I'm safe and sound back in Okiehomie town. I love being back in my stompin grounds, my roots. And I've been reminded of what is so great about Oklahoma and being an Oklahoman. First was the sunset as my plane was landing. It was like a welcome home banner in the sky and I just had to take note of it as I wrote furiously in my leatherbound. Amidst all the scrawling rigamarole on the page, was a simple "I love Oklahoma sunsets, I'm home." Then this morning I ran to the post office to buy some holiday stamps for some Christmas greetings. And I knew by all the hellos and Merry Christmases and jolly chit chat happening in the very crowded, very near closing post office, that I was home. Bless this darling outcast of all regions state (oh no, it's true. The midwest won't claim us because we're too much in the middle, the south pretends we don't exist because we're too far north even though some of our boys fought with the Confederates during The War, and we're not the west .Anyway) and the kind dear hearted people that live here. We may be an interesting breed, but at least we're a polite one. A breed where everyone's your neighbor, especially at Christmas. (was that sufficiently Hallmark Christmas movie enough? Yeah, I thought so too, but it doesn't make it any less true).

It is the most wonderful time of the year and nowhere is it more evident than on the BYU campus. Every building has decked its halls and the trees are all lit and ready for you to wonder at how the grounds crew wraps the lights around each little branch. Well, there is another place on campus that wants to be part of the festiviti

es. The L. Monte Bean museum. Have you ever been? In three words: taxidermied animals . . .I fail to find a third word sufficient for the fascinating horror that this building with maroon and green carpet with the smell of old fur coats in the air thick and stale with the indignant spirits of decapitated giraffes and more kinds of antelope than I care to mention. Basically, I'm not a huge fan. I think it's supposed to be a learning e

nvironment, an indoor zoo of sorts where you can go and get up close and personal with animals sans fear of bodily harm. Only instead of learning when I go there, all I can think about is what it took to decapitate that poor giraffe and if the person who did it can sleep at night and then I think about the custodians of the building. Every time I think about the horrors they must encounter as they vacuum past the stuffed wild boar I shiver and thank my lucky stars all I have to deal with is twenty desks drenched in Martinellis because the honors kids got a little rowdy at their end of the semester party.I generally try not to think about the Bean museum. But The Reason for the Season has made it imposs

ible to ignore. You see, it has recently come to my attention that the creepy Bean has followed in the great tradition of the creche. The nativity. Yup. They put up a nativity scene. But don't worry, it's not any regular old nativity scene.

It's this:

Please just note the wombat thing that looks like it's about to eat the Baby Jesus. Or maybe the dead-but-looking-alive-for-eternity kangaroo that looks like she'd like to steal the Baby Jesus as her very own joey. Just a second, there's a stork. I fear for the Baby Jesus's eyes, that stork (who, I guess if you believe in that sort of thing, is just

taking a rest after peacefully dropping the Baby Jesus into the manger in front of Mary). Is the array of semi-exotic dead animals huddled

around the Baby Jesus not enough for you? I understand. Well then I'll leave you with this bit of cheer:

How about the Holy Virgin Mary in the likeness of a freaky fashion mannequin ca.1975. Or maybe Baby Jesus in the form of a Baby So Real Doll? They reached for the reverent creche and whether they reached it or not is in the eye of the beholder. So I suppose there's only one thing left to say:

Merry Christmas from the Bean Museum, y'all.

Merry taxidermy Christmas

The button on my darling denim romper broke. Don't worry, it didn't just come off, no it broke. As in broke. So I'm going orphan/newsie style and tied the strap through the button hole. I guess that's what you get when you change hastily backstage for a scene . . .karma's a romper killer.

Hey it's Halloween! You know what that means: it's pumpkin time y'all! This season I've rediscovered a love of nearly every sweet thing pumpkin that is not pie. I'm nibbling on a pumpkin chocolate chip cupcake with cream cheese frosting right as we speak (I know, right? Try not to salivate on the keyboard as you ponder on that one). But it all started with one thing: Chet. Yup, reason 647 to lalalove my iPhone 4. Pumpkin.
You see, one day I was perusing my Epicurious app, trying to keep myself from remembering and slightly resenting myself for thinking that early morning custodial really is a great idea (it is, actually. A good idea. It works for me in every way. But sometimes that's a bit difficult to remind yourself when it's 5 am). I was looking in the section called Halloween Treats and for the most part it was what you'd expect. You know, just your run of the mill spider cookies, witch fingers made of baby carrots and "blood" filled cupcakes. But then there was something different, so intriguing I tapped on the icon to see how to make it. My relationship with Epicurious generally dwells in the realm of platonic, we aren't even in the friend zone. Basically I look and dream about being a semi-gourmet perhaps a little hip maybe Ready-Made Julie/Julia hip but I never act on any impulse to make anything from Epicurious. But this recipe. Pumpkin donuts. Pumpkin donuts. I mean fat sack of the most perfect piece of fried serendipity I've ever come in contact with.

So I did the only thing a body can do in that situation. I created an excuse to make these treats. I had a partay. Sort of. Anyway some of my most darlings came and we made pumpkin donuts. Pumpkin donuts. Something I learned is that basically everyone becomes intrigued and somewhat nostalgic for something but they're not sure what when you mention pumpkin donuts. And they did not disappoint. It was just as pumpkin was intended to be experienced: the taste of pumpkin pie but the texture of an old fashioned donut, smothered in cinnamon sugar. I mean come on. You'd have to be made of stone or severely allergic to the squash to not feel some kind of positive reaction to that thought. We liked them. And I'd say we're rather discerning bunch. Plus there was no chocolate, but I still managed to feel satisfied. For whatever that's worth. So, here you go, try it. The Recipe. Love it. And maybe this will help renew your faith in this fall staple. It sure has for me. Thanks Chet.

I'm app happy.

But I'm a specific kinds of app happy (so really I'm an app snob. . . but what else is new?) I'll tell you what else is new: my Museum Mate app, MOMA app and French Word of the Day app. Oh and my iPhone 4. He is sleek and lovely and so handy. And by handy I mean there may be a budding love affair between my iPhone 4 and myself. He is everything a young phone ought to be: useful, musical, artistic and international. I can listen to This American Life one minute and then look up some slightly reliable information about the Bermuda Triangle on my Wiki app and then find a recipe for zucchini cake on Epicurious app and then text i'll be="" there="" in="" a=" It's pure magic people, pure magic. But the thing is, I haven't found just the right name for him. I have this compulsion. I don't believe it has a name but it is about names. I just have to name major objects in my life. Car? Named Ace. Cello? Darcey. MacBook? Mac Jacobs. Suitcase? Pierre. And so on. I've never named a phone before, but then again I've never had a phone worth naming. But for some reason I'm stumped on iPhone. We've lived together for about a week now (I can't imagine life without him anymore) but I've not been able to come up with a suitable name. Do they have the top iPhone Names 2010 book in library

What are you reading this summer? I've been beavering away at all sorts of literature (and by literature I mean all the things I don't really have time for during the school year) and today I finished reading my latest quest (recommended to me by my mama and her reading group). I can't really stop thinking about it or talking about it, so I just had to share it. It's this novel right here:
Have you read it yet? No? Then all I have to say is do it. You. Will. Be. Changed. Maybe not in a drastic way, but it will make you think, and think hard. It takes place is Mississippi in the early to mid 1960s, it's told from the perspective of two black maids and a white girl (the novel is divided into sections, with each woman taking a section). And I think it's nothing short of brilliant. It is a personal and poignant look at segregation, prejudices and how wrong ideas can be passed from generation to generation and the fight to changes those ideas. But even with all these lofty sorts of themes, it is a humble and unassuming read. It is real and therefore so beautiful. Not much of a reader? (become one) Then listen to it on tape, cd, mp3 or whatever, because not only is it a wonderful read to yourself book, it's a wonderful read aloud novel. And the readers are fabulous. I sit and listen with Mama (she's behind me in the book, but I love it so much I want to listen to what I just read) and embroider and then before you know it, we're speaking with our best Southern accents all about what we just heard. If you read nothing else this summer (and I surely hope you do choose to crack the spine of another this season) read The Help. Tell me what you think about it.

I won't even acknowledge the time that's lapsed since my last post (it's been much too much), but I needed some time to process and love and revel in my Paris time. And time to juice the Jamba and embroider and watch a bit of tv. Oh the tv. Here's the truth of the matter: there are some crap shows on the tube . . .but then again there are good ones . . .really, really good ones. I am of the Project Runway (PR, which started again last Thursday, I don't even think I need to say anything about how excited I've been about that), So You Think You Can Dance school of thought. You know, the idea that the show ought to have some kind of contest element but really features the creative process of brilliant, sometimes neurotic but always interesting characters who beg for me to become invested . . . and I get invested. Boy howdy, do I ever get invested.Well, a new show has come into my life. A new vice as it were and a new set of people who have no idea of who I am but who I love and whose future I really care about. Bravo TV has done it again and this time it's called Work of Art (or affectionately known as Our Art Show, here on Alexander's Tr.). [There's the whole art-making crew, along with the judges, host and Tim Gunn-esque figure. Don't you just want to watch them make art all day? I sure do.] Think PR but only with visual art. Squeal!! I lalalove it! And I'm basically in love as well. (as I write this, I shake my head at myself for putting so much of my emotional self into a tv program. But c'est la vie). Who/what am I in love with? Well I'm in love with the creative process, the art and the idea that the winner will have a show in the Brooklyn Museum of Art (what a great prize) but I'm mostly in love with a few people . . .or rather person. I suppose it's rather embarrassing to admit, but with so much neurotic adorableness about, who can blame me? There he is. Miles. Miles the adorable, obsessive compulsive artist just oozing with talent and funny sayings and just . . .well . . .look at him. He wears plaid and this grandpa cardigan. And. And. Well. Just look.

I know what you're thinking: Fat sack of aproned preciousness. Right? And don't I know it.

Sure he crazy, but the guy can take a nap because he feels overwhelmed and then wake up with a stroke of genius idea that he inevitably executes in the most meaningful way. Basically, he could be my best friend. Do they have one like him at BYU? But don't take my word for it. Watch it, love it. And I'll even let you love Miles . . .