I turned 25 years old today. Quarter of a century, etc.

For my birthday, I gave myself a new Star of David pendant. Do you want to know why? Because my therapist’s couch is an anti-Semite and swallowed up my original Star of David pendant and refused to spit it out, all Jonah-like. That’s why. I adore the new pendant. They removed the loop for a chain and I have the particularly special chain knotted through it and the pendant I’m not quite ready to discuss here yet. Just know the entire ensemble is a special one. Special. How trite.

Last night was the celebration over with the crazies down the street. We had a delicious meal, which included my requested funeral potatoes. And brownies. The girls both made me cards.

Teya’s:

Dear Ash, I love you. Happy birthday. You are my favorit aunt/friend ever. You are so funny and I love you. Tey P.S. This is a slash

Eadie’s:

Ash I love you [With balloons]

Meadow crocheted this hat for me. Isn’t it amazing? I adore it. And then tonight, at some unearthly hour, I decided that with half my makeup smeared all over my face it would be a good idea to take a ridiculous amount of cellphone photographs of me wearing it. YOU ARE WELCOME.

This morning, I awakened at an utterly unacceptable hour given the lack of sleep I’ve experienced this week, but it’s hit or miss these days and it’s just been miss the past few is all. BUT! I caught Bruce & Karen before they left for work and apparently, it’s tradition to sit on the bed and open one’s presents. And I sat on the bed and I opened one’s presents. The lovely people who share their home with me shared with me a lovely CD and a Mary Ellen Edmunds book about contentment. C-o-n-t-e-n-t-m-e-n-t. I’m just spelling it out for myself because I need to learn that word pretty soon.

Bless her heart—Amy—I mean, really, BLESS HER HEART. She MADE ME THIS BAG. I lusted after Meadow’s, which she also made, and then she made one for me. It’s a cream damask and it’s reversible to a striped silk and it is the most lovely thing in all the land. And a cameraphone just isn’t right to do it justice, but here it is. And it is even more lovely than you can imagine.

And the day got off to a lovely start!

And then it didn’t take place without well-don’t-you-look-younger-than-you-are material!

Andrew met me at the Nauvoo Café for an early celebratory lunch and as we passed through the line, a server took a quaint look at me and enthusiastically and oh-so-condescendingly asked, “And how old are you?”

“Twenty-five. Today,” I smiled. Oh dear, oh my, oh bother, oh me, oh etc. were all uttered amongst, “You look about 16!” and, “I get that a lot.” She did wish me a happy birthday, though. A happy 25th birthday. 25.

I told Andrew I wanted confetti for my birthday and boy howdy did he ever deliver. He brought me all sorts of confidential records in shredded fashion and they are safely stowed in the Camry on the street or there would be a cameraphoned photo of the birthday confetti here too. In my spare time, you know, NOT BEING EMPLOYED, I’ll plan to reconstruct it all and begin my ascent to head of the universe.

I celebrated the rest of the day by going to THERAPY! Wahooooooooooo! Boy howdy! And then because I wasn’t reminded quite enough how royally screwed up I am, I swung by the psychiatric APRN’s office for a visit. I gave her a card for our one-year anniversary, which is tomorrow. It began, “I’m pretty much pissed we even have an anniversary.” She laughed. She then prescribed a marathon weekend of rented seasons of Sex & the City and learning to allow myself to be human. I asked for that first part on a script—you know, for my bishop.

I spent the evening with Camille and eventually Wobee. They gave me a most sentimental gift, which is most out of the ordinary and most very extremely awfully incredibly amazing. And also some other stuff that I need. So thanks for that too.

I held Soren on my lap and I missed Ethel and I think he knew that, because he doesn’t usually even let me look in his general direction. And we watched our brand new President-Elect visit with Ms. Walters. Her lipstick needed some work and I’m just about sick of hearing about that damn dog. We watched David Letterman and I swooned while Camille questioned my mental stability (DON’T WE ALL?), we swtiched between Conan and Craig, and I fell into bed upstairs in preparation for a quiet Thanksgiving tomorrow.

And I just can’t say I would have had this day turn out any other way.

I have been on vacation since Thursday. V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N. No, I have not been on vacation since November last year, or since November 1983 or whatever else is hilarious and is spewing forth from your very clever mind rightthisverysecond. I especially have not been on vacation since I hit land in Salt Lake City, Utah on Saturday, 13 September 2008. I have been on the anti-vacation. That is what I have been on. So. Now that that’s out of the way—and aren’t I feeling a little confrontational with the non-existent blog people lately—I have been on vacation since Thursday, with the understanding that vacation would come to an end—and I would turn into the pumpkin I resemble—tonight.

As the latest tweet reads, “whats-her-face put me on bed rest and every time i look at my stomach i wonder if it’s a boy or girl. it’s all coming together.”

When I was in the hospital in February and while the Camry was parked in the hospital parking garage, my Killian Hill Christian School magnet was stolen. The new one is actually possessed by evil Baptist spirits and also guarded by pit bulls with lipstick and an electromagnetic force field and the fact that I am never going to the hospital ever again. Try to steal that, jack-donkeys.

I got my cheat on hardcore and started October vacation early. Don’t tell. I went for a long drive Wednesday afternoon. We have gas here in Utah. Sorry you don’t in the South. It’s because God likes us better. That’s all. Don’t be sad.

So yes, I went for a drive. Early. I wandered in the wilderness like Nephi and his family, except on the interstate system, with a Creative Zen instead of a Liahona, and cruise-controlling in a Camry with air conditioning instead of dwelting in a tent without. I came home, poured myself into a giant long-sleeved shirt that is shrinking exponentially by the hour, as my body is expanding exponentially by the minute, and some grey sweatpants, and then fell into bed as I turned on Pieces of April and sighed a lot. (I ache until the very end of that movie and even then it still kind of stings, which is kind of how I think maybe life might end up turning out. Maybe that’s how I kind of hope it will.)

KP came home that evening and tossed my pajamaed self into the minivan to fetch some Bellissimo Gelato in Bountiful. I had half pumpkin and half green apple. Then, I had a lick of the chocolate that dropped on my grey sweatpants from the Boss’s half lemon and half chocolate that we took home to him. It was on the inner left leg. It’s still there. I should Shout it out. Or Oxi Clean it out. And shout obscenities whilst I do that. I am nothing if not compromising. I think I proved that at “Jewishaciosity.”

On Thursday. Well. Let’s see. Thursday. Um. Well. I did some stuff. Like I showered. Did I shower? Wow. Um. Hm. I honestly can’t say. I am so not going to get an A on my homework.

Thursday evening, I prepared supper. That’s what they call it in the South: supper. That’s where I come from: the South, y’all.

And, by “prepared supper,” you should know I mean that at 5:00 p.m., I threw Eadie Gwen in the be-magneted Camry, made literally running through Target “fun” by shouting “turn LEFT” and “now RIGHT” at the ends of aisles. It was all fun and games until I was near tears at the checkout and she asked, “Ashey? What does ‘Target has betrayed us’ mean?”

What it means is that “Super” Target isn’t “Super” enough to have “Super” buttermilk or “Super” peach pie filling. So, we tore over to Albertson’s and just so that you don’t think I made it an entirely horrific experience for the almost-six-year-old, I did let her “ding” the french-fried onions at the self-checkout. See? I will make a lovely mother.

I tossed Gwyneth out the door at her house and said SEE YA, DUDE and tore down the street to be SOUTHERN and HOSPITABLE and LOVELY and OH MY HELL I AM RUNNING OUT OF TIME.

At about 6:45 p.m., about an hour after I really wanted everything to be ready, so there goes my Southernaciosity, in walked two knee-high brunettes, who asked if they could stay for dinner. I said of course, it’s not like you eat anyway. You’re welcome to look at all of this. Closely thereafter followed two towheads, who said Yum, we like not eating Southern food just like we like not eating other food too, can we stay also? I said Yes, please do—please stare at my falsely-Southern food.

So, what was going to be three of us gathered around the table turned into seven of us gathered around the table to feast upon, get this, four pieces of fried chicken (LOOK, I just grabbed the first package that said “fried” and ripped Eadie’s arm out of its socket so we could move along—I didn’t have time to count pieces), green bean casserole, deviled eggs, Nana’s disgustingly rich fruit cocktail, and some bread. Oh, and some perfectly measured fruit punch.

The additional four did what they could to hide their minuscule bites of food under their napkins until they could be excused to practice their play upstairs and I checked on the …

BUTTERMILK PIE.

Everyone had pretty much already seen and eaten everything at the table to this point. Maybe not the fruit drenched in pie filling. Maybe not that. But pie filling and fruit, yes. Buttermilk pie? No. It is a ridiculously simple (I mean, difficult, oh-so-horribly difficult and I am wiping sweat from my brow just thinking of it) recipe.

It’s a family recipe. Here’s a scary story: One night in my youth we were all gathered together in South Carolina and all the cackling Southern women were roosting and nesting and doing all manner of hennish things when they decided it was high time someone got a buttermilk pie up in that hizouse. They searched the recipe boxes high and low, but mostly high because they were kept up on shelves, and had zero luck. It was getting late—obviously too late for a pie—and as my great-aunt Ethel reached to put the last shoebox into place on the highest shelf … an index card fell smack dab on her forehead.

And it was the buttermilk pie recipe. We all looked around at one another and then upward and quietly thanked and solemnly apologized (for even thinking of giving up without having pie) to Meme, who to anyone present could have been her mother, grandmother, or great-grandmother (she was mine).

Creepy, huh? Tell that one this Halloween, folks.

The brunettes and the littlest blonde each had a serving apiece, but the taller towhead asked for another. So I said yes, you may have another piece and you may also have all the gold in the land. And also a brand! new! car! for me! surprise! go tell your mother!

Friday. Let’s see here. Um. Friday. Yes, well, we’re getting off to another great start, now, aren’t we? OH! FRIDAY! I SHOWERED! At 2:00 p.m. But! I showered! In! The! Shower! There was water? And soap? I think. It’s been a while. I called and asked if Alton wanted to accompany me on some errands. He replied in his mighty, booming voice that Yes, Yes [He] Would Very Much Like To Accompany [Me].

Alton singing. from you like ashley on Vimeo.

And also sing some Crows.

I brought the baby home and I made a BUTTERMILK PIE for his family. You and the pie met a few paragraphs back. PIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE.

Saturday began General Conference. I rolled on outta bed for what I and everyone else in this 13,193,999-million-strong congregation (or at least the ones in Utah & Idaho and also the ones with Comcast [my parents have the BYU channel! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA BETCHA THEY DIDN'T KNOW THAT IT'S SO FUNNY SOMETIMES I WANT TO SET THE TV's HOMEPAGE TO THAT CHANNEL UNTIL I REMEMBER TVs DON'T HAVE HOMEPAGES. oh.]) like to call “pajama church.” Edification is something wicked cool. Between sessions, there was some sort of mighty breakfast-slash-brunch-slash-baby-holding-marathon CELEBRATION at this here house.

Afternoon session breezed right on by and 4:00 p.m. found me driving down I-15 to 90th South … and … then what? Well, then what is what I can tell you: Then what is what is going to get me killed if one day someone has me at gunpoint and demands that I take them to all the gold and treasures and puppies at Camille’s house. BECAUSE I JUST DON’T KNOW WHAT, THEN WHAT. I have never known then what. All I know is that I go to 90th South and then … well, then I hope that I have my cell phone with me, that’s then what.

I whipped up a—guess!—buttermilk pie … oh MAN am I on a roll or what?! Except not really, I’m finished with pies now, amen. Then, Camille and I got our PowerPoint on and headed out for Smoky Mountain. On top of old Smoky. All covered with turkey, apple, and brie.

Today is Sunday, and now Conference is almost over. At 10:17 a.m. on Saturday, eight hours ahead of you seems kind of a little bit long. Kind of a little bit. But at 3:27 p.m. on Sunday, I am finding myself asking very nicely if Elder Cook might slow down just a little.

And just like that, tomorrow, vacation is over. OVER. I feel like I spent much of vacation preparing to vacation. Much of my bed rest out of bed and preparing to rest. I am officially campaigning for an extension. From now until forever. Or tomorrow.

In 33 minutes, I think I’ll go for an autumnal drive through the canyon. I’ll think about Conference and I’ll think about how my hair didn’t do quite right today and I’ll think about how happy I am to be home. But I am on vacation until tomorrow, so until then I will not think about non-vacation things.

And they all lived happily ever after. And it was the best October vacation of my life! Etc! The! End!

So, well, um, I got bangs yesterday. Banged up, if you will. All other manner of inappropriate banging jokes. Bang bang, all hope of my continuing to do my hair without professional intervention is dead. Etc.

It all started with this photo of my flickr contact, Nicole. As you can see in the resultant comments, I began to lust after her bangs. And, since I am a glutton (ha! a theme! deadly! sins!) for follicular punishment, yesterday, this happened:

My current haircolor, the one I most frequently attempt to achieve, is not objectively represented in any of those hastily-taken LG Chocolate cameraphone photos. It is, quite literally, a mixture of Dark Auburn & Light Auburn, in that I took two $2.99 boxes and applied the contents thereof to one head. I AM A SORCERESS.

I have some photos on my real, live camera from last night when I gathered all the babies around me and made them act like they love me again. But, well, I don’t know where my card reader is and there is an awful lot of stuff upstairs and um, there’s a taco salad in front of me, and … I guess what I’m saying is I have to have priorities in life.