I Have Writer's Block

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy... All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy...


Wow! This is so much easier with cut and paste.

Of Pioneers, Diet Coke, and Carnage

Today, our family went to the Pioneer Day picnic at Palisades Park in 72 degree weather in the middle of July! I know, I know... I am stating this in an entirely sadistic attempt to get lots of comments from the poor suckers in Arizona enduring 115 degree heat for the next few months (...Suckers!)

I kind of have issues with Pioneer Day, as I have absolutely no pioneer heritage and I grow tired of listening to people giving accounts of their illustrious heritage during Sacrament meeting talks. Nobody on either side of my family was even remotely related to Brigham Young or any of his wives. My not-so-distant relatives came by boat and plane to California from Germany, Sweden, Australia, and Pittsburgh--There were no oxcarts involved. Not to mention the fact that I hate the songs that always get sung at church around Pioneer Day, i.e. "In Our Lovely Deseret." "Scatter Sunshine" is another deplorable song, but is not so thematic as "In Our Lovely Deseret," which always reminds me of women in bonnets, sitting around the campfire on the plains as their "chips for wood" smolders away and the Indians lurk in the bushes trying to avoid the fumes. ...But I digress...

So today we celebrated like every good convert's family does, and gathered around the park benches to chow on potluck delights. I should mention, that NOBODY that I spoke to at the picnic had any pioneer heritage, and I am very proud to say that there was absolutely NO jello salad or funeral potatoes to be found on the table. *tear trickling down my cheek* So my absolutely unscientific conclusion is heretofore: Relatives of Brigham Young = Jello Salad + Funeral Potatoes. Masses of recent converts and their families = Diet Coke + Hummus. Indeed, somebody actually dared to bring caffeinated beverages to the potluck, to which my instinctive reaction was a silent "SCORE!!!". The assortment of tasty treats truly was a thing of beauty, and I overate and drank Diet Coke in front of my Bishop because I'm pretty sure the pioneers would have given their left arm just to sup at such a table... I guess you could say, I did it for them.

The other thing we did at the picnic, which was truly picture-worthy (but I'm lame and didn't bring a camera), was allow children to beat a horse with a baseball bat... in honor of the pioneers, of course. Not a real horse, but a pinata that rivaled the size of a pony-ish animal, and which could have contained a bunch of little Greeks hiding away to sack Troy at nightfall. But if there were any in there, they were summarily smacked to tiny bits and gobbled up by hungry primary children who mistook them for candy.

This pinata was ginormous! We almost had to make two trips to get it to the park, as it took some mighty fine ingenuity to finagle that thing into our little Toyota Carola. We almost had to strap one of the children to the roof of the car. Then when we got it strung up into the tree, it was so weighty that the first whack with the bat left the poor creature decapitated, traumatizing the nursery kids and causing a ravaging blood lust amongst the older primary children, who knew that within "Ulysses'" innards there were delicious treats to be had (Did I mention we named the thing? It was the size of a human being, hence we couldn't sentence him to die without giving him a proper name...So we went with the Trojan Horse theme.) Anyhoo... the children enjoyed the carnage, nobody was impaled with the bat, I didn't have to reimplant any teeth from overly-zealous stray swings, AND I think I have secured a lot of dental business for the clinic with the overwhelming amount of candy that was distributed to the Primary kids. (Mwaaa-Haaa-Haaa!) I suppose I could have filled Ulysses with toothpaste and floss, but then I remembered that the recipients would be wielding a baseball bat when they broke him open, and if they discovered such a disappointing reward inside, things could get very ugly very fast.

So that's how the Van Cleaves celebrated Pioneer Day: Great weather, overeating, and carnage. And now off to bed so I can be well rested for church tomorrow... "Hark, Hark, Hark! The children's voices..." *shudder* ...I've got to mentally prepare myself.

I Feel Sorry For My Kids...

They're having such a terrible summer.

No enjoyment, whatsoever...

Nothing but sheer boredom... They're at eachother's throats now...Poor, poor children. What's a mom to do?

Adventures in Anesthesia

My job is a bit harrowing at times on Wednesdays. We go in very early in the morning and administer general anesthesia to kids who are too uncooperative or young to be able to sit through massive amounts of dental work. We inject them in the leg to get them dazed enough to place an I.V., and while they are unconscious, we sit there administering the medication intravenously, monitoring their vital signs, listening to their breathing, etc. And every once in a while, we have to restart the kid's breathing. So my Wednesday activities have become affectionately known around here as "Keeping the Kid Alive" days.


So I came home from work today reminiscing about my own childhood surgery experience, which I had when I was about 3 or 4 for placement of tubes in my ears. I looked kind of like this, but I was spending a lot of my time writhing in pain from repeated ear infections.

For whatever reason, I was not at all nervous. Perhaps it was the preparation by my doctors and parents to get me psyched for my brief stay in the hospital. Maybe it was the fine nurse that put me at ease when she made a matching wrist band for my stuffed Koala bear, "George Washington Berger Bear." (I still have him...see below...But was very miffed that my nurse left off his middle name.)

I was so not nervous, that I looked at the surgery as a chance to prove my phenomenal will power. "I'm going to set the world record for staying awake when they give me the sleepy gas," I silently mused to myself as they wheeled me into the operating room.

"Okay, Honey. I'm going to put this mask on you and then we're going to count to ten. Are you ready?"

"Ready." ****Thinking: "Watch this, Buddy! You're going to be amazed at how long I can hold out! Your drugs have no power over me!"

"Here we go. (Mask goes on) Now start counting."

"One..."

*fade to black*

THE END

Signs the Stress is Getting to Me

I'm kind of a stuffer. I don't express my stress levels explicitly when the pressure is beginning to build, but there are certainly signs when I am having difficulty keeping my head above water. I guess it's one of those times... My kids are out of school; I officially took over as Chief Resident; Just got called to the Primary Presidency; Mom had some minor heart surgery; Brother is about to deploy to Iraq; One of my mentors from dental school died... So there is certainly a lot to ponder.

I notice myself sighing loudly a lot. I notice my cheek muscles are often sore from clenching my teeth together. But my greatest outward manifestation of stress has got to be my sleepwalking adventures. They have been plentiful of late.

I usually don't remember what I've done, but can sometimes remember the reasons behind some of my nocturnal actions if I think hard enough. But sometimes not. For instance, I woke up the other night and realized I had moved furniture around. Wayne is deaf, so he never noticed. I have no clue what I was trying to accomplish and have absolutely no memory of having done this stuff. Hopefully I didn't wake up the neighbors.

Another of my crazier recent exploits came from a bit of comatose problem solving. I have this habit of curling my wrists under me at night time, and I worry that one day I'm going to develop carpal tunnel syndrome because I usually wake up having cut off the circulation in my hands (no hands = no livelihood for a dentist)... So I guess this worry has plagued me enough that my subconscious stepped in to offer a solution. I woke up a few weeks ago having braced my wrists with masking tape. The only reason I remembered my dreamy rationale was because it actually worked: All night I kept trying to put my hands in that position, and kept reminding myself that the tape was meant to stop me from hurting myself. Hey! I'm pretty smart in my sleep!

Actually, I had a moment of pure genius during dental school while taking a nap in the midst of an all-nighter. On the eve of a biochemistry final, one of my dental school friends called to ask a question about the material. I gave an elaborate and articulate answer, for which he thanked me the next day after taking the exam, which contained the very question he had inquired about the night previous... Only problem was, I was asleep when I answered him. I didn't recall what I had told him. I don't even remember him calling. But I guess my explanation was correct! So apparently, I know biochemistry in my dreams.

A few nights ago, I shot out of bed at the sound of a car passing through the alley. I remember "waking up," and very purposefully walking into the kitchen, through the living room, to the front door, back to the kitchen, into one bathroom, into the other bathroom... all the while rearranging things here and there that I ought not to be able to see in the dark. Wayne asked me if I was okay, which I very cheerfully replied, "Yes, Honey! I'm perfectly alright! I'm great!" ...Which was his tip-off that I was not awake or my response would have been much grumpier. But all the next day, I was completely worthless and tired. I'm wearing myself out with these little sleepwalking treks.

I once woke up in the vines of the jungle, pushing the leafy obstructions out of the way as I peered forward on my quest... Only the vines were my hanging clothes and the jungle was the back of my closet. I wonder where I'll end up next!



I guess I'll be happy, as long as I don't start to run into any walls.