As Leigh and Sara P. have pointed out in the comments section, the advertisements that Google Ads chose to place on the site after the hair gel post are hilariously disgusting. I'm not going to type what they say again lest they come up with something even more gross, but I don't like it any more than you do. Note to Dan: The ads are not long for the world.

Since you won't be clicking on those ads, and I don't blame you, click on over to the Web site of my genius artist friend Leigh. After you see it, you will think I am a cooler person than I am, just for knowing her. That's pretty much how I feel.

Dan and I have been getting a big kick out of this video clip. Before you watch it, you have to understand that apparently, this is from some Japanese reality show, and the girl you will see has been dressed up as a seal and sent to the zoo. This went well until she encountered a predator. No one gets hurt, so don't worry. Just watch.

The lesson is, don't wear a baby seal hat to the zoo.

If you notice, the Google ads are no more. I am not going to reprint the exact phrase generated by a Google ad that resulted in their expulsion from my blog, but suffice it to say that the sound of my indignant yelling finally forced Dan to admit that the ads were perhaps not working out like he'd hoped. If I knew anything about how to manage the coding on my own Web site, they would have been gone a long time ago, but knowledge is power.
So now they are gone, and I think it's safe to say that we will not be experimenting with any content-based advertising again any time soon.
Please enjoy your blue box free reading.

In the last two days, I have met two new people from the motherland who stumbled across this site in random Internet surfing. So please welcome to the blog Randolyn from Oloh, whose son recently started a job in Albuquerque, and Alex, who is a University of New Mexico grad student from Tupelo. Randolyn wants to know how our collective hometown of Oloh, Mississippi, got its name. I have no idea. Any thoughts, Internet folk? And although Alex may not know it, his hometown calls to mind a great Emmylou Harris song called "Boy from Tupelo." Cheers to home state connections. It's not such a big world, really. I love how the Internet makes that true.

I bought a new journal the other day. It was a very impulsive purchase, the sort that you weren't planning, but suddenly makes a lot of sense. Since I was 16 or so, I've always kept a journal, and there is a shelf in our living room filled with the old ones, at least a dozen of them, which no one including Dan will ever read unless I am dead or they have a serious wish to be so. It's kind of like classified information. I could tell you what's in those books, but then I'd have to kill you.
The reason this journal is different is that I still have half of my old one left. Usually, I write on every last page of a journal and then take a long time picking out a new one, like some people would treat buying a car. But as for my last journal, I just quit writing in it last year around the time that I was blogging every day to write updates about Aaron. Then, when I went back to it, I was overwhelmed at how much I would have to write in it for the huge gap in between entries to make sense. I tried a few times, but the reason I have always written in a journal is to help me sort out my thoughts, and right then, journaling would have involved writing out things that I had already thought about and prayed about until there was nothing I could write in a journal that would make matters any clearer to me. Because of the circumstances, my thoughts were remarkably easy for me to understand, and I was writing them here, both for my benefit and to help others stay connected to our family's story so they could pray for us. For a while, I needed to write about what was going on publicly so that we would have the support of our community in a difficult time more than I needed my own internal monologue. I don't know if I realized why I was doing it at the time, but I just gave up the journal.
Then on Sunday Dan and I were in Barnes and Noble, and I wandered over to the wall of journals -- stacks and stacks of beautifully-bound books full of empty, flawless pages. It was so tempting. They had a soft black leather one with lined paper just like I always have to have in my journals, and gold edging on the paper. I picked it up and flipped through it, and the thought came to me that there's no rule that I have to write on every page of my old journal before I can start a new one. And the more I think about it, I like the symbolism of a new book to write in, and leaving the old one unfinished. I still feel like there's nothing I could say in the old book that hasn't been said here on this web site and in my own mind plenty of times.
But now I have thoughts that aren't really ready for public consumption again. And when I picked up that journal, and realized that I wanted to write again, I just walked up to the counter and bought the journal. I've been writing in it for three days, and I'm so happy to have that part of my life back again. It feels like walking back into a quiet room at home after a year at the state fair. If I want to sit in that room and think unfinished, fragmented thoughts, it's alright, because there is no one but me to hear.
So here's to my new journal, and the hope that it will help me to present better-developed thoughts here. You all deserve that much.

Do me a favor today, folks, and say a prayer for Jill Caroll, the 28-year-old journalist who is being held hostage in Iraq by madmen who are threatening to kill her shortly even though she has never done anything to them. Of all the people to kidnap, I am always mystified when journalists and aid workers are taken. Why hurt people who only came to tell the rest of the world your story or to help you? But I realize it's more complicated than that.

I would never be brave enough to go and do what Jill Carroll was doing in Iraq, but as a journalist, I understand the set of principles that led her to do so, and I am praying for her safe return. Please join me in prayer, even if that's not something you normally do.

And if you want to, click here to read a very good column written by a Chicago journalist about this situation. I know that the news media isn't always viewed as the best or most upright aspect of modern culture, but I think this is a good opportunity to remember that really, "the news media" is just a bunch of people, most of whom do what they do because they believe that, as Mulder says on the X-files, "The truth is out there." Or, to quote a better source, "You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free." (John 8:32.)

Weekend three of packing up for the move. We're trying to pack up gradually, so as to avoid a last-minute rush. I've only spent a few hours each weekend packing boxes, and that's a good thing, because packing is boring and really tiring. But I can tell I'm making progress, because there are now lots of piles of boxes taped up and ready to go. I've only made a few tactical errors. For example: Last weekend, I piled up a bunch of boxes in front of a closet door, before I realized that inside that closet, along with another bunch of boxes, was our supply of paper towels and, more importantly, toilet paper. So we got to move those boxes away from the door later. Live and learn.

Anyone have tips on packing dishes?

I know this is my third blog post today, but I have to note that Dan has been watching FIGURE SKATING for the last three minutes and counting. To his credit, he was mostly mocking the male half of the figure skating couple ... (Check this guy out! He has a mullet AND a sequin jumpsuit! It doesn't get much worse than that.) ... but still, he is watching figure skating! I think it's clear that he's trying to fill the void left in his life by the end of football season. That or he is shopping for a jumpsuit of his own. I'll keep y'all posted.

Attention, people! Drop what you're doing and help us welcome to the world baby Elizabeth Marie, the brand new daughter of our good friends Kate and Mike of Enid, Oklahoma! I understand that she will be known as Ellie, which is such a great name. We're glad you're here, Ellie!

Celebrate this new life as you see fit, even if you don't know Mike and Kate. I'm off to Baby Gap online to buy something pink and fluffy for Baby Ellie from her aunt Haley.

Dan is in California this week, for a conference that is habitually scheduled on Valentine's Day. It's a computer geek type of conference, and I'm convinced they get a discount on the conference center for scheduling it that week, and they just figure it doesn't matter because they assume that none of these guys have girlfriends or wives, and therefore can't think of anything more exciting than hearing Bill Gates speak on Valentine's Day. But that's just my personal opinion. Dan actually gave me some great gifts on Sunday, and we're going to celebrate with a night out later in the week. I just tell you this to introduce the following story:

Because of my temporarily-single state, I found myself wading through the consequences of Valentine's Day this evening, as I tried to get some food and go home after a long, long work day. I originally thought I would pick up some takeout from one of my favorite restaurants, only to be informed by the guy on the phone that the wait ... for takeout ... was an hour and a half. So I went to Whole Foods to pick up some of their great pre-prepared food, and had to fight my way through a crowd of men who were, at 6 p.m. on Valentine's Day, buying flowers. The floral area was like a mosh pit, there was so much elbowing and shoving going on. Seriously, gentlemen! It's just one day a year! It's not like you don't know it's coming!

So a poll, male readers: How far in advance did you get ready for Valentine's Day? Make me proud, men. Don't tell me you were one of those guys in the store at 6 p.m.

Or if you were, maybe you want to consider commenting under a pen-name.

A week from today, we were planning to move into our first house. Unfortunately, in the last week, our plans have changed. The people who were selling the house we were going to buy mysteriously changed their minds at the last minute, and now it seems that the deal won't go through. It's a little more complicated than that, but that's probably as much as I should say here.
It's very disappointing, and also frustrating, because as I've mentioned, we had boxed up about half our things, and now we're left with a lot of boxes and nowhere to put them. For now, we'll probably pile them up in the guest room and just hope it won't be too long before we find a house. I'll be deciding what "too long" is based on how many times I have to open one of those boxes to find something ridiculous, like a food processor attachment.

We'll keep you posted on our whereabouts.

Is it just me, or is anyone else getting tired of the Olympics being on TV? If I can't get that music out of my head, I don't know what I'm going to do. Also, I spend most of the time wondering who originally thought something along the lines of "Dude! I bet if we made this super long ice tube, we could slide down it, and if we lived to tell about it we could call it the Luge, and it would be an Olympic sport!"
Of course, Dan wants to watch the Olympic games just because football if over and this represents some sort of carbon-based life form playing a sport on international television. If you think I am exagerrating, consider this: On Sunday, I got up from a nap to find Dan deeply absorbed in watching a sport called curling.
From the hour of this that I was then treated to, I have gathered that curling is an extremely wussy sport probably invented by the British, which involves sliding rocks over ice so that they land in the middle of a little circle. While the rocks slide, men walk along beside the rocks and rub little brushes back and forth in front of the rock, to smooth out the ice so that it rolls faster or slower depending on what they want. Sometimes, it takes several presidential administrations for the rock to make it to the circle.
I think I can honestly say that it is hands-down the most boring thing I have ever seen.
On the other hand, short-track skating is pretty awesome. I don't understand how they can keep moving while they are leaning so much that they can touch the ice with their hands.
But still. It's too much ice.

A question, readers, and later, I'll give you an answer: When you were a kid, what, if anything, did you do with the cardboard tubes left over after your mom had used up a roll of paper towels?

I ask this because tonight in the children's progam class that Dan and I lead every week at our church, we're going to do a craft with those little cardboard tubes, and I am having seecond thoughts about it because I'm not sure if I was the only kid who grew up having fun with those things.

So if y'all tell me what you thought those were for, and it's not too far off from what me and my siblings used to do with them, I'll tell you all about it.

Let's be honest: Even if y'all never played with a cardboard tube in your life, I'll probably still tell you what we did.

The last post elicited some great answers to the burning question: What is the true purpose of those little cardboard tubes you find inside paper towels and toilet paper?
Let's see. We've got people who, when they were children, used the tubes to make mazes for hamsters, kazoos, binoculars, kaleidoscopes, and pretend swords. Then we've got Grant, Kelly's husband, who Kelly says still uses the tubes as trumpets. We're getting warm!
But the true name of these cardboard tubes, as Aaron pointed out in the comments section, is ....
Doo da doos!
Yes. When we were little, our mom, teaching us how to make horn noises through the tubes so we could pretend that we were playing trumpets, told us that the cardboard tubes were actually called "doo da doos," a name that, to a 4-year-old's mind, sounds much like the noise you make when you play it like a horn: "Doo da dooooooo!"
All through my life, even into adulthood, I have referred to these as "doo da doos," and I never thought anything of it until I one day told Dan to "throw away that doo da doo," and he looked at me like I was crazy. So I converted him, and now he, too, refers to them as doo da doos.
So for the last few weeks, we've been collecting doo da doos, and tonight we took them to our church class to let them make decorated cardboard trumpets. And there must be something universal about the magic of a round piece of cardboard, because the minute we handed them to the kids, before we even told them what we were going to do with them, they put them up to their mouths and started making trumpet noises.
It made me laugh and feel homesick all at the same time.
Funny what a stupid little piece of cardboard can do.
Thanks for playing, y'all.

Congratulations to Aaron, who today won a run-off election to become Attorney General of the Student Body Association of Mississippi State University! It was a tough election, with three candidates, and Aaron and Kelly both worked really, really hard to get people to go out and vote. They even made 3,000 Rice Krispie Treats and handed them out on campus to help people with name association. How great is that?
No doubt this is the first of many political victories for my kid brother and his first lady. I've told him I just want to visit Camp David every once in a while.

How I spent my Saturday morning:
Drinking coffee brought to me in bed by Dan.
Reading Walker Percy's "The Moviegoer," which I read years ago, but which I think I am actually getting this time around.
Listening to Elliott Smith's "Figure 8."
My life is so good. Don't ever let me tell you otherwise.

Best passage from the first half of "The Moviegoer," thoughts from a charachter who is having something of an existential crisis, much like the one Percy had in his own life when he had to spend a year in a sanitorium recuperating from tuberculosis, which resulted in his spiritual conversion. These are the words of Binx, the 30-year-old New Orleans stock broker in Percy's novel, who is telling the reader that it has recently occurred to him that there might be a need for him to search for something more significant in his life.

"What is the nature of the search? you ask.
Really, it is very simple, at least for a fellow like me. So simple that is it easily overlooked.
The search is what anyone would undertake if he were not sunk in the everydayness of his own life. To become aware of the search is to be onto something. Not to be onto something is to be in despair.
What do you seek? God? you ask with a smile.
I hesitate to answer, since all other Americans have settled the matter for themselves and to give such an answer would amount to setting myself a goal which everyone else has reached, and therefore raising a question in which no one has the slightest interest. Who wants to be dead last among on hundred and eighty million Americans? For, as everyone knows, the polls report that 98 percent of Americans believe in God, and the remaining 2 percent are atheists and agnostics, which leaves not a single percentage point for a seeker.
So am I, in my search, a hundred miles ahead of my fellow Americans or a hundred miles behind them? Have 98 percent of Americans already found what I seek, or are they so sunk in the everydayness that not even the possibility of a search has occurred to them?
On my honor, I do not know the answer."

It's an interesting point: As Americans, we tend to make up our minds about something and then just quit thinking about it. So even if we say we believe in God, the idea that we should seek Him doesn't always follow.
I love Walker Percy.

Tonight, I decided to be a good little wife and make a roast chicken using a recipe that is surprisingly easy, courtesy of Real Simple magazine, for which my mom bought me a subscription this Christmas after I switched jobs and could no longer steal my former editor's back issues. (I miss you, Sandy! Thank you, Mom!) Anyway, it is the best women's magazine EVER. Because I don't really ned to know what men are thinking, which is apparently all that Cosmopolitan is prepared to tell me. I do, however, need to know how to unclog a drain and roast a chicken. And Real Simple tells me, long may they reign.

Anyway, now that the commercial portion of the evening is done: Tonight, I roasted a chicken. And, as could have been predicted, given my level of skill at this kind of domestic art, (Subzero) I burnt the SNOT out of my finger trying to put a meat thermometer in to check the temperature. Oh well. That's what I get for trying to be a domestic goddess. From now on, I will go back to my standard level on the Martha Stewart Gauge of Domesticity: Haley - She's sort of OK.