tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11362071915982924982024-02-02T11:50:14.827-08:00jen's jingleWelcome to my world, and all things Baxter.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger144125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-12384633209763436012020-06-14T02:22:00.002-07:002020-06-14T02:22:27.153-07:00Soooo much has happened since I've been gone...Does anyone else out there miss blogging? Remember how we would write all of these hilarious and inspiring stories about being moms, wives, women...? And we'd share them, and laugh over them, and sometimes even cry over them? I had a whole collection of friends out there who shared all the silly little events that made up my days, and I loved it. Facebook is nice and all (when I remember to make myself go there and look at it), but it's kind of soulless compared to blogging. Maybe that's why I've never really engaged in the whole "Facebook" thing.<br />
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But here I am, several years later, thinking all the time about what a tragedy it is that these last years weren't recorded. And oh, how much has changed! For one thing, I'M A MOTHER-IN-LAW!!! I know, crazy, right? My oldest son Liam left on his mission in July of 2017 (of the two-year, LDS variety), and wrote home in October of that same year to tell us that he'd proposed to his high school girlfriend Kaytee (over email, of course...so romantic...) and she'd said yes.<br />
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Needless to say, I did not take this seriously. Partly because there were two years to go, and partly because the lovely Kaytee had just started her first year at BYU Idaho, and, well--we all know what happens to beautiful young women at BYU.<br />
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Nevertheless, miracles do still happen, and when he arrived home in July of 2019 there was Kaytee Jo, ready and waiting. And never fear, she didn't have to wait for long. On September 7th (yes, that is less than 3 months later. Trust me, you do not have to do the math for me. I lived it. I am VERY WELL AWARE of the math...), they were married in a barn, and then sealed that night in the Seattle Temple. (Doesn't it sound lovely when I put it like that? But it actually was, and I think the whole day turned out as close to perfect for Kaytee as it probably could have.)<br />
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So now they're married, living in Rexburg, and NOT producing any grandchildren for at least a couple more years. Don't get me wrong--I want grandchildren. I am DYING to have a grandbaby!!! I actually spend way too much time watching other peoples babies and toddlers and coveting them because I'm secretly wishing I had a grandbaby of my own to cuddle and kiss. But, I do have self-control, and I can wait. Besides, they live 14 hours away, so clearly, I'd have to quit my job and go live in their spare bedroom with the child, and that wouldn't really be the best thing for my life or the two children I have left at home here, who I'm supposed to be raising.<br />
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Btw, did you catch that little phrase in there about how I "have a job?" Like, a real one. Those of you who followed me forever ago (wishful thinking, I know. None of you are left, and no one will ever read this) will remember that I was a substitute teacher and I loved it. Somewhere around the time Liam left on his mission, I decided it was time to grow up and get a real job, so I went back to school, completed a two-year masters program in a year (yes, it almost killed me), and got a job teaching highschool English at the school I'd subbed at for 18 years.<br />
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And then Niall, son-number-two, decided to join the Marine Corps. This was recent. Kind of. I guess it's been a year since he actually made that decision, but they didn't take him until December. That means I spent about 6 months living with a mini-adult (aka, an eighteen-year-old who still lives in your house, eats your food, and takes 5 hour showers, but who suddenly think they know everything and aren't nearly as pleasant to have around as they were when they were a mere non-adult teenager). It was rough. He was going through one of those phases, and sometimes I wasn't sure we'd make it out the other side intact. Then, despite all of my complaining and irritation, I cried when he decided to move out for what would be his final six weeks at home. I even bribed him home every Sunday with full-on Sunday dinners. What can I say? I love the kid :)<br />
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And then...well, where to start and where to stop? I suppose I should save the rest of the condensed catch-up story for another installment. This is already seriously such a rushed, not-very-entertaining retelling, but I have the bug to start blogging again--even if it's just for me--and I have to start somewhere! And I don't care if anyone ever reads it, because, as much as I'll miss my bloggy friends who laughed and cried with me, this is really for me. I'm so sad that I let those last years with my little kids pass by without keeping a record, and I don't want to miss anything else that they might enjoy looking back on. One way or another, I really want to do this, and so I will. And I'm committing myself publically (well, publically to myself, because I think we've already established that no one else is going to see this...), so now I have to do it. Right?<br />
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Oh, and btw, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!!! I just wish the number attached to it didn't make me feel so old...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-7721127649174984522014-05-05T03:30:00.000-07:002014-05-06T07:22:46.380-07:00Random UpdatesBecause I'm sure everyone is sitting around out there wondering what in the world is going on in the life of Jen Baxter, I thought I'd put you out of your misery and share some of the excitement with you. Well, at least one of the things I'm going to share is exciting. To me...<br />
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Fun Facts About My Life:</h2>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhonuBflDm7QaR8CTwc7zPuzVE65IGMxDAU2mmE8IF7E2jHv8dc1VKUDjIcefps-9g7g-f-hbIOmRrrGo5Qn_wSHr0cNFXpDKvpzrRqL55jYWrsXcsbvCViQbZGrKUjvu2CGqmALrb73p8D/s1600/Shemballa+Final3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhonuBflDm7QaR8CTwc7zPuzVE65IGMxDAU2mmE8IF7E2jHv8dc1VKUDjIcefps-9g7g-f-hbIOmRrrGo5Qn_wSHr0cNFXpDKvpzrRqL55jYWrsXcsbvCViQbZGrKUjvu2CGqmALrb73p8D/s1600/Shemballa+Final3.jpg" height="200" width="125" /></a></div>
1. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00K3V6VK4" target="_blank"><i>Finding Shemballah</i></a>, the sequel to my first book, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Laryn-Rising-The-Chronicles-Nequam-ebook/dp/B00FJUF51U/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1399173691&sr=8-1&keywords=laryn+rising" target="_blank">Laryn Rising</a></i>, just went live on Amazon!!! (Abrupt end of excitement.) (But I personally am very, very, very excited :).<br />
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2. This is the second list of random facts I've written today. (To see the first, go <a href="http://www.jennybaxterwrites.blogspot.com/2014/05/guess-what.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)<br />
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3. My husband has a twenty-plus hour commute these days. To Wyoming. But...<br />
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4. ...his schedule is two weeks on, two weeks off, and I must say there's something to be said about having your husband home from work for two weeks at a time.<br />
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5. For instance, my husband loves to crockpot. And he does things like clean underneath the fridge, vacuum patterns into the carpet, and police the cleaning of the children's rooms when he's home for extended periods of time.<br />
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6. Number 5 is kind of awesome, and it definitely makes up for the two weeks of single-parenting craziness I go through when he's gone. Mostly. There was that week when my three boys (10, 13, 15) had eight basketball games between them... Definitely could have used some vacuuming and crockpotting that week!<br />
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7. Speaking of the number eight, my youngest child turns eight on Friday. Yikes. I kind of can't stand how old and big they're all getting.<br />
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8. About that. My oldest is 6'1 and weighs 195 lbs. He turned fifteen on tax day. My poor, poor, grocery bill. Well, actually it's getting money thrown at it all the time, and I'm the one who's poor around here. Let's all just pray that he won't have another growth spurt any time soon because I don't think my wallet can take it.<br />
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9. My thirteen-year-old son has 12 inch biceps. I do not know how this has happened. He's just a baby, for heaven's sake! Does he really need muscles already? And hairy legs???<br />
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10. And then there's my ten-year-old. The good news is that since I've already had two other ten-year-old boys, I am not worried that he is socially challenged. The obnoxiousness, the strange noises, and the sense of humor that only other ten-year-olds get are all out in full force, but this time I'm not panicking because I get it. And even if he does occasionally get a bit smelly as we venture into the world of manage-your-own-hygiene, I still love him to death. (What is it with ten-year-old boys and hygiene, anyway? I mean, shouldn't the use of soap in the shower be a given???)<br />
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And there you have it folks, my life all wrapped up in ten fun little facts. Hopefully, now that all those pressing questions you had about life in the Baxter household have been answered, you can relax and get back on track. And if you find yourself bored this week and in search of the perfect book (or books), I have the perfect suggestion...(see number 1 :).<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-8374932243407774882014-04-17T03:00:00.000-07:002014-04-17T03:00:07.524-07:00True LoveI've been a mom for fifteen years as of yesterday. I have four kids. What does all this amount to? A lot of puke.<br />
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Vomit, throw-up, puke - whatever you want to call it, I have spent the best years of my life dealing with it. It's been everywhere. Beds, cars, new carpet, right next to the toilet (a personal fav), on my person, and on my children. And, like mothers everywhere, I have done my duty. I have choked down the gag reflex, pushed through the smell (oh, the smell!), and cleaned up mess after mess. (I'd throw in 'without complaint' here, but I do strive for honesty...)<br />
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Have you ever noticed that each kid has their own puking personality? My youngest, for instance, is of the silent-but-violent variety. One minute she's sitting there peacefully, and the next - well, you get the picture. And the worst part? Even when she's actually throwing up there's no sound. You know that pre-puke cough that can wake any mother from a dead sleep? The one that has you on the run before your conscious brain has even registered what's going on? Ya. No pre-puke cough for number four. After years of dealing with the no-warning aftermath, I've decided that God gave kids that cough for a reason, and any time I feel like he doesn't love mothers I immediately think of the pre-puke cough that has saved me from so many vomit-disasters, and know that I am loved.<br />
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I bring all of this up because my children are getting older. They no longer vomit on their way to tell me they might need to vomit, because they're now all smart enough to head straight for the toilet. I can't even remember the last time I had to deal in puke, and I am so, so, grateful.<br />
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And then last night happened.<br />
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It was C, my ten-year-old. He got sick. He had pains. He wasn't sure which end would be affected, so I gave him a bowl and sent him to the bathroom. He threw up, assured me it was just a little, and looked so much better that I was sure the crisis had passed and gave him the following instructions: dump the bowl into the toilet and then put it in the laundry room sink. I told him I'd take care of it when I was done doing whatever very-important thing I was doing.<br />
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Then he threw up again.<br />
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The good news? He was self-sufficient enough to go fetch his bowl from the sink in time to make it back to the toilet (he required coverage on both ends.) (Is that too much information? Sorry...). The other good news? He was so self-sufficient that he didn't even tell me he'd thrown up again until after he'd taken care of things.<br />
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Now for the bad news: He forgot the order of operations for puke clean-up.<br />
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In his defense, he knew there was a problem as soon as the contents of the bowl filled the bottom of the sink and failed to go down the drain... That's right, people, instead of dumping into the toilet and rinsing in the sink, he went straight for the sink. Which had other stuff in it. Stuff that was now floating around in the usual flotsam that happens when a ten-year-old loses the contents of his stomach. And you know what? I couldn't do it.<br />
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Maybe it's been too long, maybe there's just been too much vomit in my life, but for whatever reason, I looked in that sink and knew that I didn't have it in me to clean it up. I didn't even know this could happen to someone who had suffered through the pains of labor and child-raising, but apparently it's possible to hit a wall - the Puke Wall, we'll call it. The wall which stands as an impenetrable barrier between a mother and her ability to clean up puke.<br />
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This is where the true love comes in.<br />
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My husband was innocently sitting in the family room, watching a movie and minding his own business. I looked at him, felt a brief, fleeting moment of guilt, successfully suppressed it, and proclaimed the following:<br />
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me: Honey? I've been cleaning up puke for fifteen years. I can't do it anymore, so this one is on you.<br />
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him: (brief moment of silent staring as if he's not quite sure he understands the language I'm speaking, and then, miraculously,) Okay.<br />
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He said okay. Not only that, but unlike the 'Okay,' that really means, 'Sure I will...eventually...if you don't get to it first because you can't stand waiting for me to take care of it,' this was the real thing. In other words, it was accompanied by action, and he immediately got up from the couch and took care of the sink.<br />
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And when he was done he even shrugged off my thanks as if it hadn't been a big deal. As if. This was the singular most big-dealish thing any husband that I know of has done for his wife in a long, long, long time. I mean, technically, I found the puke, I was over-seeing the 'process', so I should have been on duty for clean up. Right?<br />
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But he did it. Immediately and without complaint. This is True Love at it's greatest, and to every woman who will someday hit the Puke Wall, may your husband also show such unconditional True Love, and save you from one puke too many.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-38751665411200151362014-03-10T03:30:00.000-07:002014-03-10T03:30:02.409-07:00Laser Hair Removal: The Approach You Should Avoid...My sister just got a laser hair removal machine. As in, zip-zap-zappo and the leg hair is gone. And we're talking one of the big, fancy, commercial kind that spas use, not some dumb little diy at-home model. Can I just say how exciting that is? Especially when she says things like, "Hey Jenny, your pasty white skin and dark hair just happen to be perfect for laser hair removal. Would you mind growing out your leg hair so I can take before pictures of it and then letting me zap it ALL AWAY FOREVER?"<br />
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I had to think about it. For about a millisecond. Then operation grow-out-my-leg-hair commenced. (Of course I already had about a week's head start on it. It's like I'm psychic or something, because I'm sure I never went that long without shaving my legs before...)<br />
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That was about a month ago, and today was the big day. My sister has a friend who is training people to use the machine, and I was to be the practice subject for today's student. I admit that I wasn't crazy about the idea of someone 'practicing' on me, but if the end result is no leg hair, sign me up. So this morning I took my hideously hairy legs over there for a little laser action.<br />
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I arrive, and she (the trainer/friend) takes a few pictures of my lovely legs and then tells me to shave. See, a laser burns the hair out of the follicle, and the more hair you have above the skin the worse it hurts. Cause it burns. Unfortunately, being the optimistic person that I am, I disregarded the implications here. You know how pamphlets for stuff like this always say things like, "You may experience some minor discomfort," or "The sensation is something like a small pin prick,"? Yeah, as a matter of course I always assume these things to be gross exaggerations made for the faint of heart.<br />
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You know what assuming makes you, right?<br />
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And so, with my usual disrespect for such precautions, I whipped out my little electric shaver. It's true that the batteries were low, but that didn't worry me. A quick (and not very close or thorough) shave later, and I was ready to have my hair follicles burned out by a high powered laser.<br />
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Have you ever smelled burning hair? Have you ever heard the sound of hair follicles popping as they're disintegrated by the beam of a laser? Have you ever seen wisps of smoke coming off your own legs in the aftermath of said disintegration? Let me tell you, it may sound bad but it feels much, much, much worse. And the whole time the teacher and trainee kept saying things like, "Wow, that whole patch really popped, didn't it?" and "It's starting to smell like burnt popcorn in here," (chuckle, chuckle, chuckle). (I was not chuckling.)<br />
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The ankles were the worst. Especially because the 'trainee' didn't seem to get the part about keeping the laser pressed straight down on the leg. You see, if you tip it or lift it THEN IT ARCS. You know, like what lightning does when it causes a building to burst into flames? Or like a 50,000 volt electric fence will do if you get too close to it? Yeah, she couldn't seem to get that memo despite the fact that I kept saying things like, "Um, I think your TIPPING IT!!!" (This last would come out as a shriek as the arc of the laser made contact. Popping and wafts of smoke would generally follow.)<br />
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Finally, however, it was done. Over. Finished. Kind of. Because I'll need at least one more treatment, and probably two or three to get rid of all the hair. Is it worth it? Definitely. People get their hair ripped out with hot wax repeatedly, so I think I can take little laser arcing and follicle burning in the name of hairless legs. But will I shave, and then shave again, and then shave again before I go back for round two? Uh, yeah. And I recommend you do the same if you ever get a chance to get any of your hair lasered, because the amount of 'slight discomfort' you will experience will be significantly more if you fail to pay heed to that one, simple, and vastly important step.<br />
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The things we do. All in the name of beauty, right?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-22645087812150531722014-03-02T20:00:00.000-08:002014-03-02T20:00:01.103-08:00To Wave or Not to Wave?My kids very possibly have the nicest bus driver in the history of the world. When I went into the 1st grade and started riding the bus my bus driver's name was Mrs. Horn. The name was fitting, and I was terrified of her. You know the bad guys' 'Mama' from Goonies? Well, she wasn't quite that bad, but to my already-terrified-and-anxiety-ridden self she might has well have been. She was not warm and fuzzy, she didn't smile and learn your name, she certainly didn't hand out candy every Friday, and I'm not actually positive that her name wasn't granted to her because of her very loud, very commanding voice.<br />
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(Now that I think about it, I may have my older brother and his friend to thank for Mrs. Horn's presence on our route. They were not good bus passengers. For instance, there was some song {Van Halen maybe???} in the '80's that started with the sound of a train whistle. Well, remember the boom box? My brother and his friend had one, and they decided that it would be an awesome idea to cue the tape, turn up the volume, and hit play just as the bus was passing over the railroad tracks...)<br />
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(I think that may have been the last time they rode the bus in their high school careers, but they still claim that it was worth it.)<br />
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Anyhow, Mindy is not Mrs. Horn. She gives candy. She smiles. She ALWAYS pulls over when there is a car coming from either direction. (Seriously, I've been completely spoiled, and I now have no patience for driving behind a school bus. I can also always tell when she has a sub because apparently she is the only pull-over-and-let-the-cars-pass bus driver in the world.) And despite pulling over she always gets my kids to school on time. And she always waves.<br />
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Always. Which leaves me to the question at hand: how many times in the same day do you have to wave at the same person when you pass them on the road? And I don't mean 'if you pass them and wave in the morning do you have to wave again in the afternoon,' I mean within a five-ten minute period.<br />
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See, it's like this: My younger kids' school (which is out of district, so they don't ride the bus) is west of my road, and my older kids' (who only ride the bus home from school) is east. When I drive west to drop off the younger kids, Mindy is driving east. We wave.<br />
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Then I drive east and (often times) have to go back up my road to pick up my older kids, or get something that one of us forgot. On my way up my road Mindy will be driving down. We wave.<br />
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Then I'll be going back down my road and invariably catch up to the bus (because it keeps stopping to pick kids up) and of course Mindy pulls over to let me pass. As I pass - we wave.<br />
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AND THEN, after I drop my kids off at school and head west for home, Mindy is driving east (because I passed her on the road and got ahead of her again, remember?) AND WE WAVE AGAIN!<br />
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Do you think she gets as tired of waving as I do? (And have any of you had to draw a map to keep all of this straight yet?) I admit that sometimes I'll put my visor down or pretend to be texting because waving repeatedly gets SO AWKWARD! I begin to feel like an idiot. In the meantime, I pass my sister when I leave my younger kids off and she's on her way to drop hers, and we wave, and then after I drop my older kids off and head back home we usually pass again and I have to wave again.<br />
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And there are at least three other moms I dance this I-pass-you-a-million-times waving dance with, and I keep wondering why we're all still waving.<br />
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I also have to admit that occasionally I'll be driving a car no one's familiar with and I blithely make my entire drive without waving at any of them, all the while feeling so happy that they don't know they passed me. It's so much easier. Am I the only person in the world who has ever had this problem? (Other than the poor people who have to keep waving at me, of course.) Do other people just hit their limit and start refusing to wave on principle? Can I do that?<br />
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I don't feel like I can. I feel compelled to wave. I tell myself I won't and then my hand flies up on it's own and does it anyway. After all, they're all still waving, right? Are they just nicer and more polite than me, or are they rolling their eyes when they see me and quickly pretending to tune their radios so they can get out of at least one of our morning waves?<br />
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Okay, this is kind of going on and on. Enough. Enough with the waving. For now, anyway. I'm sure that by Monday morning I'll be right back at it again...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-71189930502024759352013-12-28T20:05:00.000-08:002013-12-28T20:05:18.993-08:00One of the Many Reasons I'm Glad I'm Not a Teenage Boy Apparently nothing is the same for a teenage boy. Even going to Walmart.<br />
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As usual, my whole family exchanged names this December for the annual Christmas Angel thing we do. For the most part it's just an opportunity to be extra nice to someone/everyone. The most important goal is to be extra nice to whoever you drew. The over-achiever's goal is to be so nice to everyone that they all think you have their name. On Christmas morning when we tell who we had, the person who fooled the most people into thinking he/she was their angel gets to play Santa. C wins every year.<br />
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Anyhow, back to teenage boys and Walmart. This year, since all the kids are older and (most) have their own money, I decided we'd also purchase gifts for our special person. The logistics of taking four kids shopping with only one parent around to help while trying to maintain secrecy gets a little sticky, so I decided to take the kids on two separate trips. First I'd take my fourteen-year-old son and my sever-year-old daughter, then the two in the middle.<br />
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So last night L, M and I get to Walmart. I look at my mature teenage son and have no qualms at all about sending him off on his own. (Well, other than the fact that he has no watch or cell phone, and absolutely no sense of time. But at least I knew we'd meet up again eventually...) I told him to do his shopping, check out, and go to the benches at the front of the store. We'd either be there before him, or he could just sit there and wait for us.<br />
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Good plan, right? Did I mention that he's six feet tall and weighs 190 pounds? This is no helpless little adolescent here - I was not worried. (Which says a lot if you know me.)<br />
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I'd told him we'd plan on meeting back up in about forty minutes from when we separated, but my daughter and I got bogged down in electronics, and when I checked my phone for the time it was dead. But I wasn't worried. It wouldn't hurt him to wait for me. He'd be fine...<br />
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When I came out of the electronics section, I saw a wide-eyed L coming at me. Here's how our conversation went:<br />
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L: Mom! Where have you been!<br />
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Me: Shopping. Why?<br />
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L: I have been waiting and waiting for you!<br />
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Me: Why? Is something wrong?<br />
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L (Looking at me as if I am an errant child who has just asked a very stupid question as he lists off the following on his fingers): I have been sworn at, flipped off, threatened, and offered drugs. Get me out of here!<br />
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All of which happened while he was sitting on that bench, minding his own business and waiting for his mother.<br />
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Can I just say that nothing like this has ever happened to me anywhere? Let alone Walmart! I've sat on that bench and waited for people lots of times, and no one has ever done more than nod at me as they walked past. My poor little giant son. Sitting there with his crew cut hair and big dimpled smile, just minding his own business and bothering no one. I mean, maybe if he were decked out in chains with huge gauges in his ears (like the drug salesman's), or had missing teeth (like the girl who called him a naughty word and flipped him off - I guess she was rather threatening looking) I could understand, but L just has the look of a nice person!<br />
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Suffice it to say that when I took C and N (10 and 12, respectively) shopping tonight, we did not split up. The secret of the Christmas Angels was pretty much sacrificed, but better that than my children, right? So glad I am not a teenage boy!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-82025677024814439252013-11-28T10:45:00.000-08:002013-11-28T10:45:00.240-08:00About My "Other" Blog...So I've been blogging over on my <a href="http://www.jennybaxterwrites.blogspot.com/">author blog</a>, like a good authoress should, but...<br />
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I feel boring over there.<br />
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I can't help it. I mean, I'm interested in the kind of stuff I'm writing, but is anyone else? I'm not exactly a famous (or even established) writer, who has loads of writing wisdom to share with poor little beginning authors like me, so what are the chances there are lots (or any) author-y type people being edified or even entertained by my musings on writing and the pains - uh, I mean the joys - of self-publishing? Unfortunately, although people stop by semi-regularly, no one leaves me comments so I don't know that any of them really care a whit for anything that's going on in my author brain.<br />
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Somewhere in the midst of sighing over this I made a grave tactical error. I found the place on my blogger dashboard that let me read all my comments from this blog. Like all of them, as in Every. Single. One. <br />
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It was so fun. I stayed up till after one in the morning (even though I had to get up at 5:15) laughing over all my old (and long since gone-from-blogland) friends. They were so funny! I had so much fun blogging with them, and trading comments, and caring about what was happening in their far off lives. There is no doubt that my blogging year was a great little chapter in my life.<br />
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Apparently, however, I wasn't the only one who needed to tune in to other things in my life, because almost all of the people on my sidebar have been off the radar for two years or more. They probably all facebook and twitter now, but let's face it - it isn't the same. Catching little snippets of a person's life is something, but it's not the same as the quality of entertainment and interaction we all found in blogland.<br />
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And those women could write! And they were funny! Now that I've been editing for the last six years, I have a much better appreciation for all of those (supposedly) non-writing women who could sit down at their computer for twenty minutes and dash off a hilarious, or thoughtful post. Reading all of them was like an education in how to get someone to care about what you write. I didn't realize it at the time, but blogging was like an great big, super fun writing workshop for me, and I am so grateful for all the things they taught me about writing - and marriage, motherhood, tragedy, laughter, hard times, good times, and all the times in between. If even half of them were still around to trade stories with, there is no doubt in my mind that I would go back to writing regular posts on this blog just for the chance to associate with others who are interested in sharing life's noteworthy moments.<br />
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Even without anyone around, I admit that blogs have once again been popping into my brain. I soooo almost wrote one the night I made my fourteen-year-old son give my twelve-year-old son <i>The Talk</i> - and eavesdropped in on the whole thing (like any good mother would). (And by the way, can I just say that it was possibly the greatest bit of inspiration I have EVER had as a mother?) Once I managed to extricate the need-to-blog bug in my brain, I got to the point where I hardly ever had those blog-writing moments. Now that I'm writing on the other blog, I find myself noticing all the noteworthy things again, and drafting blogs in my head... I do miss capturing those moments, and I have no doubt that someday when my kids discover this blog they will all want to know why I ever stopped recording the history of our lives.<br />
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Great. Now I have guilt.<br />
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But enough of this. I either need to forget it, or write it for me, and it's time I made up my mind about it. So even if no one is out there anymore, I just may begin popping in here every now and then to let off some steam and entertain myself. And at least I know about the magical comment place that will now let me know if random people stop by and comment on old posts. (The other night I had to go leave a comment for a girl who'd admitted to lurking on my blog in a comment she left two years ago. So sad that I missed her! I love lurkers!) So if anyone does stop by, I just want to say thanks. Thanks for taking the time, and thanks for sharing in a few moments of my life. And in the meantime (and just for old time's sake) in honor of Thanksgiving, check out <a href="http://www.jensjingle.blogspot.com/2008/11/get-ready-to-limerick-yes-you-could-win.html">this old post</a>. It's my Thanksgiving Dinner limerick contest, and the entries are fabulous. All the entries are in the comment box, so scroll on down and enjoy!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-49137838761818461032013-10-07T08:00:00.000-07:002013-10-07T08:00:03.121-07:00I Have a Confession...I've been writing a book.<br />
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I'd been working on a novel before I started blogging, but the sad truth is that all my friends in blogland were just way too interesting, and before long my book project was pretty much shelved. When I finally did get another computer I had a choice to make: give back in to my blogging addiction, or focus on my writing.<br />
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And so I wrote. <br />
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I have to admit that it was very difficult to stay away from blogland and all the fabulous friends I have here, but it was worth it because MY BOOK IS OUT!!! The title is <i>Laryn Rising</i>, the pitch is <a href="http://www.jenny-baxter.com/#!books/cnec">here</a>, you can buy it <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Laryn-Rising-Chronicles-Nequam-ebook/dp/B00FJUF51U/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1381091381&sr=1-1&keywords=laryn+rising">here</a>, and here's the amazing cover created by my good friend <a href="http://www.oliviadesign.com/">Olivia</a>:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlMU-8AopNveryB2mPIsFJXwAPvKZuQC0PBBDO29KPx9jf_8If_g1WAkbwyM_XqOghwNole2RC1BOzsZ0X6vD9siljtTh9-JChDyvwqqYf37y1uD29cc-rdrWV-Ph-as72vA0vdkqKXSgg/s1600/Laryn+Rising+Final+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlMU-8AopNveryB2mPIsFJXwAPvKZuQC0PBBDO29KPx9jf_8If_g1WAkbwyM_XqOghwNole2RC1BOzsZ0X6vD9siljtTh9-JChDyvwqqYf37y1uD29cc-rdrWV-Ph-as72vA0vdkqKXSgg/s320/Laryn+Rising+Final+(1).jpg" /></a></div>Can I just say that I am so excited?!? I also have a new <a href="http://www.jennybaxterwrites.blogspot.com/">'author blog'</a>, but I have to admit that it isn't nearly as much fun to write over there, because I don't have very many friends in the writing world yet.<br />
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But enough of my book and on to a more entertaining subject - my children. Specifically, my oldest son, who is now a freshman in high school. For homecoming this year we made a deal that he could ask a girl to the dance as long as he went with a group of three or more couples. So, he picked a good friend of his (not the girl in the picture)and got all set to go.<br />
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Enter 'Shopping For Homecoming Clothes'.<br />
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We go to Ross. I select five pairs of slacks for him to try on. I send him into the dressing room with VERY clear instructions that he is to show me every single pair of pants he tries on. And then I wait.<br />
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And wait.<br />
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AND WAIT.<br />
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I am not exaggerating when I say that I waited for at least ten (TEN) minutes before he finally came staggering out of the dressing room in his first pair. The following conversation ensued:<br />
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Me: What took you so long! Did you try them all on without coming out to show me?<br />
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Liam: No. I fell asleep.<br />
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Me: You did not, you're joking.<br />
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Liam: I'm not joking, Mom. I sat down to take off my shoes, and I just kind of leaned back, and then...<br />
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I have never heard of this falling-asleep-in-the-dressing-room syndrome before, but if anyone has I'd love to know that my son is not the first to have this serious condition. The dance was a success, however, and he had a blast with his good friend Maddie. Here they are in all their homecoming finery!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGkP9hBfdbdRAXcK__Tj2WO4KF9i_mlF0CC2uUtMtHNSVPXGO__0F67VfXOWo2jpzVwxNPSHNdeVzdKCI5beuV0ZPJnA7ua2GYeqveV4Jx-KzQpyZ5_YkMdJc674PdM9gRc8TzGlYzFk0E/s1600/Liam+and+Maddie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGkP9hBfdbdRAXcK__Tj2WO4KF9i_mlF0CC2uUtMtHNSVPXGO__0F67VfXOWo2jpzVwxNPSHNdeVzdKCI5beuV0ZPJnA7ua2GYeqveV4Jx-KzQpyZ5_YkMdJc674PdM9gRc8TzGlYzFk0E/s320/Liam+and+Maddie.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-1766842922585779432011-08-15T16:26:00.000-07:002011-08-15T18:25:44.640-07:00The Suffering Has Ended!I can't stand it any more, I have to blog. I lost sleep the other night just wondering if maybe I'd forgotten how. Then I lost some more sleep writing out practice blog posts in my head just so I could prove to myself that my brain still functioned in blog-mode. I'm still not sure, but I'm giving it a whirl. Hopefully there's at least one person out there who will read this and let me know?
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<br />So, I have to tell you all that I am cured! I know, I've been gone so long that none of you knew I was even suffering at all, let alone from several different seemed-like-chronic diseases. Today, I would like to report that all of them have disappeared without a trace, and it's kind of amazing. I now have a (mostly)clean bill of mental health. (Mostly. I do still have four children, so there are bound to be moments).
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<br />Naturally you're all dying to know what was ailing me, and how I've been cured, and naturally I'm about to tell you. It all comes down to one cause, and one glorious cure-all. I'VE MOVED!!!! I NO LONGER LIVE IN THAT OLD, ONE BATHROOM, TWO BEDROOM HOUSE!!!! AND MY NEW HOUSE IS BRAND NEW!!!!!
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<br />Like I said. Glorious. It's really the only word.
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<br />And now I no longer suffer from messifloritis. Messifloritis is something that one suffers from if one has seriously insufficient closet space in one's bedroom. It is a very serious disease. (Particularly if one also suffers from another disease known as luvofclothitis, which I unfortunately happen to have a rather severe case of). Messiforitis causes one's bedroom floor to be constantly strewn with clothing that has no where else to go. It causes one's husband to kick one's clothing into the corner every so many days - usually after the strewn becomes the piled - and that generally causes friction in one's marriage. Especially if the 'strewn' or 'piled' clothing had been strategically and carefully placed to avoid wrinkles, and aid in the locating of specific articles. Kind of like a personal filing system for clothing on the floor.
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<br />But now, thanks to my new WALK IN CLOSET!!!!!, this is no longer a problem. In fact, it has recently been revealed that He - as in the former clothing-kicker - is actually way more guilty than previously thought. It seems now that my clothes aren't taking up so much of the available floor space, the ones he leaves lying around are way more prevalent. But I try to be patient. And I try to pretend that if he had more closet space of his own he wouldn't suffer from messifloritis either. (Even though it's common knowledge that he never uses a closet for anything but hunting gear).
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<br />I also used to suffer from tripthruthedorococcus. This particular disease is even more dangerous, because it puts not only the sufferer, but the immediate family members at risk of injury or death. Tripthruthedorococcus is something you're at risk for if you have only one door through which to enter your house (because the other one can only be opened from the inside), and insufficient closet/coat storage/shoe storage space once inside your door.
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<br />The injuries connected to this disease are sustained by constantly tripping and/or breaking your ankle on all the dropped possessions and kicked off shoes that surround the area just inside the door. The death-risk comes in to play for those children (and spouses) responsible for leaving the articles lying on the floor that caused the mother to trip and/or injure herself.
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<br />(*Note: I did once discover another partial cure for this disease, but it required giving all children one swat for each article left lying around. It definitely helped, but finally I got tired of the beatings, so I gave it up and went back to risking my sanity.)
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<br />The last disease I'll mention here (because there just isn't time to list them all) is cramitin syndrome. This one is easy to diagnose. All you need to do to find a case of CS in your own neighborhood, is drive down the road and look for houses with no garage, or other outdoor storage facility. Anywhere you see this difficiency you know you've found a sufferer.
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<br />When one doesn't have a garage (or shed, or shop, or four poles and a tarp) it is really very sad. The suffering here is very, very real. Especially if one's husband is a carpenter and has lots of tools. Or is a hunter and has lots (and lots, and lots) of hunting gear. Or has other hobbies - like canoeing, fishing, weight lifting, etc - that all require gear storage. All of these things seriously heighten the impact of cramitin syndrome.
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<br />Said impact is found throughout the house (i.e. every available closet, drawer, corner, etc.), and finally - in advanced cases - the front porch and outlying areas begin to reveal symptoms. It isn't pretty. We managed to hide this disease for several years, but after the dog house, the table saw, and the chain saw came into the picture (not to mention the canoe), hiding our sickness became impossible.
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<br />And if one should one actually try to mix four children and a dog into this mix, the results are horrifying. The symptoms quickly escalate into full blown, sanity-threatening, stage four CS, and even one's neighbors begin to suffer second hand symptoms of the disease.
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<br />But now, thanks to my wonderful new house (which, if you click <a href="http://hilinehomes.com/floorplans.aspx">here</a> and select plan number 2576you can take a virtual tour of, minus the amazing laundry room we added in place of the back porch, and the extra TEN FEET we added to the garage), I am free. Free from all my old house induced sanity-threatening diseases, and life is rather wonderful. I have done so much complaining about my old house (like in <a href="http://jensjingle.blogspot.com/2008/08/home-sweet-home.html">this post</a>) that it seems sharing this good news is the least I can do to any of you who had to hear me complain before. I've actaully felt seriously guilty these last four months knowing that possibly some of you might still be praying for my suffering to end.
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<br />It's ended people! I have space! I have THREE TOILETS! (remember how bad the one toilet situation had become? I could have dedicated an entire post to the signs and symptoms of that disease). And I can honestly say that this blessing has met every single hope and expectation I ever had. Like I said, it's glorious.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-45388497587197691732009-11-19T22:18:00.001-08:002009-11-19T22:52:18.465-08:00Hey Blogland! Is Anybody Out There???The good news, is that I actually remembered my login AND password. How are all of you?!? I mean, all three of you who might still occasionally remember me, and wonder where I am... <br /><br />I really have nothing exciting to report - either that, or I have way too much to even begin to get into it. It depends on whether you want the rundown since the last time I graced you with my presence here in Blogland, or whether you just want this week's exciting list of mundane events. I suppose for starters, I could just give you the rest of the story on the Disneyland saga:<br /><br />Shortly after my last appearance, I became overwhelmed with the desire to tell my family about Disneyland. (Could have had something to do with the payment in-full on the non-refundable/too-late-for-husband-to-back-out-of-them plane tickets, and the half-payment {also non-refundable, etc.} on the Disneyland package. Or it could have just been a coincidence. You decide...)<br /><br />It went over well. Considering. I mean, yes, Mr. Husband's first words were something on the order of "Great. Have fun. I won't be going," but never fear, that didn't slow me down a bit. With a few choice words - like, "too late honey, it's already paid for" and he was putty in my hands.<br /><br />True, on the plane he was still saying things like, "this is going to be so lame," and "I'll just stay in the rooms while you take the kids," but I was confident. No one can go to Disneyland and not love it. Right?<br /><br />So right.<br /><br />By day two, he was a worse Disneyland junkie than I am, and by the end of the week when I was saying, "Maybe we don't need to use today's pass, let's hang out at the pool instead," his response was, "Fine, you stay here with the kids, I'm going to Disneyland." And he meant it. Not to mention the fact that he was already planning our next several trips by the end of the week. (Including the one where he and I go with only little Miss Meara, and then when we get to come back just us - as in no kids.) <br /><br />Mr. Husband LOVED Disneyland! <br /><br />(I knew it.)<br /><br />But now we're back in the real world, still sans computer, and I'm lucky to check my email a couple of times a week. With Christmas coming (along with a possible lay-off) I don't see a new laptop in my near future, so you may not hear from me for awhile. Which includes me visiting you, because it's too painful to be only half a part of Blogland. I want it all. As soon as I see what everyone else is blogging, my computer-less depression starts all over, and I have cravings to spend all my free time at my mother's kitchen table (on her laptop) so I can reclaim my place, and spout my opinions once more. So sad.<br /><br />But before I go, I would like to dedicate this post to all of you who have actually taken the time to visit my nearly-dead blogstop to tell me you missed me. Seriously, it's enough to make a girl get misty eyed, and it totally makes my day to know I'm not completely forgotten. And who knows, someday my ship just might come in and I'll be back for good.<br /><br />I hope...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-29296216447392751342009-06-24T07:45:00.000-07:002009-06-24T20:08:30.067-07:00Vacuuming KarmaWhen I was a kid we had chores. We actually had a lot of chores - which were solidified into permanence with the chore charts my mother hung on the wall. There were inside chores and outside chores, and as far as the inside chores went, we each had certain things that were "our" chore. I suppose you could say Mom had us specialize. For instance, Laura (age ten) mopped the kitchen floor and cleaned the upstairs bathroom, and I (age eight) vacuumed the living room and dusted. (I don't have any recollection of what <a href="http://regardingannie.wordpress.com/">Annie</a> did, but I'm assuming she must have had to do something).<br /><br />Anyhow, when it came to vacuuming I definitely specialized. As in, I vacuumed in a very special way. And might I just add that it had nothing to do with how well or quickly I did the job. My specialty was in style.<br /><br />Every Thursday (i.e., vacuuming day) I would come home from school (Mom was usually still at work) and get ready to vacuum. Eagerly, I would hurry into the living room, sort through the records and make my selection - "Million Dollar Sellers Vol. (1,2, or 3, I can't remember)" side Two. Straight out of the 1950's, these were some rockin' songs. Songs like "The Wheel of Fortune" "Mule Train" and "Three Coins in the Fountain". As noted, we had three volumes - which translates into six sides - and I always vacuumed to the same record, side two.<br /><br />It usually took me at least three renditions of "Wheel of Fortune" (using the vacuum as a microphone, of course), and a couple rousing trips through "Wild Goose" (or whatever the official title of that one is), and at least a few repeats of "The People of Paris". <br /><br />These were all performance numbers, by the way. I had routines. I danced, lip synced, and/or sang my way through the entire record - sometimes twice - before I considered the job done. It took me a really, really, really long time to vacuum the living room.<br /><br />And I relished every second of it.<br /><br />And I have no doubt that had my mother been home to witness this recital, she would have gone mad watching me and wondered (and possibly yelled about) how long it took me to finish vacuuming.<br /><br />Today I told N (my eight year old) to vacuum. I want you to know that every single time I came in the room and found him standing in front of the mirror vacuuming up his lower lip whilst making strange noises (which got even stranger as they echoed out of the vacuum), I tried to have patience. I pictured myself waltzing around the living room with the vacuum extension (which wasn't even hooked to the hose half the time), and I took a few deep breaths.<br /><br />And then - in my most patient mother-voice - I would say, "Um, do you think you could do a little vacuuming?"<br /><br />I love that kid.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-74163500118778533812009-06-20T12:35:00.000-07:002009-06-20T13:46:13.656-07:00What If I Posted Something on My Blog??So, I'm up here at my mother's house looking at my very neglected blog, and I'm wondering. What would happen if after almost an entire month I were to post something? <br /><br />For instance, what if I decided to inform Blogland that my husband finally got a job? Or that it ended yesterday, but he has another one coming up in a week? Would anyone even care that he'll spend the entire summer driving at least five hours a day in a car with no air conditioning?<br /><br />Maybe people would assume that thanks to our state of employment I am now saving for a computer.<br /><br />Unfortunately, this would not be a correct assumption. Often times when large, critical pieces of information are missing we make these incorrect assumptions, so I forgive any of you who may be guilty of this. How could you possibly know about the vacation I locked my family into back in February? This would be the one where Annie called me and practically forced me to take a seven day opening at a two bedroom condo half a mile from Disneyland for $250 for this coming October.<br /><br />Of course in February we had a job. And a computer - which is why none of you know about this vacation. At the time, my husband was known to occasionally glance at my blog, so I didn't dare mention the vacation I locked us into without telling him. Now, however, since we're computerless and there's no chance he'll ever see my blog, I can tell you.<br /><br />That's right, he still doesn' know. At the time, seeing how he hates Disneyland, hates crowds, hates flying, and loves taking a week off every Fall to go elk hunting (which he will be foregoing in favor of our California adventure), I decided back in February that it would be better if I didn't tell him until I purchased our plane tickets and there was no way out.<br /><br />Then came the layoff. And now, although we may be currently employed, due to the hit our finances have taken I'm not sure now is the time to lay it all on him. Especially since I just purchased five non-refundable plane tickets, and five four day hopper passes to Disneyland. <br /><br />Possibly it would have been much wiser to take the loss on the $250 for the condo, but somehow I just couldn't stop myself. As a family, we have never taken any real vacations. We have no debt but our house, and sink most of the spendable portion of our tax return into fixing the house. And now my oldest is ten, and I'm feeling a bit desperate. I want this vacation. I'm determined to do it, and one way or another I will make it work.<br /><br />But when do I have to tell him? I thought waiting until it was fully paid for would be a good idea, so meanwhile I'm prepping him with conversations like:<br /><br />Me: Wouldn't it be fun to take the kids to Disneyland?<br /><br />Him: No. <br /><br />Me: Why not?<br /><br />Him: Disneyland is dumb. Besides, it would cost a fortune.<br /><br />Me (carefully sidestepping the issue of cost): Seriously honey, you would have fun! We really should just take a week and go to Disneyland.<br /><br />Him: A week?!? What would we do there for a week? I mean we only need one day to go to Disneyland.<br /><br />So do you see the kind of progress I'm making? It might not seem like much to the pessimists out there, but to me we're making some significant gains here. Did he not just say he'd go there for a day? This is progress. Pure, unadulterated forward progression.<br /><br />Maybe I just won't tell him till we board the plane - you know, "Surprise! We're taking a complimentary airplane ride! I wonder where they're taking us?" or something like that. It could work...<br /><br />Right?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-47330658725725031652009-05-22T14:20:00.000-07:002009-05-22T17:01:57.833-07:00Too...much...pressure...<em>***Note - I'd like to thank my sister <a href="http://regardingannie.com">Annie</a> for making this post possible. Without her there to cut an paste, it would have remained in my email forever. To show my appreciation, I'm letting her choose the title, AND giving my permission for her to give herself a little link - because we all know she'd do it anyway. Thanks Annie.</em> <br /><br />Role reversals - aren't they fun? Is it bad that I've kind of enjoyed watching my husband be mom for the last four weeks? I can't really count those first two weeks, because back then (in my innocence) I was still coming home and picking up any and all slack, i.e., laundry, dinner, dishes, general cleaning, etc.<br /> <br />Then I got sick.<br /> <br />It was a Monday morning, and I felt awful. We're talking lay-in-bed-actually-sleeping-because-you-feel-too-rotten-to-do-anything-else. Just think of it - I stayed in bed until ONE O'CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON.<br /> <br />!!!!!!!!!!<br /> <br />Seriously. When is the last time you got to do that? (And if this is what always happens to you when you get sick because your husband is some kind of award-winning saint, we don't want to hear about it. Maybe later, but not right now. This is MY moment to shine!) As I lay there watching him take care of everything - and enjoying making comments like, "what are you fixing for dinner?" and "will you please go help L with his math now?" - I got to thinking.<br /> <br />How will he ever understand what it's like to be me if I keep being me? How can he appreciate what I'm doing if he doesn't ever do it? How can he know what it's like to work all day and then come home to a house full of people who strip out of their clothes as they walk through the door, leave a trail everywhere they go, and expect ME to pick it all up, AND make dinner, AND clean up after dinner, if I keep doing all of it as soon as I walk through the door? So I stopped. Tuesday came, I went to work, I came home from work, and I pretty much just hung around reading my book.<br /> <br />Now, in my husband's defense I have to say that he does pitch in around the house. He definitely has his stuff that he does - like mowing the lawn and home improvements/repairs (which are kind of constant at our house) - and he has assigned nightly tasks such as C and M's story, teeth brushing, bedtime, etc. He's also known to randomly do things like clean and organize my laundry room, or tackle the family room, and when he takes on the bathroom it's with boiling water and a toothbrush. (He was a Marine, remember?)<br /> <br />However. On a nightly basis, he generally remains completely unaware of what's going on around him as far as household maintenance goes. He'll play with the kids and let them sneak upstairs to watch movies with him (we have no TV, and movie watching is strictly for Friday-Sunday after school during the school year), but I have to say it rarely occurs to him to pick up toys, run a vacuum, help in the kitchen, or do anything related to laundry during the week.<br /> <br />Times are a changin'.<br /> <br />That first week of me doing nothing was a real eye opener. Even his usual daytime routine (which he does pretty well at during the day when he's home with the kids) suffered, due to several days of errand running. By Friday things were looking pretty bad, and I was still coming home saying obnoxious things like "Hey, what's for dinner?" It might sound heartless, but it was worth it. And kind of fun. As far as the husband goes, let's just say he noticed the difference between "helpful wife" and "oblivious, book-reading wife".<br /> <br />I must admit, however, that after that first week or so I put down the book and started picking up some of the slack. But overall, I think it's been a successful experiment. A few highlights:<br /> <br />I love how when he's the one keeping things clean, NO ONE is allowed to make a mess, and the kitchen is closed when he's done with it. Every time he says, "I JUST cleaned in here, what happened?!?" I get a thrill.<br /> <br />I love that he makes dinner. I never knew roast could get mushy, and I've never seen noodles boiled that long, but every time I sit down to a dad-meal it makes me smile. He can never say he doesn't know how to cook again. (And it's cute when he calls me all concerned, and says things like, "Was I supposed to turn the oven to 250? Oops, I turned it to 350. Is that okay?")<br /> <br />I'm amazed at how he can still block out jobs like the bathroom and laundry.<br /> <br />I love how every time I send him grocery shopping it's like Russian roulette. Let's just say we have some serious communication problems, and he is apparently completely unable to ask store personnel for assistance. (But Walmart really did stop selling my hair product, so he actually wasn't blind that time - I just haven't told him yet). (Do you think I have to?)<br /> <br />Overall, I think I just love him - employed or not.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-75838961920917796632009-05-18T16:17:00.000-07:002009-05-18T16:30:22.386-07:00To Whom It May Concern:I am at my mom's, my kids are in the car waiting for me, and I have about five minutes to spare on this computer. I thought I'd read a couple of blogs. I had no idea I'd been gone so long. Seriously, like every single person on my sidebar has posted AT LEAST once during the last week, and I've missed all of it. There are about zero comments from me out there in blogland, and I feel totally out of the loop.<br /><br />This stinks.<br /><br />And it doesn't even take into account the posts I wanted to write this week - all of which have completely escaped my brain. My original plan was to get up here sometime over the weekend and write a couple of posts I could schedule for this week - but life kind of got in the way. <br /><br />That said, I just want everyone to know how much I appreciate those of you still taking the time to read my blog (AND COMMENT!!) while I totally neglect you in return. I just have to say that my life is a bit stressed right now (week six of husband's unemployment) and every comment I got this last week really put a smile on my face. I'd been thinking about dropping my blog (since who knows when I'll be able to get another computer), but there is no doubt that being able to reach out and share things with all of you truly makes things better. <br /><br />So really, this post isn't a post at all - it's just a big THANK YOU!! To all of you who care. Seriously. You may never know.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-7176565045879698392009-05-14T04:00:00.000-07:002009-05-14T04:00:13.568-07:00The Three Year Old - Proving the Existence of God One Tantrum at a TimeI so don't have time to do this right now, but here I am blogging. My old computer that was briefly resurrected after the loss of my regular one crashed last week (hence the lack of posts), so I am once again computer-less, and at the mercy of using other people's computers.<br /><br />In other news, this past weekend Little Miss Two officially became Little Miss Three. But between you and me, this actually started happening some time ago. You know the whole now-that-the-child-is-three-and-talks-in-complete-sentences-this-should-all-get-so-much-less-frustrating feelings you have as your child nears three? I hate those. They are COMPLETELY false, and in reality this is NOT what happens. At all.<br /><br />Instead, it gets worse. You think they'll become more reasonable, when in all actuality they're the definition of "unreasonable". They have opinions. They have <em>preferences</em>. You get major meltdowns over what color cup they want, which stool they sit on, which one of you is going to get them dressed, etc. Oh what I'd give for the days before color-knowledge and independence.<br /><br />Miss Three has a particularly bad case of independencitis - aka, <em>an irritation caused from three year olds who think they can and should do everything themselves, when in fact, life would be much easier if they just let you be the parent</em>. Seriously. Do you have any idea how long it takes her to put on her shoes/climb into the car AND her car seat/get her pj's off and her clothes on? I'll bet that in the last few months I've spent <em>hours</em> of my life watching her accomplish these tasks.<br /><br />And then there's the other category: The things you wish they would do for themselves, but insist you do for them.<br /><br />Doll dressing falls into this category. Miss Three has an insatiable urge to strip and re-dress her dolls over, and over, and over again. Only she can't get the clothes back on, so I have to do it. Over, and over, and over again.<br /><br />Thankfully, three year olds are also living, walking, and whining proof that the Lord does, in fact, know exactly what he's doing. Why else would he make them the cutest things on the face of the earth? Seriously, they are so cute. And they say the most hilarious things. And they do the most hilarious things. And they can be so incredibly loving as they wrap their cute little arms around your neck and tell you how much they "wuv you".<br /><br />Clearly the Lord was well aware of just how maddening and exasperating the human three year old would be. Knowing the feelings a single tantrum would cause, he blessed them with fat cheeks, dimpled elbows, and complete adorableness, just to ensure their survival. Somehow, even when they're at their absolute worst three year olds manage to be cute. <br /><br />And it's a good thing, too.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-21425019290982255762009-05-10T13:50:00.000-07:002009-05-10T13:52:15.071-07:00The Rummage Sale BluesThis week was my kids' school's annual rummage sale. In case I've failed to mention it, my boys attend a little three room school house, and there are only about seventy kids in their K-6th school. It's a close little family, to say the least. <br /><br />As usual, my boys (L ten, and N eight) have been drooling over the treasures to be "rummaged" since the sale opened on Tuesday, and by Thursday night they were dying to make their purchases. This year, I decided that rather than go with them, I'd let them take five dollars of their own money to spend however they wanted.<br /><br />Friday morning as we're getting ready to walk out the door, we have the following conversation:<br /><br />Me: N, how much money do you have in your wallet?<br /><br />N (without hesitation): Five dollars.<br /><br />M: L, how much do you have?<br /><br />L: Uh, fifteen.<br /><br />(Keep in mind N is sitting right there, listening to all of this)<br /><br />Me: I don't think so, I said you could take five.<br /><br />I then sent him to put ten back in his cash box, and (again, with Niall right there watching) counted what was left in his wallet to make sure he'd put enough back. All the way to school they talked about the things they had their eye on, and how they hoped no one else would get there first.<br /><br />At this little school of ours, most kids get picked up by parents rather than riding the bus. So every day after school, I pull through the drive and sit there while the teachers or aides find, collect, and deliver my children to my car. I've had children in this school for five years now, and we all know each other very well.<br /><br />Imagine my surprise on Friday, when as I pull around the drive I see all the aides start snickering, and trying not to smile as they see me pull in. Confused, I quickly review: Am I at the wrong School? No. Is today one of the days I'm not supposed to pick them up till 4:00? No. Do I have food on my face? No. So I park, and wait as Mrs. W approaches my window while Mrs. P gathers my kids. Mrs. W and I have the following conversation:<br /><br />Mrs. W: Well you might as well pull back around to the front door, because you've got some loading to do. (quickly hides laughter by coughing into her hand)<br /><br />Me: Loading?<br /><br />Mrs. W: Oh yes, your kids made quite a haul at the rummage sale today. Most of it's still inside.<br /><br />She added this last as I looked over to see L carrying a small end table to the car.<br /><br />Me (Looking rather confused, and slightly concerned): How much did they spend?<br /><br />Mrs. W: I have no idea, but N sure got a lot of stuff. Unfortunately none of us were out there while he was, uh, shopping, and the parents running the sale just let him keep buying.<br /><br />At this point I, got out of my car and headed for the school as I informed her that the boys each had a limit of five dollars.<br /><br />Mrs. W: Oh I'd say N spent quite a bit more than five.<br /><br />I walked into the second grade class to see N - who's satisfied smile froze on his face as he saw me - standing amidst the following items: An exercise bike, an old manual typewriter, a standing lamp, a coat tree, a talking fish, a desk lamp, a world atlas, and various other small items.<br /><br />It turns out he brought $32.00 - i.e., every bill in his possession. He'd spent $24.00 on his treasures, and (as tears filled his adorable and pathetic eyes) he tried to tell me he didn't know he was only supposed to bring $5.00.<br /><br />Unfortunately (as illustrated by the above conversation from earlier that morning) we all know this to be a falsehood. A lie. A complete, and unquestionable untruth. I hate being a mother in these situations.<br /><br />With a sigh and a grimace, and feelings of great regret, I informed him that because he had lied about how much money he had, he wasn't going to be able to keep any of it. Every last item - including the beloved typewriter AND the antiquated exercise bike - had to go back out to the sale.<br /><br />And we hauled it all back.<br /><br />And I felt horrible.<br /><br />And he was very good about it, and even went back in and collected his funds all by himself.<br /><br />This was seriously one of the hardest things I've ever had to do to to one of my kids. Did I mention how excited they were about this sale? Or how much my son wanted that typewriter? (His best friend quickly offered to buy it off him when he found out it was going back. Apparently it was a pretty hot item as none of them had ever seen one before). But I honestly couldn't think of anything else to do. Even letting him keep five dollars worth of goods didn't seem right. (Which is a blessing in disguise, since the price of the typewriter was exactly five dollars).<br /><br />And now today, I have to reflect on this whole thing as it pertains to Mother's Day. Being a mom is not easy. Most of what we do (laundry, dishes, potty training, etc.) is not fun. Possibly the most unpleasant task of all however, is discipline and the stress of having the lives of these dear little people we love in our hands. I've often told my children (as I send them to their room, or take away their treasured possessions/privileges) that my most important task as their mother is to teach them right from wrong, and make sure they know that when they make bad choices, bad things happen.<br /><br />What a rotten job. But when you think about it, it's a concept that will literally shape the rest of their lives. Integrity, accountability, and a love of the Savior and knowledge of his love for them are some of the most valuable gifts I could ever give my children. And if we all have to suffer a little heartbreak so they can learn these lessons, I have no doubt that it will be more than worth the pain. So, I'm sorry kids, for occasionally ruining your lives (I'm sure it will be an ongoing occurrence), but in the end if it means you're better, stronger, kinder, or more like your Savior, I have no doubt it will have been worth it to all of us.<br /><br />And don't worry N, someday you'll get over the typewriter. I promise.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-83101972764035871942009-05-04T22:25:00.000-07:002009-05-04T22:30:24.440-07:00In Which I Almost Craft, and Other StoriesI had a crazy, crazy weekend. It was so crazy, I was actually thrilled for Monday. Is that pathetic or what? And the worst part about a crazy weekend (for our purposes the "weekend" started on Thursday when I got called to work - I know it makes no sense - work with me here) is the state of the house by seven o'clock Sunday night.<br /><br />Can I say seven million loads of laundry?<br /><br />Seriously. Between Thursday morning and Sunday afternoon, I spent approximately nine hours and three minutes at my house. The three minutes were on Friday after work when I SPRINTED in to collect piano books before dashing off to my kids lessons. I didn't cross my threshold again until 2:30 AM Saturday morning. Why, you ask? Because I was decorating for a wedding/wedding reception. And when I say "decorating" I mean that in the broadest sense of the word.<br /><br />As in I personally arranged all the flowers for the wedding because as of TEN O'CLOCK THE NIGHT BEFORE NO ONE ELSE HAD DONE IT.<br /><br />I still can't decide which part of the above sentence is more shocking - that the flowers still needed arranging (for fourteen centerpieces and twelve church pews), or that I did the arranging.<br /><br />As in me. Yours truly. Who hates and detests all things craft. (Although, I still say flower arranging isn't really a <em>craft</em>...)<br /><br />In my defense, however, it had to be done. And as all my piano students know, when the impossible needs to be done what do you ask yourself? "If I were stranded on an island and the only way off was to figure this out, could I do it, and how long would it take me?" (Have I mentioned how much my piano students love it when I ask them this question?)<br /><br />So I did it. One more successful island escape proving the impossible can be accomplished with the right degree of desperation. And just in case curious minds want to know, my flowers rocked. Even my mother was impressed, and she's a Terry. (The significance being that the Terry women {of which I am technically one of, since my grandmother was, in fact, a Terry} have a knack with flowers. Legend has it that all they need to do is <em>touch</em> a bouquet and it becomes pleasing to the eye, and fascinating to behold. For obvious reasons I have never claimed this gene. But I'm claiming now).<br /><br />Anyway, it was a long night. And can I just say that while marriage may be of the Lord, weddings are (without question) of the Devil? Seriously. Can we say irritating-tradition-designed-to-distract-the-bride-from-what's-really-important-and-cause-serious-depression-stress-anxiety-and-unChristlike-feelings-moments-before-walking-down-the-isle? As a successful elopee, I would just like to say that no one should have to worry about refreshment/flowers/tuxes/etc. while pledging themselves to another, and entering a solemn covenant - whether it be the till-death-do-you-part or time-and-all-eternity variety. I'm all for the grand reception - just not hours after the grand commitment. One tends to overshadow the other, if you know what I mean.<br /><br /><em>(Disclaimer: Note the use of the word "tends". I am not claiming that it is impossible to achieve a peaceful and perfect wedding/reception. I'm just saying it's pretty rare. Please do not be offended if you're combo deal was the greatest no-regrets thing you ever did, and believe me when I say I'm happy for you. Meanwhile, I will begin indoctrinating Miss Two with the concept of reception-two-weeks-later.)</em> <br /><br />But they were married AND are happy - despite some rather stressed out moments - and all's well that ends well. And I got six loads of laundry done today - despite being gone for five hours - so I believe I can now face tomorrow and all the other thankless tasks left to be done around here. <br /><br />Housework stinks. Can I get an Amen???Unknownnoreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-48535713803404663482009-04-29T04:00:00.000-07:002009-04-29T04:00:15.744-07:00Bigger Really Is BetterI have some exciting news. Seriously - hold on to your hats people, because....<br /><br />I GOT A NEW PURSE!!! <br /><br />I know, you're having a hard time containing your excitement. It's always so exciting when someone else gets a new purse. Actually, however, you really should be happy for me because I've been wanting - no, <em>needing</em> one - for a very long time. As in, over a year. I don't know about anyone else out there, but that is a really long time for me in purse-years. (Kind of like dog-years, i.e., one purse year is equal to about seven people years. And seven is really old for a purse).<br /><br />Anyhow. For at least six months I've been on the lookout for the perfect purse. When I choose a new purse, it must speak to me. I must LOVE it at first sight, and immediately be able to visualize it gracing my arm/shoulder, and enhancing my entire wardrobe.<br /><br />I love purses.<br /><br />This time around, I was looking for something smallish. Something with pockets - as I detest the big open holes most purses these days seem to have. I wanted a print, but nothing too light, because I hate purses that show dirt. And I only wanted one strap - because I hate when you have two, and one of them is continually falling off your shoulder. And I'm cheap. Before the lay-off, my purse-budget was has-to-be-under-twenty. Then the layoff happened, and purse-budget turned into pretty-much-non-existent-so-stop-looking-you're-only-torturing-yourself.<br /><br />Good thing I'm not someone who has unreasonable expectations, isn't it? I'm sure you're amazed I didn't find this perfect purse long ago...<br /><br />Then the other night it happened. I was going shopping with the girls to buy stuff for the honeymoon basket, and my mom slipped me ten bucks. (Thank you Mom!!!) We walk into Target, and what do you think we see RIGHT in front of us? <br /><br />PURSES!! CLEARANCE!! 75% OFF!!!!!<br /><br />We're talking five bucks. Yessssss. Five minutes later I had selected a VERY large, mostly-white-with-a-little-orange-print, two handled, one-pocket number that was totally cute, for FOUR DOLLARS AND NINETY-EIGHT CENTS. And despite the fact that it is almost completely opposite of what I thought I was looking for, I love it.<br /><br />It's amazing what a budget can do for indecisive, hard-to-please people, isn't it?<br /><br />And I'm serious about the love. Ever since buying it I've been wondering why on earth I ever thought I wanted a smallish purse? I can fit my trench coat in this thing! Can I just say how nice it is too be out running around in a trench, think to yourself, "Gee, I'm getting a little warm in this coat," roll it up, give a shove, and realize it totally fits in your ginormous purse?<br /><br />And what about this summer? It will totally double as a beach bag. The other day I shoved my water bottle, book, and Miss Two's coat in there with room to spare. Heck, on Sunday I fit my scriptures and TWO lesson manuals in this amazing (and possibly magical) purse. <br /><br />Do you realize what this means? I can be <em>that</em> mom now - you know, the one who has everything under the sun in her purse at all times. It reminds me of a mother's day card I saw, and wanted to buy for my children to give to me in a decade or two. On the outside (with a pic of a fully loaded mom-purse) it said: <em>Mom, Where ever we were, whatever we needed, you were always prepared</em>...(open card and read)...<em>It might have had a life saver stuck to it, but you had it!</em><br /><br />So for now anyway, I'm sold. Who cares about back problems when compared with such convenience? Just today my husband was looking in the new purse for something, and his exact words were, "Geez, this thing is like a five gallon bucket."<br /><br />But way cuter. (Insert imaginary picture, since I no longer even HAVE a computer to download pictures to). Thanks again mom - you're the BEST!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-73083384025250699952009-04-27T20:53:00.000-07:002009-04-27T21:11:05.573-07:00Because Apparently I'm HelplessOkay, I need your assistance once more regarding our little bachelorette party. Just so you know, things are coming along swimmingly, and it's bound to be loads of fun. We have our fruity little drinks planned, and I'm building a luscious triple layer chocolate cake with fudge icing especially for the occasion. The guest list is out, the honeymoon basket is bought and half way put together - this party is going to rock.<br /><br />But about our little mix tape. (CD, whatever). I need some help putting one together. I've just sent an email to the music-mixer master <a href="http://menohatebloganymore.blogspot.com/">Camille</a> (who really does have the BEST music ever at all times on her blog), but I also thought it couldn't hurt to get suggestions from Blogland at large. <br /><br />So here I am, asking for suggestions.<br /><br />First, do we want a romantic "honeymoon" CD, or do we just want an awesome love song CD? And are these two things synonymous?<br /><br />Second, what songs? She's twenty-seven, so you all should know a song or two that are completely necessary for a CD of this type (that is, the type you all decide I'm making). Please don't leave me alone on this one! I'm counting on everyone out there to give me at least one suggestion - you know you can all come up with at least one song.<br /><br />And just for the record, I remembered to go to work this morning. Things are looking up. (Although no one gave me any chocolate while I was there...)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-66329320344482069722009-04-24T11:26:00.000-07:002009-04-24T11:32:00.077-07:00Chocolate--the true cure-allI just want to say that chocolate really does make you feel better. Truly. Here's my proof:<br /> <br />As you all already know, I am a substitute teacher. High school being the grade level of choice. I'm actually here at work right now, as a matter of fact. I generally work two to five days a week, depending on how bad I need work, and what's available. Currently, my husband is going on week five of being laid off, and the need is high. As in, <span style="font-style:italic;">I-MUST-WORK-AS-MUCH-AS-POSSIBLE</span> high.<br /> <br />But this is a rotten time of year for subbing. There's a week of state testing, then Spring Break, then another week of state testing. This translates into very few sub jobs. So the few that I've managed to get this month - all whopping seven of them - I'm extremely grateful for.<br /> <br />So you'd think I'd have remembered that I was supposed to work this morning. That I'd have written it down somewhere. That I wouldn't be my totally irresponsible, scatter-brained self, and COMPLETELY FORGET THAT I WAS SUPPOSED TO GO MAKE MONEY!<br /> <br />Especially since two days ago our brakes and alternator on the family wagon decided to fail simultaneously. To the tune of over five hundred dollars.<br /> <br />Alas and alack, however, I managed to space it. In my defense, she did schedule me for these days way back in January or February, and I wasn't at home by my calendar when she called. (I know this, because as soon as I got the where-the-heck-are-you call this morning, like a sudden flash it all came back to me). And I will say that in eight years, this is only my third offense. And it was much better than the first time, when I'd taken a call at another high school that morning and was actually working somewhere else. It was even better than the second time, when I was relaxing in the tub when she called. This morning, I was simply changing into my workout clothes, getting ready to sweat away the pounds.<br /> <br />Thankfully I wasn't already sweaty, because it wasn't like I had time for a shower. Heck, I didn't even brush my hair (unless running my fingers through it counts). I grabbed the first pants and shirt I saw lying on the floor of my room, and proceeded to put the world in danger as I applied make-up whilst speeding down the road on the five minute drive to work.<br /> <br />Now, back to chocolate and it's therapeutic properties.<br /> <br />I think I'm stressed. I don't <span style="font-style:italic;">feel</span> stressed - actually I feel just fine. But apparently I'm not. I know this because when I went crawling in to the office to beg forgiveness, I started crying. It was supposed to be one of those ha-ha-at-least-I-wasn't-bathing-or-working-somewhere-else conversations, where we all sit around an mock my ability to function like a responsible adult, but instead I sat down in a chair and felt that awful oh-my-gosh-I'm-going-to-start-crying-and-I-can-do-nothing-about-it feeling. And then I cried.<br /> <br />On the up-side, it definitely got me forgiven. On the down-side, it was like a little glimpse into the inter-workings of my soul, and I can no longer pretend that I'm perfectly alright, and completely non-stressed. Frankly, I suddenly felt rather horrid.<br /> <br />And then the other secretary offered me chocolate. Well, actually, I asked if I could help myself to her candy jar - sensing that sugar was a vital need at the moment - and she offered me some of her personal stash. The wonderful angel gave me TWO Lindor's Truffles. And as I popped the first one into my mouth and tasted all that nice, sweet, creamy chocolate - <span style="font-style:italic;">I FELT INSTANTLY BETTER!</span> Truly, I did. It was actually kind of amazing.<br /> <br />So my tip for the day, is to make sure there's some kind of really good chocolate in your emergency supplies, because in the wake of some disaster, you just might need the feel-good boost that comes with good chocolate.<br /> <br />Do you think she'd give me one more if I went back down and begged?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-8139107757105289102009-04-22T08:49:00.000-07:002009-04-22T09:06:11.332-07:00The Bitterness of HellSorry to disappoint, but I am not Jenny, I am Annie (hence the melodramatic title of today's post). As for her absence, it's nothing personal, if she could I am sure Jen would be here right now, clicking keys faster than smoke to get one of her fantastically funny posts out to the blogosphere for all to enjoy. <br /><br />But alas, Jen's dead. Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration. Her power cord is dead (and possibly her computer, but the jury's still out on that one). Considering her current budget, it will either be a short period or a long period before she's got her laptop up and running, we're not sure which (again with the absent jury). <br /><br />But don't you think for one second that she's not going to be blogging, no sirree. She will be here just as much as ever--or as often as she can run to Mother's house and escape her four children (who I will not name at this time because she's afraid one of you pregnant ladies might steal her names and then the entire planet will be littered with American children with Irish names--ten points to anyone who can guess them). <br /><br />And so I give my solemn oath as a Sister of Jen's Jingle that I will do everything in my power to ensure that she posts really funny stuff on a regular basis--despite her computer's uncooperative nature.<br /><br />And if she doesn't you can always come visit me <a href="http://regardingannie.com">here</a>. What? Like I would waste precious minutes of Junie's nap to post on her blog without any compensation? Come on, you know me better than that...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-54018656180792610842009-04-19T23:25:00.000-07:002009-04-19T23:38:04.131-07:00Put On Your Thinking Caps, I Need Your Brain...So my babysitter Harmony is getting married. This would be the woman who brings her own two children (boys, ages five and three) to my house in the mornings, so that little Miss Two and C can get up at their leisure, and at least be at their own house - if not with their own mother - on the days Grandma is unavailable.<br /><br />They love her. When I come home, Miss Two clings like a clinging vine (movie anyone?) to Harmony, and will have nothing to do with me. As in, her mother. The one who gave of my own blood and sustenance for nine months to bring her into this world.<br /><br />The little rat. (Said with great affection, of course)<br /><br />But aside from the ungrateful aspect of my two year old, just think what this says about my babysitter. One morning I had the audacity to be home, and when I went up to get Miss Two out of her crib (which Harmony does when she's here, since the child sleeps in till nine or ten), I walked in and saw her great big smile turn into a scowl as she yelled at me - "You're not Harny!" (throwing herself back into her bed, and using that whiny-cry-baby voice only a two year old can really master) "I WANT HARNY! NOT YOU!"<br /><br />Nice. I mean, really it is. If you have to leave your children with someone, you do want them to love their caregiver - although I think MT is overdoing it just a tad...<br /><br />But anyway, back to the topic at hand. Harmony is getting married. As you may have guessed due to the fact that she already has children, Harmony has been married before. She's been alone for awhile, and has recently found a fabulous guy, and on May 2, they're getting hitched.<br /><br />And a couple girls and I are throwing her a shower. <br /><br />Only other than the fact that there will be gifts, we don't want it to be a regular shower. We want it to be a <em>bachelorette/girls </em><em>night</em> shower. In other words, we want it to different than her just-got-off-the-mission/blushes-at-lingerie shower. <br /><br />So now I'm turning to all of you super-fun, creative women, because I need some fun (yet clean and appropriate enough for my mother) game ideas. After all, at a bachelorette/girls' night, you can't be making wedding dresses out of toilet paper. This has to be good. (And very unlike the one <em>actual</em> {non-LDS} bachelorette party I attended where they did some rather inappropriate things just before getting wasted on tequila shots. That is NOT what I'm looking for).<br /><br />So if any of you have any brilliant ideas for me, (or you can't think of anything, but want to console me regarding my daughter's Benedict Arnold tendencies), just leave them in the comment box. Or email me. Or call me (if your privileged enough to have my number). And don't worry, Harmony doesn't read my blog, so there's no need to worry about spoilers. <br /><br />I'm looking forward to what all you fun ladies will come up with - so don't disappoint me!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-34193642649938649512009-04-17T18:01:00.000-07:002009-04-17T18:42:35.790-07:00The First Frightening Signs of What's to Come...So I had this conversation with my ten year old today:<br /><br />Me: (looking admiringly at his handsome-cuteness) L, you're a good looking kid.<br /><br />L: ("Awww shucks" expression)<br /><br />Me: No, you really are. Do you know you're nice looking?<br /><br />L: Not really.<br /><br />(about twenty seconds of silence)<br /><br />L: Mom, there's something I have to tell you. But I don't know how to say it.<br /><br />Me: What?<br /><br />L: Well, it happened a couple of weeks ago.<br /><br />Me: And...<br /><br />L: (getting close to my ear and whispering, even though no one was around) This girl asked me out.<br /><br />Me: What! Who? What's her name? (the hussy, I silently think to myself)<br /><br />L: Uh, (thinks for a second) I don't know.<br /><br />Me: Well what did you say?<br /><br />L: (with an appropriately shocked and horrified look on his face) NO! I said "Sorry, I can't have a girlfriend till I'm sixteen," what do you think I'd say?!<br /><br />Isn't he a good son? Just look at him -<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb-71Hhn4jsHjgPj4OQHUnAmIi0t4ZmOqCLkkCOAkuZ1PY-NWq-gFRsHqCCsZ7gn5NQxDYSeSByqexJ-RMDki4gXuoWWTJYY8SMxodPGrBDxbM0X4TA-kZLta_I6hWBjTB2Ts3knH2xVwz/s1600-h/PICT2286.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb-71Hhn4jsHjgPj4OQHUnAmIi0t4ZmOqCLkkCOAkuZ1PY-NWq-gFRsHqCCsZ7gn5NQxDYSeSByqexJ-RMDki4gXuoWWTJYY8SMxodPGrBDxbM0X4TA-kZLta_I6hWBjTB2Ts3knH2xVwz/s400/PICT2286.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325836692055998674" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Any girl would want him.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-33182065271933629362009-04-13T13:38:00.000-07:002009-04-13T13:39:55.919-07:00Desperate Moments Call For Desperate MeasuresI've had it. Enough is enough. My new motto is just say no - to chocolate/birthday-cake/pie/chips/and everything else I've been eating with reckless abandon. And to prove how serious I actually am, I would like to make an announcement:<br /><br />I HAVE STARTED EXERCISING.<br /><br />As in this morning. And it's for real this time, too - as opposed to all those other times I've threatened to begin a workout regimen, only to give it up after a week or two. You may doubt me, you may wonder why I think this time will be any different from the last several attempts, but I can assure you it is. I know. I can feel it.<br /><br />Does this ever happen to anyone else? You go along stuffing your face, laying around, taking a long bath, sleeping in, reading a book, or blogging with those few precious moments of personal time you get everyday. Meanwhile, you feel your muscles atrophying, your clothes get a little tighter, and you move from your cute, I-can-wear-everything-in-my-closet wardrobe, to the irritating, and much more limited I-can-only-wear-these-few-items-strategically-put-together-in-certain-ways-to-hide-the-fat-around-the-middle-that's-been-accumulating-since-Christmas wardrobe. <br /><br />It's so irritating.<br /><br />And if those of you who know me are tempted to leave a comment saying how I don't look any different to you, you're forgetting one important detail:<br /><br />I'M ONLY WEARING A FEW ITEMS STRATEGICALLY PUT TOGETHER TO HIDE THE EXCESS FAT AROUND THE MIDDLE THAT HAS BEEN ACCUMULATING SINCE CHRISTMAS!!!! <br /><br />And you want to hear the sad part? A couple more pounds and I won't be able to hide it. My secret will be out, everyone will know.<br /><br />So, back to how I know this time is different. Once I go through all of the above, (and once I realize just how close swimsuit season actually is), I start having thoughts. These thoughts remind me of the time in fourth grade when my friend Miriam and jumped on my bed while eating out of a box of Grapenuts. Have you ever had Grapenuts in your bed? It's very uncomfortable. Like my thoughts. Thoughts like, "So what if I never do get back into those clothes?" and "If I never work out ever again, will I still be able to make it up the stairs when I'm fifty?" and "Just how far down my leg can my buttocks fall?"<br /><br />These thoughts make me feel squirmy. They bother me. Apparently, they drive me straight toward the drawer where I keep my amazing library of workout tapes. (And yes, I said <em>tapes</em>. As in VHS. There are several DVD's in there as well, but somehow in my moments of desperation it always goes back to the tapes). <br /><br />At first, I only think about it. I start thinking about how good it actually feels to have leg muscles. And about how nice it would be to get my backside back up where it belongs. <br /><br />Then I start thinking about how I really don't like the answers to any of those Grape-nuts-in-the-bed questions, and I take a few pathetic stabs at working out. You know, the ones where you aren't <em>really</em> working out, but you kind of hope it will be enough anyway? But it isn't, so it doesn't work, and you give up a week or two later feeling discouraged? <br /><br />Then something like Easter comes around, and I'm slapped in the face by my complete and total lack of control. Seriously. It didn't help that L and N both had birthday parties, and after L's I sat down and ate an entire bag of Doritos. And that was <em>after</em> the cake, the pizza, and the bowl of BBQ potato chips. I can't even talk about Easter - or that bag of Reese's PBCups I bought for "the kids".<br /><br />And so it's begun. The official I'm-excited-to-work-out-and-feel-immediately-panicky-if-I-don't feeling has arrived. And it comes with an important little perk I always forget about - I'm just lazy enough that I can't stand to eat junk after sweating and suffering along with some over-zealous work out Diva. <br /><br />I ACTUALLY PASSED UP M'S FORGOTTEN CHOCOLATE EASTER BUNNY THIS MORNING! THIS IS HUGE!<br /><br />And so I'm off. I'm back in control, I'm exercising, and I'm headed back to all those cute clothes hanging in my closet. Okay, I lied. I have no closet. Most of these clothes are strategically "draped" around my room. Sad, isn't it? But I'll be wearing them, and that's the important part.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1136207191598292498.post-2009245594413895022009-04-08T16:50:00.000-07:002009-04-08T19:04:21.745-07:00Reality BitesHi, remember me? I'm the one who spent last week avoiding reality, <a href="http://regardingannie.wordpress.com/2009/04/02/1201/">partying with my sister</a>, and doing some wild road-tripping across the fruited plains (and mountains of ice) of the land known as Wash-Ida-ta.<br /><br />Reality's returned, and it's such a letdown.<br /><br />Unfortunately, in the days before my (thankfully FREE) trip, my husband joined the ranks of the unemployed. In the carpenters union, becoming unemployed is a normal thing. <em>Staying</em> that way for any length of time, however, is not necessarily so normal. Unfortunately, we have reason to believe this could be an extended situation.<br /><br />Which makes me desperate. Desperate enough to subject myself to the sixth grade two days in a row. Do you have any idea how desperate this is?<br /><br />As a sub, I am used to high school. And the kids who are in high school classes. Kids who can sit quietly for extended periods of time being productive, and contributing to the learning environment with little to no help from me. There are exceptions, of course, but in the last seven years I have had few problems with 9th-12th graders. I like them, they like me, we're like one big happy family.<br /><br />Sixth grade, not so much. Don't get me wrong, I like them - individually. Collectively, they kind of drive me nuts. They cannot be quiet for more than a few minutes. They cannot be allowed to talk without it erupting into chaos. They need help with everything.<br /><br />Subbing in sixth grade is like having a real job. This is not what I signed up for.<br /><br />Here's an example: When dealing with sixth graders, you cannot simply tell the class to quiet down and expect it to be immediately effective. Instead, you get something like this:<br /><br />Me: Hey! You guys need to quiet down and get back to work. (generally aimed at one specific group of kids)<br /><br />Kid in group - Yeah, be quiet!<br /><br />Kid a few seats down - Would you guys shut-up!<br /><br />Kid a few more seats down - Geez! Could everyone just be quiet already?!?<br /><br />Kid across the room - Hey! She said to be quiet! Can't you guys listen?<br /><br />Me - (Slowly going insane as this rebounds all. around. the room.)<br /><br />And this lovely chain-reaction is set off continually. My favorite ones are when you're dealing with the I-love-attention-and-being-class-clown-because-I'm-eleven-and-proud-of-my-obnoxiousness-and-don't-know-when-to-quit sixth grader, and you tell them to settle down after they've made their little buddy laugh. Instead of be-quiet's, you get it's-not-funny's accompanied by a room full of giggles.<br /><br />Did I mention headaches? Because you get those too.<br /><br />Under normal life circumstances, I politely decline these jobs, and wait for something better. (i.e., <em>older</em>) (The elementary secretary stopped calling me years ago, and I'm not desperate enough {yet} to re-open that door). With our current situation, however, I just need to work as many days a week as possible. If that means the sixth grade, so be it.<br /><br />I just won't be getting any books read.<br /><br />And I'll use up all my patience reserves on them, and my family will pay. But at least we'll have food, right? (It's important I keep these important details in mind. It makes future forays into grade six a tad easier to deal with) (Emphasis on the word <em>tad</em>).<br /><br />And I can't blog at the middle school either, so we may not be seeing as much of each other for a while. Try to deal with it as best you can - I won't mock your tears. (I'll be crying my own).<br /><br /><em>PS - FYI, that little link up there will take you to my sister's photographic montage of our crazy week. So right <em>after</em> you leave me that comment (the one I desperately need for my morale), you should go check it out and see what kind of a nutcase I have for a sibling...</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com22