Ark--only I didn't see any sultry maidens fly out only to turn into horrible banshees, nor did I get melted--OK, OK it wasn't EXACTLY like that moment, but it was pert-near close. I checked it for what movies were loaded on it, but there was only movie trailers. Before the sublime moment could be marred, however, I noticed that the full-length trailer for Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire was on it. Oh man, I'm so excited to see that! Anyway, I started it and was glued to the 2.5 inches of full-color glory, feeling the intoxication of holding the portable movie in my BARE HANDS! I can now say that I know how Gollum felt when he first got his mitts on the Ring of Power--to be able to hold every digitized bit entertainment in the palm of my hand is perhaps the closest thing to heaven that man can attain here on earth. (Aside from meth, but that's so 2004, and I've always hated needles anyway.) When Fox starts selling episodes of the Simpsons to watch on it, then I know I've finally reached the Terrestrial Kingdom (since I'm pretty sure they don't allow Simpsons videos or any music by Madonna into the Celestial Kingdom.), and at this point, I'm resigned to being in the cool section of heaven anyway. Anyway, I've already starting lobbying Santa's representative in our household--Elf Maiden Margaret--to give me this gift that exemplefies the birth of Christ. (And if it helps, I promise not to delete "The Work and the Glory" that unfortunately comes preinstalled on all units sold in Utah, AND to cut back on pirating music by 13%). Right now, I'm just hyping the product, but I'll turn up the pressure as December 25th nears, until she'll HAVE to pass the request on to Santa just to shut me up. I'll keep you apprised of the status of the pestering lobbying.

Speaking of Christmas, several years ago, Santa's Little Helper Margaret got me an iPod for Christmas. We were heading to Utah, but she asked me to open her present before we left Portland. When I started opening the package, I could tell it was a book, and I thought that she must want me to read it on the flight, because why else would she insist that I open it a week before Christmas. Imagine my paralysis when I opened the package to find a copy of WHAT TO EXPECT WHEN YOU'RE EXPECTING!!! I just sat there a minute, mouth agape, not knowing what to say. I looked at Margaret and thought, "This--THIS is how she's telling me we're going to have a baby?!?" Shaking a little, and mumbling a "Wow," I thumbed open the book to find that she had cut a chamber in the book and put my iPod in it. Seeing that iPod was like getting two gifts in one! Afterward (it took about 10 minutes for my adrenalin levels to return to normal), Margaret said that she was going to give it to me at Christmas, but that it might be a little mean to put me through what I had just gone through in front of our family. I'll agree that THAT would have been a little much--plus I don't think that they rest of the family would have taken kindly to have the tantalizing prospect of Margaret and me finally reproducing, only to have it ripped from their cradled arms. Now she could probably get away with it, since everyone in our families have given up on us having kids any time soon.

I just found out that for my weight, I would die from a caffeine overdose if I were to drink 230.53 cans of Diet Coke. (I'm assuming that's in one sitting--I'm WAY over that number if that's per week) Phew! Anyone who knows me knows that my limit is 200--225 if it's a real kick-ass party and I lose control, so I'm good. You can find out what your limit would be, given your caffeine delivery of choice (cola, coffee, cocoa--yes, cocoa has the evil substance, too despite what your seminary teacher told you, etc.) and your weight here.

This weekend, Margaret and I got some yardwork done. We've been putting it off since spring, so to say, there was a lot to do would be an understatement. We knew that it had gotten bad when, last month when my brother was visiting, he said he had to walk through a jungle to get into the house. Despite the fact that we've carefully nurtured the "wilderness" look (I AM a conservation botanist, after all), something had to be done. Last night, coming home from the store, I got saturated trying to squeeze between two rain-soaked shrubs that line the walk up to the house. Getting all the work done in between rainstorms and before the sun goes down at what feels like 2:00 is no easy task. Every time we put in marathon gardening sessions, I can't help but think of how convenient it would be to live in a condo where the only yard maintenance we would have to worry about would be--NOTHING!

I wish I would have read the fine print in the American Dream of Homeownership Contract©--I'm sure it would have said, "you hereby agree to worry about your roof every time it rains really hard; forgo a twelve-week Kenyan safari and 2006 Honda Civic because this is Oregon and combined, that's how much your property taxes will be; give up your weekends doing yardwork, despite the fact that putting in fewer than 80 hours per week will just leave your yard looking slightly less messy; be prepared to fix at a moment's notice, any emergency repair regardless of other plans, obligations, or desires (these emergency repairs may include, but are not limited to: front steps falling in, upstairs toilet leaking through kitchen ceiling, or garage being declared a hazard and you are fobidden to enter it.)

Am I just kidding myself when I think about how perfect it would be to live in those ultra-cool modern industrial urban loft-style condos? Can't you just see Margaret and me, in our perfect outfits sitting around a gas fireplace, sipping our drinks while chatting about the day's political events, with enough time and energy to cook gourmet meals for our weekly dinner parties, solve world hunger, and write the great American novel? That's what it would be like, wouldn't it?

Since Margaret and I got all the Halloween spirit out of our systems at the party we went to on Saturday, on the actual Halloween, we decided to just stay home, hand out treats to trick-or-treaters, and watch a Halloween movie. We ate all didn't have any Halloween candy, and on the way home I stopped by the store to buy some--imagine my surprise when the Halloween candy aisle looked like a pack of orcs had pillaged it. There was literally nothing left--and I'm talking about even the orange peeps--I mean, who buys those unless they are absolutely DESPERATE! Anyway, I had one last option--there is a dollar store on the way home that I stopped in and they had rolls of stickers for $1. I got those and they worked well--at least for the younger kids, who poured over them choosing just the right sheet (there were trucks, puppies, hearts, etc.) All the older kids asked, "don't you have any candy?" I just told them these would be better for their teeth. Yes, the words, "THESE WILL BE BETTER FOR YOUR TEETH" came out of my mouth. I sounded like a parent--or at least an adult--when did THAT happen? Unfortunately I didn't have any cigarettes to give out to undo my decline into adulthood in the eyes of the trick-or-treaters, so I had to find something else to occupy my mind before it drove me crazy--that's where the movies came in. I rented two options, a scary serial killer movie, and a comedy about a witch. Since Margaret gets terrified a little freaked out watching horror movies, she decided on the comedy--BIG MISTAKE. It was the movie "Bewitched," and it turned out to be awful. It was long, stupid, and the whole time we thought: "What was Nicole Kidman THINKING?" We got through the movie, just barely, and it left an awful taste in our mouths (and since we didn't have any Halloween candy to get the taste out, we were screwed!). I think watching "Mulan 2: The Arranged Marriage" would have been preferable.

Well, last night we decided to watch the scary movie, since it was still early and Margaret thought that would give her enough time to calm down before going to bed. It was the movie "Urban Legend," about a serial killer that uses murder techniques that are from urban legends (like the one where someone gets killed by a person hiding in the back seat after ignoring the warning of the gas station attendant who looked down and saw the murderer.). It was very effective in the scare department--Margaret practically tore a vocal chord or three a couple of times screaming. It got to the point that we had to pause the movie and watch tv for a few minutes before she was ready to watch some more. Fortunately the movie overall was terrible, so it didn't do any long-term damage. We both were able to sleep through the night without any lights on, the house alarm at full-secure mode, and holding a knife aimed at the bedroom door--just in case (uh, not that that's ever happened, but I'm just saying...) I think that nowadays, our idea of a horror movie is anything with Dakota Fanning.

Margaret and I live in the Hawthorne District in Portland. My dad calls it "Hippie Town." It's a pretty bohemian part of town and it fits us really well. When we first moved into the area, there was a Hare Krishna temple near us and we would always see orange-clad, shaved headed youths with bongos and pamphlets. Not long after we moved in, my family was visiting from Idaho and one morning Margaret, my brother Jayson, and I went down to Noah's Bagels for breakfast. Sitting in the shop, all of a sudden we heard shouting, clapping, and honking, and when we looked out the window, the street was filled with STREAKERS! There was probably about 50 of them, of various ages--I even remember a little kid maybe 6 years old holding hands with his mom on one side and his dad on the other. The only thing they had on was running shoes and hearts and flowers painted on their bodies. I remember Jayson saying, "This would NEVER happen in Idaho." (I'm assuming that's because it's so cold in Idaho that they wouldn't get any male runners, but that's just a theory.) The runners ran down the road, with a city bus right behind them, since it couldn't pass the throng. The run ended a block down from Noah's, and from there, the runners just dispersed. That was the more surreal part of the morning--walking home from breakfast, every block we looked up had a naked person or two casually walking to their own home. It's one thing to see a group streaking, but it's another thing entirely to see a person strolling through a residential neighborhood naked. It was then that we knew that Hawthorne was the right neighborhood for us. Unfortunately the details of the annual "Freedom Run," which we later found out takes place every April 1st, are closely guarded--because if the authorities knew about it in advance, they would stop it. I guess we'll have to wait until we see the next one, and then strip down right there and join in--and hope we can find our clothes when the race is over (and I also would hope that it is a particularly warm April 1st!).

Growing up, there wasn't a single tv show that my siblings and I followed with more religious fervor than Knight Rider. From the exciting intro music with KITT speeding across the desert, red scanner lights tracking back and forth, to the final narration of "one man can make a difference, in the world of... the Knight Rider," we would be absolutely MESMERIZED! A car that was indestructible, could talk, could drive itself--and I won't even get me started on the turbo boost, (a gimmick my brother and I would use when racing each other--we'd pretend we were running all out, then, after lulling the other into a sense of complacency, shout "turbo boost" and run as fast we could, just like KITT!). There was never any question on Sunday nights of what we were going to watch--and we just assumed that our parents were as enamored with Knight Rider as we were, because, hey, check out that car--who couldn't help but be absolutely ENTRANCED by that car!

Well, a couple of days ago, Margaret and I were at Target and they had a collection of 80's tv Halloween costumes for adults. They had Crockett and Tubbs from Miami Vice, Magnum, from Magnum P.I., and, joy of joys, MICHAEL FRICKIN' KNIGHT! It had the black Member's Only jacket (the kind with the epaulets), a permed wig, and a red shirt--but the coup de grâce was the talking wristwatch. When you pressed it, KITT would say things like "I'm scanning the area," "I need a tune-up," or "How is it that I can act better than you, Michael, and I'm just a car?" Seeing the costume didn't make me want to get it (I had the purple pants, remember), but it did put me in a nostalgic mood, so on the way home, I rented the first disc of the first season of Knight Rider. When we got home, we watched the pilot--Holy crap! I have no idea how that tv show survived--it was long, inplausible, and had AWFUL acting. My worldview, shaped by the quest for justice that Knight Rider represented, was crumbling around me. We thought that maybe it was just a fluke and the actual weekly episodes would be better--uh uh, no such luck. What I learned from watching a few of the episodes was that as a child, all I registered was the car could talk, jump, activate turbo boost, and scare away dogs that tried to pee on his tires. Little did I know that that was all there was to the show. In one of the episodes, Michael has to rush a state senator back to the state capitol for an important floor vote--yes, you heard that right, AN IMPORTANT FLOOR VOTE! Talk about edge-of-your-seat suspense--will she beat those dirty Republicans trying to pass an energy bill favorable to an oil company?--hey, wait...nah, that's TOTALLY implausible. Margaret and I couldn't help but laugh throughout the shows, and I'm sure she sprained her eyes rolling them so much at the ridiculous plot devices and turns. I can't believe that my parents tolerated watching that show with us--oh the sacrifices they made for their children! After that experience, I have no more illusions--the last of my childhood beliefs have been pushed away, the harsh light of an appreciation of good writing and plausible plotlines driving away the last remnants of the world of the Knight Rider. I'm glad that I've learned my lesson and only watch quality shows that have completely believable plotlines and superb acting--like Smallville.