jen's jingle

The Suffering Has Ended!

2011-08-15T16:26:00.000-07:00

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?

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).

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!!!!!

Like I said. Glorious. It's really the only word.

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.

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).

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.

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.

(*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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

But now, thanks to my wonderful new house (which, if you click here 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 this post) 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.

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.

Hey Blogland! Is Anybody Out There???

2009-11-19T22:18:00.001-08:00

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...

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:

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...)

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.

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?

So right.

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.)

Mr. Husband LOVED Disneyland!

(I knew it.)

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.

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.

I hope...

Vacuuming Karma

2009-06-24T07:45:00.000-07:00

When 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 Annie did, but I'm assuming she must have had to do something).

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.

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.

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".

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.

And I relished every second of it.

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.

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.

And then - in my most patient mother-voice - I would say, "Um, do you think you could do a little vacuuming?"

I love that kid.

What If I Posted Something on My Blog??

2009-06-20T12:35:00.000-07:00

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?

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?

Maybe people would assume that thanks to our state of employment I am now saving for a computer.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

Me: Wouldn't it be fun to take the kids to Disneyland?

Him: No.

Me: Why not?

Him: Disneyland is dumb. Besides, it would cost a fortune.

Me (carefully sidestepping the issue of cost): Seriously honey, you would have fun! We really should just take a week and go to Disneyland.

Him: A week?!? What would we do there for a week? I mean we only need one day to go to Disneyland.

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.

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...

Right?

Too...much...pressure...

2009-05-22T14:20:00.000-07:00

***Note - I'd like to thank my sister Annie 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.

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.

Then I got sick.

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.

!!!!!!!!!!

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.

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.

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?)

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.

Times are a changin'.

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".

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:

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.

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?")

I'm amazed at how he can still block out jobs like the bathroom and laundry.

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?)

Overall, I think I just love him - employed or not.

To Whom It May Concern:

2009-05-18T16:17:00.000-07:00

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.

This stinks.

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.

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.

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.

The Three Year Old - Proving the Existence of God One Tantrum at a Time

2009-05-14T04:00:00.000-07:00

I 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.

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.

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 preferences. 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.

Miss Three has a particularly bad case of independencitis - aka, 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. 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 hours of my life watching her accomplish these tasks.

And then there's the other category: The things you wish they would do for themselves, but insist you do for them.

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.

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".

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.

And it's a good thing, too.

The Rummage Sale Blues

2009-05-10T13:50:00.000-07:00

This 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.

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.

Friday morning as we're getting ready to walk out the door, we have the following conversation:

Me: N, how much money do you have in your wallet?

N (without hesitation): Five dollars.

M: L, how much do you have?

L: Uh, fifteen.

(Keep in mind N is sitting right there, listening to all of this)

Me: I don't think so, I said you could take five.

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.

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.

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:

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)

Me: Loading?

Mrs. W: Oh yes, your kids made quite a haul at the rummage sale today. Most of it's still inside.

She added this last as I looked over to see L carrying a small end table to the car.

Me (Looking rather confused, and slightly concerned): How much did they spend?

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.

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.

Mrs. W: Oh I'd say N spent quite a bit more than five.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And we hauled it all back.

And I felt horrible.

And he was very good about it, and even went back in and collected his funds all by himself.

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).

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.

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.

And don't worry N, someday you'll get over the typewriter. I promise.

In Which I Almost Craft, and Other Stories

2009-05-04T22:25:00.000-07:00

I 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.

Can I say seven million loads of laundry?

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.

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.

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.

As in me. Yours truly. Who hates and detests all things craft. (Although, I still say flower arranging isn't really a craft...)

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?)

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 touch 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).

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.

(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.)

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.

Housework stinks. Can I get an Amen???

Bigger Really Is Better

2009-04-29T04:00:00.000-07:00

I have some exciting news. Seriously - hold on to your hats people, because....

I GOT A NEW PURSE!!!

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, needing 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).

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.

I love purses.

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.

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...

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?

PURSES!! CLEARANCE!! 75% OFF!!!!!

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.

It's amazing what a budget can do for indecisive, hard-to-please people, isn't it?

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?

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.

Do you realize what this means? I can be that 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: Mom, Where ever we were, whatever we needed, you were always prepared...(open card and read)...It might have had a life saver stuck to it, but you had it!

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."

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!

Because Apparently I'm Helpless

2009-04-27T20:53:00.000-07:00

Okay, 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.

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 Camille (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.

So here I am, asking for suggestions.

First, do we want a romantic "honeymoon" CD, or do we just want an awesome love song CD? And are these two things synonymous?

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.

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...)

Chocolate--the true cure-all

2009-04-24T11:26:00.000-07:00

I just want to say that chocolate really does make you feel better. Truly. Here's my proof:

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, I-MUST-WORK-AS-MUCH-AS-POSSIBLE high.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

Now, back to chocolate and it's therapeutic properties.

I think I'm stressed. I don't feel 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.

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.

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 - I FELT INSTANTLY BETTER! Truly, I did. It was actually kind of amazing.

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.

Do you think she'd give me one more if I went back down and begged?

The Bitterness of Hell

2009-04-22T08:49:00.000-07:00

Sorry 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.

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).

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).

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.

And if she doesn't you can always come visit me here. 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...

Put On Your Thinking Caps, I Need Your Brain...

2009-04-19T23:25:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

The little rat. (Said with great affection, of course)

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!"

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...

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.

And a couple girls and I are throwing her a shower.

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 bachelorette/girls night shower. In other words, we want it to different than her just-got-off-the-mission/blushes-at-lingerie shower.

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 actual {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).

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.

I'm looking forward to what all you fun ladies will come up with - so don't disappoint me!

The First Frightening Signs of What's to Come...

2009-04-17T18:01:00.000-07:00

So I had this conversation with my ten year old today:

Me: (looking admiringly at his handsome-cuteness) L, you're a good looking kid.

L: ("Awww shucks" expression)

Me: No, you really are. Do you know you're nice looking?

L: Not really.

(about twenty seconds of silence)

L: Mom, there's something I have to tell you. But I don't know how to say it.

Me: What?

L: Well, it happened a couple of weeks ago.

Me: And...

L: (getting close to my ear and whispering, even though no one was around) This girl asked me out.

Me: What! Who? What's her name? (the hussy, I silently think to myself)

L: Uh, (thinks for a second) I don't know.

Me: Well what did you say?

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?!

Isn't he a good son? Just look at him -

Any girl would want him.

Desperate Moments Call For Desperate Measures

2009-04-13T13:38:00.000-07:00

I'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:

I HAVE STARTED EXERCISING.

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.

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.

It's so irritating.

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:

I'M ONLY WEARING A FEW ITEMS STRATEGICALLY PUT TOGETHER TO HIDE THE EXCESS FAT AROUND THE MIDDLE THAT HAS BEEN ACCUMULATING SINCE CHRISTMAS!!!!

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.

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?"

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 tapes. 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).

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.

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 really 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?

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 after 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".

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.

I ACTUALLY PASSED UP M'S FORGOTTEN CHOCOLATE EASTER BUNNY THIS MORNING! THIS IS HUGE!

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.

Reality Bites

2009-04-08T16:50:00.000-07:00

Hi, remember me? I'm the one who spent last week avoiding reality, partying with my sister, and doing some wild road-tripping across the fruited plains (and mountains of ice) of the land known as Wash-Ida-ta.

Reality's returned, and it's such a letdown.

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. Staying 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.

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?

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.

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.

Subbing in sixth grade is like having a real job. This is not what I signed up for.

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:

Me: Hey! You guys need to quiet down and get back to work. (generally aimed at one specific group of kids)

Kid in group - Yeah, be quiet!

Kid a few seats down - Would you guys shut-up!

Kid a few more seats down - Geez! Could everyone just be quiet already?!?

Kid across the room - Hey! She said to be quiet! Can't you guys listen?

Me - (Slowly going insane as this rebounds all. around. the room.)

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.

Did I mention headaches? Because you get those too.

Under normal life circumstances, I politely decline these jobs, and wait for something better. (i.e., older) (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.

I just won't be getting any books read.

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 tad).

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).

PS - FYI, that little link up there will take you to my sister's photographic montage of our crazy week. So right after 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...

I Was Gone, I've Returned, and I've Been Nominated. The Timing Couldn't Be Worse.

2009-04-04T16:19:00.000-07:00

We left Utah at midnight.

There was more snow. And ice.

Along the way, I learned that my sweet little two year old cannot sleep in the car if it's dark. (Which totally defeated our purposes, btw).

Four out of five kids (all under age 9, for those of you who missed the trip down) were sick. Fevers, and a case of pneumonia including a hideous, blood-vessel breaking cough. We spent the entire trip dosing out meds to keep everyone happy.

We made the twelve-hour trip in a mere fifteen hours - as opposed to the eighteen and a half it took to get there. Can I get a Woot-WOOT for progress???!!!!

And now, I'm tired. VERY tired. Way too tired to write a funny, noteworthy post for all the lovely readers coming to visit from MMB. I finally get nominated for something, and have no time/energy to take advantage of it. For the last two days, I've had a total of ten minutes on a computer. To make up for it, here's a few things from the bin that will hopefully give you a chuckle, and make your trip over here worthwhile: My Near Death Experience, Fat-Around-the-Middle, and Doing the Shuffle.

If something in there makes you chuckle, hopefully it will have been worth the visit. If not, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for you.

Peace Out.

The Hidden Dangers of the Tom Tom

2009-04-01T14:00:00.000-07:00

Tom Tom's and every other brand of GPS thingies, may sound like a great idea to the rest of you, but I have a public safety announcement regarding the hidden dangers of putting these navigational tools into the wrong hands.

Hands like mine. Who don't know their left from their right.

Please, no lectures. No telling me that if I'll just hold up my thumb and first finger the one that makes the "L" is Left. And PLEASE don't tell me it's easy, and that I should just think of which hand I write with, or remember that the driver is on the left. If these things were that "easy" I would not have a problem.

And neither would my old Driver's Ed instructor, who was forever saying "Go left. No, you're other left."

I do want to say, however, that I am not to blame. I think it's genetic. I'm sure of it. My mother, you see, has the same exact problem - as does my sister Annie. (Except she fell off a horse when she was four and has a crooked right arm that doesn't touch her shoulder, so she just attempts the shoulder-touch and then she's kind of okay. Except that after almost three decades of doing this both arms now touch. Bummer).

Anyway, we have a problem.

So, as you know (if you've been faithfully following along with all my jingling) I am in Utah. I came down with a friend, and I'm currently staying at Annie's house. Last night I decided to go pick myself up something to eat for dinner, and took Annie's vehicle. Which is very large. (This info is important for visualizing things later on).

I initially was on the hunt for real food, like Mexican or Chinese, but somehow came around to the decision that Cutler's Cookies with popcorn and a diet coke really sounded way better. I didn't know where CC's was, but I did have a handy-dandy GPS thingie sitting right next to me. So I pull over, and put in Cutler's Cookies.

Bingo. It immediately tells me to pull out and head left. (SEE!! I just started typing right! This is pathetic). Thankfully, this one took zero brain power thanks to the bright green arrow. After waiting for a break in traffic, I turn left across two lanes and a turn lane, only to be immediately told to turn right.

Which way was right? There's two going-straight lanes, two turning (what I now know to be) left lanes, and one turn-only right lane. Feeling instantly panicked (because imagine if I never made it to Cutlers!), I head over to the right lane. Then, just as I start to enter the turn-only part, doubts assail me: "Is this right? Am I going the wrong way? Is the GPS woman going to yell at me? OMgosh, I think I'm going the wrong way!" Clearly I was too far gone to look for another green arrow).

I quickly checked for cars, veer across THREE LANES OF TRAFFIC - not even making it to the actual turn lane - and turn what I think is right (but is, in reality, LEFT), out of a go-straight-only lane. And there are cars coming. And I'm so busy stressing about whether or not I'm actually going right, I almost forget to yield. And come to a screeching halt in the middle of the intersection, looking like a completely deranged crazy woman in an over-sized SUV.

Which apparently, is exactly what I was.

Because I'm over thirty, don't know my left from my right, and was willing to risk my life (and my sister's vehicle) for a couple of cookies. (Fine, I bought a dozen. But I at the time of the incident I only planned on a couple, I swear!) Oh, and don't forget the wrath of the "re-calculating" navigational device that was thoroughly confused by my maneuver. When I headed back the right way and cut across traffic AGAIN after being in the wrong lane, the thing started telling me to head to the Interstate.

Do you think it was trying to save all the other drivers on the road? I mean seriously - by this time I was checking the rearview for lights. Surely it was only a matter of time before the erratic woman in the SUV was called in and picked up. I was literally starting to feel like a menace to society.

The good news - I've learned my lesson. People like me shouldn't be allowed to use navigational tools. It just. isn't. safe.

So my next question? WHY IS ANNIE USING ONE??!!! (Watch out Utah! She's on the loose!)

PS - when I got home and said "it's dangerous for people who don't know their left from their right to use those things", she said "I know." With emphasis. Like maybe this has already happened to her...

PPS - This is totally off topic, but..... Sue Q. gets a great big bloggy-hug for nominating me for MMB's spotlight blog award! Thanks Sue - you rock. (As will anyone else who nominates me :)

Where In the World Is Jen Baxter? (you'll never guess...)

2009-03-31T04:00:00.000-07:00

So I've been absent from Blogland, because....I'M ON A ROAD TRIP!!! Don't you love it when someone says, "Hey, I'm driving twelve-ish hours to Utah - with my four children, ages 8, 6, 3, and 4 months. I'm leaving in three days, wanna come?"

And you say yes. And just to make things more exciting, you'll be bringing your two year old. Because everyone knows two year olds are REALLY FUN to road trip with.

We actually did pretty well until we hit Utah. Granted, we were running a bit behind schedule, due to nursing stops and a family visit to her great uncle's house. Then in the lovely (and rather desolate, frigid, WINDY) town of Jerome, we took an hour break at McDonald's Playland.

Have they been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize yet? Because they should be. McDonald's Playlands are bringing relief to travel worn parents of small, road-tripping children across the nation - and perhaps the world. (Does anyone know if McD's has playlands overseas??? Because if they roadtrip over there, they pretty much should. Maybe I should send them a memo...)

So running about three hours behind schedule, we head south to catch the I15 junction on our way to Logan. Almost delirious with relief, we see a sign informing us we're a mere 45 minutes from our destination.

And then we come to the roadblock: "Highway is closed due to a whiteout. Detour through Pocatello to reach Logan."

A WHITEOUT???!!!! IN MARCH???!!!! And following this mind blowing information - POCATELLO???!!!! Seriously.

From where we were (45 min from destination, with FIVE tired, bored, uncomfortable, crabby children representing each stage of child-development, i.e. versions of get-me-out-of-this-car-ish-ness) we now had over an hour ahead of us. And that wasn't counting the COMPLETELY iced-over roads of the lovely Pocatello.

Can we say long, narrow, skating rink for minivans??? 'Cause that's what it was. With my own, lovely and adorable two year old screaming in my ear as I drive. And I'm no slouch on bad roads, either. I may be from the NW, but I've done six winters in the Utah/Rexburg/Spokane regions of winter driving, and a little snow and ice doesn't bother me.

To make a long story short, TWO AND A HALF HOURS after being a mere 45 min from Logan, we pulled into town.

A full eighteen hours after our departure.

And I have never been so happy to arrive ANYWHERE in my entire life.

And in a few days, we get to drive home. Wow. Hard to contain my excitement for that one...

Wow! Pictures! On MY Blog!

2009-03-27T20:23:00.000-07:00

So I'm at my mom's, and I figure I should seize the day and post some pictures off her computer since I NEVER HAVE!

So here you go:

Fun trip with one of my sisters and my mom to Annie's a year ago. I brought M. but other than that (and Annie's little rugrats) we were kid free. It's a beautiful thing.

If you want to know what it's like when we all get together, this pretty much says it all...

No, we don't usually dress like this. (And I don't usually wear this much makeup - I swear).

C. He's really cute, don't you think?

Mom again (it is her computer) (and it was her birthday) and two of my sisters. If Annie was in this it might look like I was related to somebody.

And here's my little Miss M. What a doll.

I'd love to throw out a couple of my older boys and my husband, but Mom doesn't have any on her computer at the moment. Maybe someday soon...

To Homework, or Not to Homework? That is the question...

2009-03-26T14:14:00.000-07:00

It's teacher conference week, and I've decided I love half days. Seriously. It's the best of both worlds. You have you're mornings free, while your school age kids run off for a little enlightenment and lunch, and then return with plenty of time to be kids and contribute to the family farm.

Okay, we don't actually have a farm, but we are definitely raising several little animals who all need to be fed, groomed, and cleaned up after. And if you think that sounds farmish, you should hear them at feeding time.

Back to the half day issue. I love that they come home with hours to do homework and chores, and still have time to play. I get so sick of our entire evenings being spent on homework, piano practice, chores (which I believe children MUST have to appreciate what it takes to run a family, and become responsible adults), reading, and all the other scheduled activities (like cub scouts) that tend to take away from their free kid time.

I'm a big believer of kid time. When I was growing up we had chores to do (and when I say chores, I mean CHORES!!! i.e., feed cows, haul wood, AND the usual dusting/vacuuming/bathroom cleaning/window washing/dish-doing that a person thinks of when they think of chores), but we never had homework. I literally can't recall bringing home more than the occasional book report or special project during my entire elementary school career. Am I alone here?

So anyway, I love that if my kids have to do homework, half days give them a chance to get it done, make some real household contribution, AND have time to play. And I hate it that the rest of the time I'm constantly trying to decide whether it's more important to deprive them of play so they can be responsible and get homework and chores done, take away chores so they can focus on homework and play time - sacrificing the whole family-responsibility argument - or lighten up on the homework thing and let their grades suffer, so they can concentrate on the two things I feel are actually most important - chores and playtime.

How about now? If I wasn't alone before, is anyone still with me on this?

To clarify, I'm not suggesting we have half days all the time, and I'm not saying school, and occasional homework aren't important. I just believe that homework should be limited to work that could have been finished at school, but wasn't. And as for the half day thing, they're just the catalyst for this argument, because having all the extra time just magnifies the time-shortage we're usually dealing with.

I know that there really isn't an immediate solution to this problem. Unfortunately, we have to wait for the people in charge of education trends to move back to the "no homework" argument (which you know will eventually happen) before this noxious aspect of every school day can be eradicated. Until then, I will just have to suffer through with my kids, watching the one who struggles in school have extra work piled on top of what he already can't finish in class, and the other one review stuff he already gets for no apparent reason. I mean really - aren't seven hours of school a day enough???

I'm just saying.

The Story Contintues: How Seven Brides for Seven Brothers Turned the Tide...

2009-03-23T04:00:00.000-07:00

So if you've read this post, you know how we met. Wasn't it magical? Identity confusion is a great opener - believe me. Now, on with the story...

Once we determined we actually did not know each other, we introduced ourselves and chatted away like a couple of old women. Can I just say that the guy is hysterical? And cute. And very nice. (Had to slip into present tense there, because these things are all still true).

But I still thought he was too short, and kept my eye on Mr. Tall-Dark-Motorcycle. The game ended before too long, and we all went inside the church to the gym to hang out. Shortly after we got inside I realized I'd landed in the jackpot - the only singles ward on the planet with more available guys than girls.

And I was the new girl in town. And there's nothing like fresh meat at a singles ward. Let me tell you, it was quite the switch. If you're a regular around here, you'll know that at just-turned-twenty, I was only four months out from my first kiss. (Although I had managed to squeeze in another boyfriend during those short months - whom I was still {very tentatively/long-distance-relationshippy} dating). I had only been asked for my phone number once in my two and a half year stint at Ricks College. This night was possibly the highlight of my dating career.

Three guys got my number that night. Rusty was not one of them. When I left, I was feeling a bit disappointed, but secretly I was hoping he'd memorized it (since he was standing right there) and was going to call me anyway...even if he was only 5'11.

He didn't.

That Saturday, (now that I had cast off the ugly cloak of loner-ism) I headed back over for a day at the lake. (Not to mention girl-starved available men). I met Angie there, walked down to the beach area, and witnessed something that no doubt turned the hands of Fate in Rusty's direction for all eternity - He was playing volleyball. With out a shirt. Or a hat.

I think I had to grab onto Angie's arm for support when my eyes first beheld his rippling muscles. Seriously. The clincher? HE WAS A REDHEAD!!! Hello-oh, as a good little girl who'd been properly raised on Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, I had a MAJOR thing for redheads. Almost every one of my college crushes had red/sandy/auburn hair. My secret desire was to marry a man with gorgeous dark red hair (just like Benjamin - didn't we ALL want Benjamin?), have redheaded babies, and sit at church every Sunday for the rest of my life looking down the pew and seeing red.

How had I missed this! How does one not see gorgeous, dark, Benjamin-red hair on a guy who's already cute, funny, AND talking to you?!! When it's been buzzed into an almost-military cut, and the owner of said red locks wears a hat and has a nice (although freckly) tan, that's how. He didn't even have any hair on the part that showed with his hat on, so I'd had no opportunity to appreciate this fact at our prior meeting. Mr. Motorcycle's dark good looks suddenly slipped into the background, and for that afternoon I pretty much focused on Rusty.

Who, I have to say, was focusing on me. Despite the fact that he was the only guy who hadn't asked for my number in this girl-starved singles branch. Again, I don't remember much of what we talked about, except that his opening line was asking if my number was 867-5309.

My name is Jenny. Like I hadn't heard that one before. (For you innocent babes of youthful years, that is the number in an 80's song, belonging to a girl named Jenny. The guy gets the number off a bathroom stall. He apparently wants a good time.)

But still, he didn't ask for my actual number. So I tried not to get my hopes up. In fact, I even consciously concentrated a little flirtatious energy towards Mr. Motorbike (who HAD got my number). After all, he was cute...

But Rusty was really funny. What is it about hot redheads with big muscles who constantly make you laugh? What girl could resist such a deadly combination? Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I was definitely not up to the challenge...

Lessons From Life

2009-03-20T19:30:00.000-07:00

Sue Q.'s post about her daughter getting her license takes me back. Wayyyy back to my first real driving experience.

When I was eight.

It was summer, it was hot, and we were putting up hay. As kids we were always out there, rolling bales in to the truck for the guys to buck. I'm not sure what happened - probably someone had to go home - but all of the sudden they were out of a driver. (My ten year old sister Laura was no doubt driving the other truck. The automatic.) So the crew called me over, and initiated me into the mysteries of "The Stick Shift".

And told me to drive.

Might I add that the truck was stacked at about three or four bales high at this point, making a rough clutch just a tad treacherous for the poor guys trying to catch and stack.

And my clutch was rough. It was kind of like that song, "Bounding on the Billows." They kept making it sound really easy - just push that one down, then give it some gas, and then lift that one up - easier said than done when you're eight. But somehow I managed, although the quality of the ride was in serious question, and no doubt their were lives in danger.

This was also the year I learned to drive a tractor.

Enter Tim, my brother.

Ten years older than me, he was living close by and had apparently been at our house playing with the heavy equipment - because he got the Cat (bulldozer) stuck in the crick. My parents were gone, and even I knew he'd be in trouble if they got home and found out. Apparently, it wasn't a risk he was willing to take, and unfortunately for him, I was the only one home.

So we took off on the tractor, and he got the Cat out, and then stuck me on the tractor and said, "Okay, follow me to the house." I'm sure there was a short lesson in there about how to make it go, and how to make it stop, but all I remember is being eight years old, and feeling absolutely exhilarated as I drove that big piece of machinery across the field ALL BY MYSELF.

Can I just say how empowering that was? Dangerous, no doubt, and it's true I almost hit a phone pole, and he had to run after me, jump on, and steer me around it, but still. It was one of the greatest feelings in the world to be the sole operator of that tractor, with the wind blowing my hair, and my two little hands on the steering wheel.

In fact, I think you could say it's had a lasting effect. First off, I still love driving tractors - although I seldom get the opportunity. But even more than that, I think how much those experiences of responsibility and accomplishment must have done for me as an individual. I've always kind of felt like I could do anything if it was required of me, and looking back I think that confidence must stem from situations like these.

And no, I'm not endorsing underage driving of vehicles or tractors.

Instead, I'm just trying to invoke these feelings of empowerment as I tackle an insurmountable challenge: Homemade Birthday Invitations.

Please don't laugh, this is serious. I might have to cut and paste - and lets not even talk about a stamp pad. I would never have brought this on myself, but my turning-eight son just informed me that he wants to make his invitations in a conversation just like the following:

N: Mom, I need invitations for my birthday party.

Me: Okay honey, we'll go to the store and pick some out.

N: No, I want to make them.

Me: (reeling at the very idea) What??!!! No, no, no. Store bought ones are way better. We'll find some cool ones.

N: But I want to make them. Like Skyler did. He took paper, and made it cool, and wrote everything on it himself and put it in an envelope. Why can't we do that?

Me: (Cursing Kyler, and speechless at having produced a child who expresses a desire to voluntarily engage in crafts).

I know most of you are thinking I'm over-reacting, and that this really isn't a big deal. But that's because you don't know me. And you've never seen me try to craft. It's not just that any and all crafting projects of mine look so bad, it's that I hate doing them. And I can never think of what to do. And if I ever manage to make something that looks halfway decent, I can't stand the thought of parting with it.

This has happened about two times.

So anyway, I'm stuck. I must craft. I must pull from the resources of self-confidence gleaned from being forced behind the wheel at a tender age, under stressful situations. The worst part? They're invitations, so other (no doubt craftier) women will see them. My brilliant strategy - tell everyone the kid made them himself. After all - no one is going to laugh at a kid, right?

My Epiphany

2009-03-18T15:00:00.000-07:00

Last night I had cause for reflection. Don't ask me how, because there was so much going on in the chaos around me that I shouldn't have been able to string two cohesive thoughts together, but somehow I managed. It went kind of like this:

My kids came home from school. I had approximately forty-five minutes until my first piano student arrived. By some miracle (no doubt related to two consecutive days off of my other job) my house was actually clean. (And no, I'm not counting the upstairs. So there). I immediately sat one child at the piano to practice, ushered the other one in for Homework War I, and started making dinner.

I'm frying hamburger, yelling at N. that he needs to play and F sharp, redirecting L. (again, and again, and AGAIN!!!) to the maps of Washington he's trying not to color, sending C. to the corner for tormenting his sister (at least four times before finally exiling him to the upper floor purgatory also known as his bedroom), and trying to explain to M. that no, Mommy could not pick her up right now, and would she PLEASE stop crying.

I believe I was rinsing the noodles when the reflection began. All of the sudden I was in Brazil, with that Girl who lives there, and I was spending my morning eating blackberries, floating in the pool, and loving the easy, carefree moments of life. It was kind of maddening.

Because I remember when my life was like that.

So I thought (as I dumped the sauce over my noodles, and yelled at C. that NO! he could not come downstairs yet), what's happened? Why the chaos? Have I lost it completely as a wife/mother? WILL IT EVER BE EASY AGAIN??!!!

And then the epiphany happened. It's not how many kids you have, it's how many age groups of kids you have. Those easy days? There were three of them, but everyone was five or younger. Everyone had the same needs, the same toys, the same troubles (for the most part), and their laundry was WAY smaller. As in, a toddler's entire wardrobe fits in one load, vs. a giant ten year old's getting-bigger-all-the-time jumbo wear. You can't tell me this doesn't make a major difference.

Now, I have a ten, eight, five, and two year old, and must simultaneously juggle everyone's VASTLY different needs, toys, troubles, activities (because eight and ten year olds definitely have these), and laundry. Instead of two precious preschoolers playing with dinosaurs, I have the G.I. Joe combat zone in one corner, Dora's doll house in the middle, and a rousing semi-automatic dart gun war going on all at the same time.

While I teach a calm, cool, and collected piano lesson. My poor students.

So I have come to a conclusion. If it was easier the last time everyone was in the same basic age/needs/interests category, it (philosophically) should get easier when they meld together once more as "school age kids". Plus they'll be able to do their own laundry - and don't think I won't make them.

This is something to look forward to - while I treasure these crazy, hectic, chaotic, never-quite-finish-doing-anything years of having adorable young children,of course. Because they are adorable, and I really don't want them to grow up too fast. (Well, there are moments...)

So for now, I figure I can do anything (as long as no one expects me to do everything and do it well), and while I'm doing it I'll try to remind myself that I used to have things under control too, so surely I can't be a total disaster...I mean, I actually remember mopping my floor because I had nothing better to do. That can happen again someday, right?

And by the way Girl in Brazil, I will be forever grateful to you for that reminder. It was seriously just what I needed to find that light at the end of the tunnel.

And the Story Begins...

2009-03-16T22:38:00.000-07:00

***This story is dedicated to Lisaway, because if she hadn't kept insisting she wanted to read it, I probably would never have started it. Even though I always wanted to. But I'm not going to try to do the whole thing one post after another - just so you know - because it's going to take me awhile. It's a long story...***

It was June. I had just turned twenty. I had been staying with my brother since the middle of April (I was between Ricks and BYU), and I had exactly zero friends. Each Sunday, I took my strangely-shy-when-I-don't-know-anyone self to the large singles ward, sat alone, and wished I had the guts to make friends.

It was pathetic.

Then my sister Annie came to visit. While she was there, we attended the Spokane Regional Conference (for our church). If you've never been to a regional conference, let me just say that they are HUGE. Thousands of people start showing up hours early, traffic is a madhouse, and parking is impossible. Annie and I were only about twenty minutes early, and somehow secured a spot only yards from a door. I'm not even sure what we were doing in that parking lot, other than being extremely optimistic.

We parked, and for some reason I felt like sitting in the car for a few minutes. Shortly thereafter, this familiar looking girl walked in front of our car, and I suddenly realized it was Angie - an old roomie of mine, whom I hadn't seen for about two years. It was so nice to see someone I knew, and we sat together and exchanged info.

Then I returned to my hermitage, and Annie left. Did I mention that after two months of no social life I had become completely anti-social, and convinced no one would want to be my friend anyway? So when Angie started calling every week to invite me to her little singles branch Sports Nights, I conveniently had "things" to do. Why go face more rejection? Besides, they were playing softball, and I hate softball. Girls with my equipment don't exactly enjoy running bases in a co-ed environment.

Finally, the third week she called, my brother gave me a lecture. I was ungrateful. I was rude. That nice girl had been inviting me for weeks, and I needed to go at least once. And I needed to stop being such a lame-o, loner, loser anyway.

Fine.

So I called Angie back, and planned to go late, take my basketball, skip softball, and leave early. It was about a forty-five minute drive to her branch, and I showed up a fashionable thirty minutes late. As I pulled in, I noticed three things:

1)That guy on the pitcher's mound with the hat on was cute, but a little short. (My previous {and only} two boyfriends had been 6'5, and 6'3).

2)That guy standing next to the motor bike was cute. Tall, dark haired, and totally my type.

3)Angie was in the outfield. There was no way I was going over there.

So I grabbed my ball, waved at her, and headed into the church. But it was a little boring to be in there alone, when there were all those people out there. I mean, I am - by nature - a sociable creature, and I was completely and totally starved for conversation...so after twenty minutes or so I peeked outside. Angie's team was up to bat, and she was sitting on the grass. I decided to take the plunge.

Carefully avoiding any eye contact - lest anyone think I was there to make friends - I beelined for Ang, and sat down. We chatted for approximately two minutes before she was up to bat.

And I was left all alone, sitting by myself, with no one to talk to.

Until this guy comes up to me. He says something funny - which I can't recall at all - and starts talking to me. I quickly realize it's the guy from the pitcher's mound, and next thing I know we're chatting. He's totally hilarious, really friendly, and I keep thinking that it's almost like he knows who I am. And then we have the following conversation:

Him: (With a questioning look on his face) You're Jen, right?

Me: (Wondering if Angie told everyone all about her anti-social friend, and ordered them to be nice to me) Yes.

Him: You play volleyball, right?

Me: Uh, I did until eleventh grade.

Him: And you used to come here, right?

Me: No, I've never been here before.

Him: But your name's Jen -

Me: Yes.

Him: And you play volleyball -

Me: Kind of.

Him: But you've never been here and played volleyball?

Me: No.

Him: Oh. I totally thought you were this other girl I used to know named Jen. She used to come here. And play volleyball.

And that was how we met...

And the Winner is....

2009-03-14T19:50:00.000-07:00

Time for the big verdict. Can I just say I hate this part? And no one even offered one single opinion, so I am entirely on my own here. As usual, I have not made my decision yet. I always do this the same way - I copy over the ones I got the biggest kick out of, and start typing away, and hope that at some magical moment the choice will seem obvious. Here we go.

We'll start with one of McFarland's. Just for the record, she is our reigning champ. One look at the prolific limericking she's capable of, and no one should wonder that she's in the running every time. My McFarland-favorite this round is this:

Help! I just saw my reflection.
What made me look that direction?
It's the swimsuit you see,
I put it on me!
But why, I have no recollection.

I love how she captured my feelings exactly. I decide I need a swimsuit. I think I know what will flatter. I think I'm thin enough to pull it off. I pick one (or a dozen) off the rack, get into the dressing room, put on a suit, and think, "Why am I here? Why did I think this would work? Why, why, why can't I remember what swimsuit shopping is like!" So sad, yet so true.

Next we have my sister Annie's little gem:

How could this suit do that to me?
I've been wearing it since 2003
I wish I were dead
My face is all red
And my boobies? The public can see

I have to admit, at one point I had this one picked as the sure-fire winner. First off, it's hysterical. Second, what a visual. And third? This would totally have (and probably has) happened to my sister. There is only one small technicality - I said it had to have something to do with swimsuit shopping. Which it doesn't. Unless you can rationalize that she went shopping in 2003, and will now obviously have to go again. We'll see.

And from a new contender, Steph @ Diapers & Divinity:

Swimsuit season is coming in sight.
But shopping for suits? What a fright!
My butt's a sedan.
Maybe I should go tan;
or is cottage cheese meant to be white?

This one is just great. I love the whole to-tan-or-not-to-tan (or possibly more appropriately, to-tan-but-HOW-to-tan) question. As one of those "lucky" women blessed with skin white enough to put the most severe cases of anemia to shame, for me this is an annual debate.

Then there's Alison Wonderland's. She always has some good stuff to throw out there:

For most gals suit shopping's a pain.
Its like money they pour down the drain.
But believe it or not.
I always look hot.
I'm gorgeous. And not at all vain.

The beauty of this one? I wish it were me. I would so love to feel this way when trying on swimsuits. Instead, I feel like all the little issues that are so easily camouflaged by regular clothing are suddenly (and very rudely) put on display, informing the world that I am, in fact, a fraud. Strip me down to an unforgiving piece of spandex, and every little problem glares out, revealing all my disillusionments about being thin and fit.

And now I have to choose. Unfortunately, I feel I must rule out Annie's on the technicality. I'll be expecting her irate phone call anytime. (You can hardly blame her - winning this title is one of her major goals in this life). And of those left, the one that seems to most capture the universal irritations of swimsuit shopping is....

STEPH'S!!!! From DIAPERS AND DIVINITY!!!! Wow. I am just going to go out on a limb and say how incredibly honored she's feeling right now! This is no doubt one of the defining moments of her divine existence. A world title. A PLACE ON MY SIDEBAR!! Steph, don't worry, it's normal for winner's of this title to feel the elation you are currently experiencing. I assure you, however, your feet actually are still on solid ground - despite that floating sensation. Put your head between your knees, take a few deep breaths, and you'll be just fine. Fame can't ruin you unless you let it.

And thanks everyone, for all your limericks. You have no idea how much of a kick I get out of this! Now I just need someone else to host one of these so I can get some of my own limericking out of my system!

It's Not Too Late To Limerick - THE CONTEST IS STILL GOING!!!

2009-03-13T20:00:00.000-07:00

And I have to say, these are some of the most hilarious limericks ever. The swimsuit-shopping limerick-worthy scenarios are apparently endless, so don't miss your chance! Scroll one post down, get out your rhyming dictionary, and go for it!

Or, leave me some opinions. I think I'm going to need some help with this one. So if those of you who aren't up for writing a limerick of your own could tell me which one's you like the most it would be most appreciated. I mean after all, surely someone has an opinion?

P.S. The contest will be open until sometime tomorrow evening. Just so you know.

Prepare Your Brains, IT'S TIME TO LIMERICK! Yet Another Chance for YOU to Win My Highly Acclaimed Limerick Contest, and Become the World's Greatest!

2009-03-11T23:10:00.000-07:00

Work + the housework you didn't do because you were at work + the dinner you have to make because for some strange reason people keep insisting on being fed = Complete Lack of Creativity.

If math had made this much sense I'd have aced it. And since I have zero creativity of my own at the moment, I've decided to be a creativity-leech, and steal some of yours.....

IT'S LIMERICK TIME LADIES! (AND GENTS, OF COURSE)!!!!!!!

But what for a topic? Never fear, I have just the thing. In honor of the coming of Spring and all things Springy, I've chosen a topic near and dear to all of our hearts: Swimsuit shopping.

It's also in honor of the one I recently purchased via the internet, that was a bit of a disaster. Word to the wise: February Funks often lead to a bit of over-eating. In my case, one could even say Reckless Abandonment. This makes swimsuit shopping in March a hazardous experience, and I strongly caution against any and all swimsuiting until a full FebFunk recovery has been made.

Meanwhile, back to the limericks. In case any of you don't know how this works, here's a basic rundown:

1. Your limerick can have to do with any aspect of swimsuit shopping.

2. This is a family blog, so please keep things clean and refrain from mentioning things like, well - what that one guy mentioned in his limerick the last time I had a contest.

3. Leave your entries in my comment box.

4. Enter as many times as you want - the more the merrier.

And now, a crash course on Limericking. A limerick follows these rules:

*They have five lines.

*Lines 1, 2, and 5 MUST rhyme.

*Lines 3, and 4 MUST rhyme.

*For the meter, read the limericks on my sidebar, or the ones I'm about to write in this post. It's pretty basic. Let's try one out for size, shall we?

The mirror is not a good friend
When a swimsuit the mailman did send.
I'm definitely no model,
And may hit the bottle,
When what I need is clearly Fen fen.

Hmmm. Not the greatest, but at least I got to the end. Let's go for another:

There's nothing can make a girl cringe
Like swimsuiting right after a binge.
I squeezed myself in,
And tried to "think thin"
Do you think I'd do better with fringe?

And how about one more, since I like odd numbers...

The sales lady promised delight,
When all I got was a fright.
Either she's a big liar,
Or I have a spare tire
That no tummy-tucker will right.

Enough. My poor, tired brain can do no more - the rest is up to you. I have a fabulous plan for a giveaway, but until someone can make Tia a button, you hopefuls will have to make do with the exciting promise of replacing McFarland on my sidebar.

I know. It's beyond your wildest dreams to be there, right under the title of "The World's Greatest Limerick Writer EVER!!!!!!" And to think the honor can only go to one lucky winner. Such a travesty, when so many crave limericking distinction. But then again, no one ever said life was fair, right?

NOW GO LIMERICK!!!

P.S.
If you want to look at past limerick contests to check out the competition, go here or here

If you want to write a limerick but just can't seem to do it, go ahead and throw us some poetry just for fun - although only actual limericks are eligible for the "Big Prize". Good luck.

My Amazing Day...

2009-03-08T22:50:00.000-07:00

First, I slept in. Or not. It depends on whether or not you take Daylight Savings Time into consideration. Personally, I found it refreshing to have a "good excuse" for being late for church. And there were people who were way later. So there.

Then, I had the privilege of helping out the primary presidency since they were short staffed. Can I just say how relaxing it is to be in there when you aren't the prez? And don't have to do sharing time? Or singing time? Or all of the above??? It was like I had no responsibilities. It was bliss.

Then I went home. It felt a little less blissful to be trapped in my house with my four children and all their pent-up energy. Seriously. I swear Sunday is their most energetic day of the whole week.

And then something magical happened. We had company - and not just any company either. Hansey, and his wife Hottie stopped by. Apparently, they have magical powers, because as soon as we'd we gone through the family-greet, my children disappeared upstairs never to be heard from again. Well, we did hear them a few times, but it was still rather miraculous.

Just in case some of you don't know who Hansey is, I'll tell you. He is Mr. Hilarious. AND he has a blog (which can be found on my sidebar) where he displays his particular brand of hilarity. I've known him and his wife since forever, and I suppose you could say he's one of a kind.

So anyway, here they were at my house. My living room was quiet for the first time all day. It was a miracle.

And then something even MORE miraculous happened. Hansey mentioned he knew something about computers. I think it was at about this point that I threw my laptop at him. (Remember my laptop? The one with all the issues this last week?) By last night I was so completely irritated with this computer because I'd done what someone told me, installed this spyware program, tried to run it, aaaaand...nothing happened.

And Hansey saved me.

I sat there and watched the whole process (in a state of almost complete mystification), and finally - FINALLY!!!!! - MY COMPUTER WAS BUG-FREE!!!!! Seriously. It was a beautiful thing. In fact, it still is. I have managed to type an entire post without any attacks from unwanted/super-persistent/uber-irritating pop-up windows telling me my computer is ABOUT TO CRASH. And it didn't take five thousand years to boot-up, either.

It is so refreshing. Just like the sleeping in, the non-primary-prez primary, and the magic silent/invisible children affect. And might I just point out that Hansey and his lovely wife are responsible for half of these phenomenons?

I told them to come again soon.

And now I think everyone should head on over, read Hansey's blog, laugh hysterically, and tell him how great he is in his comment box. Especially since it seems he's been experiencing a bit of a blog-funk (left over from February), and needs a little boost to jolt him out of it. After all, anyone who makes an innocent social call, and then allows themselves to be roped into computer-fixing, deserves a little love and appreciation - don't you agree?

Hope everyone's Sunday's were as refreshing as mine!

I'm Alive!

2009-03-06T07:53:00.000-08:00

I really haven't disappeared - my computer has some nasty spyware that is basically shutting it down. Lovely. And then there's the "I can't blog at work" factor, which is SUPER annoying. Tonight, however, I have vowed to take the time and fix up my computer, and then I'll at least be able to read all your blogs - and maybe even give you all that update on my life I know you're all dying for...

Because you are all dying for it right? You can't live without me, and life has become meaningless this week? Right? Right?

Never mind - you aren't required to answer that question...

When Jeremiah Johnson meets Sound of Music...

2009-03-02T23:48:00.000-08:00

***WARNING - this post contains information that my cause nauseousness. If you've been known to feel sick/irritated/disgusted by posts dealing with marital happiness, DO NOT read any further.***

I should be sleeping right now, but... I just finished watching the season finale of The Bachelor. I have watched almost all of the Bachelor/Bachelorette seasons, and without fail, they all have the exact same effect on me:

Every year, I wonder what would have happened if I'd been the Bachelorette, and my husband had been amongst the twenty-five gorgeous contenders.

And every year I come up with exactly the same answer:

I totally would have picked him.

Seriously. There is no way I could have ever chose someone else while he was in the running. And believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I tried extremely hard to NOT pick him in the first place (for all the wrong reasons, because I was young and stupid), yet in the end I had to finally admit the truth. Life could not have gone on with out him. No matter what other kinds of charms they could have brought to the equation, anyone else would have been found lacking.

Tonight, when Jason dumped Melissa because he finally realized he was in love with Molly (and no, I'm not saying I'm sure they're actually going to make it, I'm just saying if I were him, and Molly was Rusty...which just sounds so wrong...) I suddenly knew that if I'd been Jason, and Rusty had been Molly, I would have had to do the exact same thing.

Just a little background. My husband and I don't necessarily fit as your "typical" couple. Everyone has been saying it since practically day one (with the exception of a few brilliantly insightful people who instantly saw that we were made for each other). Just tonight, my SIL asked me again how it is that he and I work together. I suppose you could say we're a bit like Jeremiah Johnson meets Maria from The Sound of Music. (Seriously. If you want to know what I'm like, I'm a LOT like her. And he basically IS J.J. - minus the squaw and the bear coat).

I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. He makes me laugh. Constantly. He's a bit moody, rather reclusive, a total babe, completely off the wall, and totally unpredictable. He hates emotional confrontations, is a fabulous father, and the most humble man I know. True, I catch him wearing his running shoes with his church slacks, and if it were up to him his entire wardrobe would be made up of hunting camo, but somehow we manage to get along just the same.

You'd really think that a Chatty Kathy like me wouldn't do well with Silent Man, and that his need for alone time in the uncharted wilderness would clash with my panic-attack tendencies. But, while it's true that I have my annual Rusty's-hunting-alone-in-the-wilderness anxiety, I would be lost without him. He is a true, what-you-see-is-what-you-get (and I mean this so literally), one-of-a-kind original guy, I seriously doubt I could ever replace him if he actually did get himself eaten by a cougar.

So while I'm doing my best to keep this love-fest from becoming overly nauseating, I just have to say it. My husband rocks. He is the man for me. He makes my world go round, and just the thought of him can still put a smile on my face. I love when I see him unexpectedly and get butterflies. Because I do. Even after eleven-almost-twelve-years. And four kids.

So thank you ABC for giving me one more chance to reflect on the rightness of my decision to pick the wild-card and go for Rusty. It was seriously the best choice ever

Regarding Annie's Budget (and other issues)

2009-03-02T09:00:00.000-08:00

*****FYI, I have been granted permission from Annie to post the following - with certain stipulations, which I have adhered to completely. For the most part.****

So just in case any of you haven't read Annie's column about her SEVEN PAGE budget, and how she and her uber-responsible husband spent the morning going over it together, let me tell you the rest of the story.

I'm sitting innocently in my kitchen, trying to make up for the chinese food I'd eaten the night before by lunching on a head of steamed cauliflower, when my phone rings. It's Anne. She's irritated. She goes on for several minutes about their budget, how they're sticking to it, and how her husband thinks they should amp up the penny-pinching.

Then, after a lengthy tirade about how he tried to pry twenty-five dollars out of her "grocery" envelope to cover the salt for the water softener (which I totally agree should come out of the "household maintenance" envelope regardless of the fact that salt is technically a food item), she says the following:

"How dare he tell me how I should spend my grocery money. I am responsible. Our grocery budget is under percentage - UNDER PERCENTAGE!" (They follow this budget plan that says what percent should go where. They're very responsible. They have a SEVEN PAGE budget. Now back to Annie's tirade...) "Well, he and the kids are gone, and I need to get out of this house. I need to do something. I need to spend money. But I don't have any money." (slight pause...) "Yes I do have money - I have a credit at the kids' clothing consignment shop! I gotta go." Click.

I literally said almost nothing during this monologue. And then, about two hours later, she called me and we had the following conversation:

Annie: I got the best stuff at the kid store...blah, blah...Gap shorts for $3...blah, blah.

Me: Sounds great.

Annie: And then I found some money (from an undisclosed location) and I found this cute...blah, blah, blah...at Down East, which was totally justified because...blah, blah, blah.

Me: Wow, sounds great. Where are you, anyway? It sounds noisy in the background - are you in a store or something?

Annie: Oh, I'm taking myself out to lunch at Cafe Rio. Jason and the kids are gone, I'm alone, I can do whatever I want.

Well. And yes she can. And will. And this cracked me up because I would no doubt have done the exact same thing.

I think Annie and I need to read a few chapters from that infamous book of mine, Do's and Don'ts For Husbands and WIVES (circa 1913). Something tells me the illustrious author would never approve of such behavior from the "modern wife".

I prefer to think we're just way ahead of our time.

The Funk That Is February (or is it just me?)

2009-02-28T13:45:00.000-08:00

February is Funk Month. Blog funk, house cleaning funk, mothering funk, dieting funk - they all seem to hit during the lovely (and somehow eternal) month of February. Four LONG weeks of "WILL IT EVER END????"

I remember about six years ago when I finally noticed the pattern - the one where during the month of February my house turns into a disaster area, and the laundry becomes an overwhelming force in my life. I swear I just did twelve loads, and last night my husband informed me he was out of underwear.

Again.

What is it with February? It's that time of year you sit around thinking, "didn't there used to be something BESIDES television/movies/video games for my children to do?" Because that is seriously all I can think of in the area of kid-activities these days. And I think the kids suffer from Funky February too, because for the last few weeks we have been dealing with an extreme case of boredom. EVERYTHING is boring. Inside, outside, upside, downside, every suggestion is met with "But that's so BOOOORING!"

So then I have them work, because every mom knows chores are the cure for boredom. Really, it works out quite nicely. I'm feeling totally apathetic, un-energetic, and, well, quite frankly BORED with house work - so I make them do it.

Sad, isn't it?

And it isn't just me. I know of about five bloggers who have recently compained of the blog-funk phenomenon. And several who are wondering where in the world the commenters have gone to. (Which begs the question - will anyone actually read this post anyway?) Almost every woman I work with has gained weight this month WHILE DIETING. Including me. And just the other day my sister Annie and I were discussing the complete apathy we feel toward the daily-grind that is housework. Bleck to all of it.

And now for the good news: FEBRUARY IS ALMOST OVER!!! And I can already tell. Just yesterday at about 2:30 in the afternoon, I actually had the following conversation with myself as I sat on the couch looking at the mess my two non-schoolers had made of my living room:

Funky Me: Oh good, it's almost time for the boys to come home. I can't wait till they clean this place up.

Non-funky March Me: Hmmm. Something about that just doesn't seem right...

FM: Of COURSE it's right! Right on the money. What are kids for if you can't get them to work a little? What do they think this is, a free ride?

NFMM: Yeah, but shouldn't you be doing something?

FM: I'll make them dinner. Maybe.

NFMM: No, this is wrong. You don't deserve to be called Mother. (All self-righteous, and on her high horse) Your children deserve to come home to a clean house, and YOU should be cleaning it! Now get up and DO something!

And I did. I can actually feel the apathy disappearing with the wretched month of February. Tomorrow, I will no doubt jump out of bed singing the laundry song, as I happily (and energetically) get my children ready for church. It's like a re-birth. Spring is coming, and the malaise of winter is about to end.

I think March may be my new favorite month. Or at least my new not-unfavorite month, which is certainly worth something. Happy Non-Funk Month, everyone! February is G.O.N.E. GONE!!!!!!!!

Just Look How Far We've Come! (Then again, maybe it isn't so great...)

2009-02-25T21:33:00.000-08:00

As you all know, I'm a substitute teacher at my local high school. Maybe this is why I love this so much. Seriously. It says a lot about where we are as a society on so many levels, that I just had to share it. (If any of you have seen it already, sorry for the repeat).

(And I have no idea who gets the credit for it. So whoever you are, forgive me).

SCHOOL--1958 vs. 2008

Scenario:
Jack goes quail hunting before school,
pulls into school parking lot with shotgun in gun rack.

1958 - Vice Principal comes over, looks at Jack's shotgun, goes to his car and gets his shotgun to show Jack.

2008 - School goes into lock down, FBI called, Jack hauled off to jail and never sees his truck or gun again. Counselor called in for traumatized students and teachers.

Scenario:
Johnny and Mark get into a fistfight after school.

1958 - Crowd gathers. Mark wins. Johnny and Mark shake hands and end up buddies.

2008 - Police called, SWAT team arrives, arrests Johnny and Mark. Charge them with assault, both expelled even though Johnny started it

Scenario:
Jeffrey won't be still in class, disrupts other students.

1958 - Jeffrey sent to office and given a good paddling by the Principal. Returns to class, sits still and does not disrupt class again.

2008 - Jeffrey given huge doses of Ritalin. Becomes a zombie. Tested for ADD. School gets extra money from state because Jeffrey has a disability.

Scenario:
Billy breaks a window in his neighbor's car
and his Dad gives him a whipping with his belt.

1958 - Billy is more careful next time, grows up normal, goes to college, and becomes a successful businessman.

2008 - Billy's dad is arrested for child abuse. Billy removed to foster care and joins a gang. State psychologist tells Billy's sister that she remembers being abused herself and their dad goes to prison. Billy's mom has affair with psychologist.

Scenario:
Mark gets a headache and takes some aspirin to school.

1958 - Mark shares aspirin with Principal out on the smoking dock.

2008 - Police called, Mark expelled from school for drug violations. Car searched for drugs and weapons.

Scenario:
Pedro fails high school English.

1958 - Pedro goes to summer school, passes English and goes to college.

2008 - Pedro's cause is taken up by state. Newspaper articles appear nationally explaining that teaching English as a requirement for graduation is racist. ACLU files class action lawsuit against state school system and Pedro's English teacher. English banned from core curriculum. Pedro given diploma anyway but ends up mowing lawns for a living because he cannot speak English.

Scenario:
Johnny takes apart leftover firecrackers from 4th of July,
puts them in a model airplane paint bottle, blows up a red ant bed.

1958 - Ants die.

2008- BATF, Homeland Security, FBI called. Johnny charged with domestic terrorism, FBI investigates parents, siblings removed from home, computers confiscated,
Johnny's Dad goes on a terror watch list and is never allowed to fly again.

Scenario:
Johnny falls while running during recess and scrapes his knee.
He is found crying by his teacher, Mary. Mary hugs him to comfort him.

1958 - In a short time, Johnny feels better and goes on playing.

2008 - Mary is accused of being a sexual predator and loses her job. She faces 3 years in State Prison. Johnny undergoes 5 years of therapy.

Enough said.

The Hazards of Password Sharing

2009-02-23T20:00:00.000-08:00

I just love it when people mess with my profile. Remember that time I innocently messed with Annie's - and she struck back? For those of you who weren't around yet, it went like this:

Feeling rather obnoxious (but not malicious at all - I swear), I just happened to re-write (my sister) Annie's profile. It really was innocent. I was supposed to be helping her pick a new blog template, so I set up a fake blog, and forgot that the profile would be the same as the one for her real blog. The profile re-write (which, coincidentally didn't get deleted with the fake blog, but stayed on her site) was all about how lame she was, with her lame-o template.

She finally found it, and struck back by re-writing mine. And I quote. "Hi, my name's Jen, and I'm really cool. I'm so cool that one time my pants froze to my legs...etc., etc." And it was way longer than the one I wrote for her. After about a week I found it on there and deleted it, but you know someone (like maybe four people) must have see it and thought I was the world's most obnoxiously stuck-on-myself person ever.

Then the other night my husband got on my blog. No, I did not give him my user name/password. I left myself logged in. And what does he do to my profile? He tells the world my favorite movie is Emmet Otters Christmas. He says my favorite music is pygmy love songs. And he makes a teen mother out of me (thirteen, to be exact) by saying I was born in 1986.

My favorite alteration, however? The tag line "Oh, and I'm extremely hot" onto the end of my little profile blip.

Yeah. Just what every humble blogger says about herself on her profile. Hopefully, no one saw it. I mean, it was a nice thought, but somehow just doesn't come off right.

It's kind of like the other day when I told him he could use my Facebook to search for some of his old friends. He found them. And left them messages that said things like "Hi."

From me. With my picture. With no side note like "By the way, this isn't Jen leaving you this message, it's Rusty Baxter from high school - remember me???" So now, not only am I a vain blogger, I'm also a freaky Facebook stalker.

In his defense, he knows nothing about Facebook, and didn't realize the message would be next to my picture. But still. He could have announced himself. And as surprising as it may seem, he (I) haven't received any responses from his Facebooking forays.

Shocker.

So please - if you ever view my profile and it starts talking about how wonderful, hot, or strange I am, TELL ME!!! And know I probably wasn't the author. In the meantime, I'm changing my password, and learning to log out.

The Big Moment Has Finally Arrived - Heck, I'VE Arrived! It's Post One Hundred People!

2009-02-20T08:20:00.000-08:00

Holy One Hundredth Post. Did you know? Have you been counting down, holding your breath, or planning a party? If so, you should have told me. I mean here I was in the midst of a big blog-funk, as my hundredth post loomed closer, and closer.

(Do you realize how close that last complainer-post came to being my only shot at a hundredth post? That would have been so lame).

Anyway. Post one hundred. El-posto uno-hundredito. This should be noteworthy. This NEEDS to be noteworthy. Which leads me to the following question: Why is chewing gum such a novelty to small children?

Do you remember being a kid, and having such a desire to chew gum (especially bubble gum) that you would chew any gum, from anyone, found anywhere? No? I guess it was just me then. And Kelly. (I hope you didn't think you were getting out of this one Kel - I am totally taking you down with me). (But it's all for the good of the Hundredth Post, right?)

Kelly is my niece. We are six months apart (long story) and grew up together. As in, lived right by each other. There were several kids in the neighborhood, and at the tender age of about four or five, we spent our days roaming freely from one house to the next. We were best, best, best friends.

And we lived for bubble gum. Seriously. The older neighbor kids payed their dues to their secret club (The Fuzzy Feet Club - do you remember those little Fuzzy Feet sticker guys?) in bubble gum, and Kelly and I weren't "allowed". And by allowed, I mean we weren't allowed membership, lurking-outside-the-door-ship, rock salt eating privileges (they ate rock salt - it was part of the deal - and we'd sneak in and steal it whenever possible), or anything else that had to do with their club. We never even saw the precious bubblegum stash - we just saw them chewing it.

And then one summer day our ship came in.

It was hot. It was sunny. Kel and I were hanging out doing whatever it is four year olds do, when we ended up on my front porch. Like many porches, ours had its share of cobwebby corners, and dead flies. Poking around in one of these dark corners where the siding had come off, exposing the old studs and ship lap of the porch's construction, something caught our attention.

There in that dark, cobwebby, forgotten corner, stuck in amidst the fly carcasses, was a dream come true. A big, orange, already-been-chewed wad of some unknown person's bubblegum. Jackpot. Eavesdroppers would have heard the following conversation:

Whoever spotted it first: Hey, look - GUM! (While reaching toward the new found treasure)

The other one: Wow! That piece is HUGE! (Admiring the gargantuan size of the orange, chewed up wad as it's being carefully pried off the wall in it's slightly-soft-from-the-heat-of-the-day state)

Spotter: (generously) We'll split it. Just help me pick this stuff off.

And I kid you not, to this day I can remember standing there in the sun on my front porch, picking dead flies, cobwebs, and who knows what else, off of that slightly-sticky piece of gum - splitting it - and gleefully popping it into our mouths simultaneously, discovering it still had a little bit of flavor.

Usually we weren't that lucky.

And you've been wondering what was wrong with me.

Happy One Hundredth Post people! And may you never be desperate enough to chew ABC gum - even if it is big, orange, and not quite chewed out.

*This post is dedicated to my un-follower Kristin who will be thoroughly grossed-out by crunchy flies and ABC gum.

Rejected

2009-02-18T22:18:00.000-08:00

I confess. I've been in a bit of a blog funk lately. Have you noticed? Does it show? (Does it make me look fat?) You can all lie and say nice things, but now I know the truth.

It shows.

How do I know? For the first time since the stupid "Follower" thingy appeared on my sidebar, I lost a follower. That was this morning. Tonight? Another one G.O.N.E. gone.

This is not good for my blogging morale.

What is it about blogging funks, anyway? One day I was blogging like mad, with more posts rolling around in my head than I knew what to do with, and the next day there was nothing. Nodda. Zero, zip, zilch. Not only was there nothing, but I didn't even want there to be anything.

I was this close to blog suicide. (Fine. Blog neglect. SERIOUS blog neglect. I don't think I could ever actually terminate my own creation).

I really did consider just stepping semi-permanently away from the whole blog-thing during that absentee week of mine. Why? I have no idea. It's not like I've lost my life to my blog - I know this because that survey "How Addicted To Blogging Are You?" says I'm only 67% addicted, and those surveys are like science. And seriously, 67% is not that bad.

But despite the odds, I rallied the old brain, revved up the computer, and muscled through the funky feelings. And I have to say it is working. Apparently just not fast enough for two of my (un)devoted followers.

Who un-follows, anyway? (And no, I have zero idea who either of them were, although I do know which page of "manage your followers" one of them left from. Just call me Super Sleuth). I mean, as if the whole "Follow Me" thing isn't designed to make people have feelings of self-doubt and desperation. If I didn't love all those little faces (not to mention dogs, cartoons, tools, etc.) staring at me as if crying in unison "WE LOVE YOU!" I wouldn't even subscribe to the dang thing.

But now two of them have left. And I feel the loss. It's kind of like a gaping hole in my monitor's heart. So before any of the rest of you make your grand exodus, and decide to un-follow me, I just want to plead for patience. I swear I'll be totally non-funky sometime in the near future. (It would probably be nearer if people would stop causing all this blog-stress by un-following me. Seriously. Aren't they at all concerned about my emotional blog-state? In fact, there should be a blog-etiquette rule that you never un-follow anyone whom you suspect to be suffering from blog-funk, as this might just push them over the edge and cause blog suicide. All un-following should be saved for stellar posts with record breaking comments to ease the pain of rejection. Don't you think?)

Okay, really, I'll shut-up now. I just had to get that off my chest, and I really am feeling much better. And next time I see you, I'm sure it will be because I'm sharing one of those stellar posts with the record breaking comments.

Wish me luck.

Blind Date Revolution

2009-02-17T05:00:00.000-08:00

Last night (well, technically it was early this morning) I dreamed I was single, and went on a blind date. This was one of those really realistic dreams, and while I was dreaming it I actually had the thought, "Hey, I should blog about this." So I'm going to.

For some reason, there were two guys. I was riding in the car with one of them (we'll call him Tom) on the way to his house, and he told me about the other guy (whom we'll call Joe). I wasn't sure why there were two guys, but they didn't know each other either. Tom was pretty cute, and he was supposed to be my actual date. I think. I didn't know anything about Joe.

So then we arrive at Tom's house. He lives with his parents. That's always a good sign. After a little get-to-know-you session with Mom, I go out on the porch and there's Joe. He's not my type. We all just hang out and talk for awhile, and I continue to decide that Joe is definitely not my type. And Tom is looking better and better. Until he says, "Well, you two better get going, hope you have a nice time."

Apparently Tom wasn't digging me, and was handing me off to Joe. Seriously. That's why there were two of them - so if one of them didn't like me he could back out. In my dream I actually thought about Barbaloot at this point, and how we'd have to talk about our blind date disasters.

So then we get up to leave (even though I'm in no way excited about a wasted evening with Joe), when I realize I have to get Tom all set to watch my kids. Don't ask me where my kids came from - I was supposed to be single. Yet there they were, and I had to give Tom and his Mom instructions for putting them to bed.

When that's done, I went to put on my shoes and realized all I have are tennis shoes. White tennis shoes. I NEVER wear tennis shoes. Not only do I feel like they make my legs look short and stumpy, they also make my feet extremely claustrophobic and as soon as I'm sitting down anywhere I have to take them off. But thankfully I remember that my old clogs (which are totally trashed, and probably look worse than the tennies) are somewhere in Tom's basement. So while Joe waits, Tom, his mom and I all go hunt down the clogs.

When they're found, I go back upstairs to leave with Joe, and we have a conversation that goes something like this:

Me: Okay, I found my shoes, we can go now.

Joe: Are you sure you want to?

Me: Well, actually, I've always found that within five minutes of meeting someone, you can tell if you're attracted to them and I'm not really attracted to you.

Joe: I totally agree. It seems like it would be kind of a waste of time.

And then I woke up.

And I started thinking. If only blind dates were that easy to get out of in real life. It makes me think single people should revolutionize the blind date into a twenty minute get-to-know you session, where at the end the two people actually decide whether or not to go on with the date.

Think of all the date frustration this would save! I mean seriously. Did you ever go on a blind date and not know within the first twenty minutes whether or not you wanted to be there? Am I the only one who thinks this just makes so much sense? Or is there someone out there who actually went on a date with someone they were totally not-attracted too, only to find out an hour later he had serious dating potential? And wouldn't blind dates be way less threatening if you knew you were only making a twenty minute commitment, and that it would be accepted and not-rude to back out at that point, and say "Well you're really nice, and it was great to meet you, but I don't think you're my type"?

I'm just saying. They could even call these new kind of dates something. Like Jen Dates. (After all, I am the one who invented them). Then the setter-uppers would say, "Hey Barbaloot, I know this guy I want you to meet. Would you be interested in checking him out on a Jen Date?" Totally non-threatening. Am I the only one who thinks this is a great idea???? Or does this just seem shallow and harsh? I kind of can't decide, so would someone help me?

To Write, Or Not To Write?

2009-02-15T22:40:00.000-08:00

So I have this dilemma. In case you haven't noticed, I love to tell stories. If I let myself get too out of control, I'd never blog about real life at all, and all you'd ever get would be craziness from my past. I have, however, a little self-control I keep stashed somewhere, so this blog does (barely) manage to stay rooted in the present.

But there's this story I'd just love to tell. Only it's more like a saga. And every time someone else goes down this road (like Melissa just did in her typical hilarious fashion), I think, "I want to do that!" But then I don't, because I would seriously be dragging you along for like ten posts. At least.

And what is this story? What else - the story of Rusty and Jenny. The tale of Us. The tale of me and my yes-I-like-you-maybe-love-you-but-we-aren't-dating-and-we'll-probably-never-see-each-other-again's, and him and his I-know-we'll-get-married-and-I'm-the-most-patient-nonpushy-man-on-the-planet's.

It has serious novel potential. And I've always wanted to put it down, but it would take me FOREVER!!! You have no idea what a nightmare I was to try to get engaged to. And then he had to take back the ring. For my sanity. Apparently, no one can drag out a relationship like I can drag out a relationship. Good thing he married me so I couldn't do it to some other poor guy.

Anyway, so here I am with my dilemma. Sometimes I think, "I don't have to tell the whole story, I'll just tell that one part." But then I realize that wouldn't work. Once I got started, I would feel COMPELLED to finish. So then I think, "I know, I'll just start a separate blog just for that one story." The problem with this solution is that then I'd spend the next six months (okay, maybe it wouldn't take that long) being obsessed by my Rusty/Jenny love story, and I'd totally neglect this blog.

*Sigh*

There is no perfect answer. Maybe I should just start with the story of how we met. That's not overly cliff-hanger-ish, I could maybe handle that. And it was kind of funny...

Woohoo. It's Valentine's Day. (just in case you didn't know)

2009-02-14T10:18:00.000-08:00

I'm really bad at holiday posts. Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays, etc. - for some reason they come and go, and it isn't until other people post about them that I realize maybe I should too.

And now it's Valentine's Day.

I have a special affinity for this holiday, since I grew up being a Valentine. That was an extremely important distinction in elementary school, let me tell you. It isn't everyone in your first grade class who is actually named after a holiday. It made me special. My mom always sent us flowers at school. I was showered with attention. I took all the Valentine's Day cards very personally, and imagined the rest of the class did too. When it said "You're Great Valentine!" it was speaking to me. I truly was The World's Valentine.

And everyone loved me. (I was sure of this).

Then came jr. high and high school. No more class party. No more school-wide celebration of my "Valentine" status. No more cards to take personally. Hmmm, and something else - I was the world's Valentine, yet who was mine? As I've previously stated on this blog, I was completely boyfriendless throughout high school, and on Valentine's Day it bugged. At least Mom was still sending flowers.

Then came college. Ricks College, to be exact. And with it - a revolutionized view of Valentine's Day. My roomies and I took to calling it Single Awareness Day. Somehow, it just seemed so much more fitting. (And Ricks was such a disgusting place to be on Valentine's Day too. Possibly being single there, on this day, is the most depressing experience a single person could ever have). (Almost as depressing as my third and final Ricks College Valentine's Day in which I actually had a Valentine. The world's worst Valentine. If you weren't around when I posted about this one, go here for the most pathetic Valentine's Day story ever).

And then I got married. (Well, before that I dated and became affianced to my hubby. We dated for a year, and were broke up for two months of this year. Including the month of February. Go figure). Can I just say that my unfortunate husband had no concept of what an ex-Valentine girl expected from her hubby on Valentine's Day? As far as I was concerned, he was special. He had married a real Valentine. He should show his awe and appreciation for this and thank me in every imaginable way for bestowing such an honor.

Anyone who knows my husband will already know he'd been set up for abject failure. The poor man. It took me a few years of emotionally charged Valentine's Days to actually get these ideas out of my system. Apparently, they have evacuated completely, because now - our twelfth Valentine's Day - it is the last thing on my mind.

Is that bad?

We actually both made separate plans for today. Neither one of us even remembered today was Valentine's Day until a few days ago. In a way this seems kind of sad...me, The World's Valentine, completely oblivious of my all-important day. I've turned into The World's Most Neglectful Valentine. My idealism is (apparently) completely gone. It's like the end of a dream.

Then again, at least I can't be disappointed, right?

My Productive Day (plus a little education - just to make it interesting)

2009-02-11T23:27:00.000-08:00

My day has been totally unproductive. I mean, I did go to work - but that just meant reading a book and a half while observing high school kids typing on Mavis Beacon and Typershark. Because being a high school sub is really hard like that.

Then I came home... to find my babysitter had cleaned my house (including de-junking and dusting my kitchen catch-all), so other than teach a few piano lessons, I had nothing to do.

So I read another book. Shopaholic Takes Manhattan. Those books are hilarious. (The first book I read was number five of Gordan Korman's On The Run series - juvenile fiction - and if any of you have boys fifth grade and up, you totally need to get them these books!)

And somewhere in there I made dinner.

Now I should be sleeping, but for some reason my current state of anti-computer (don't ask, I have no idea why I'm feeling this way) decided to disappear for a moment, so I thought I'd blog. About nothing. But just to keep the entertainment factor out of the red, I thought I'd share a few bits from this other book I've been reading, called Don'ts for Husbands, Don'ts for Wives, 1913. Because there are definitely some things your husbands need to know. Such as:

"Don't stoop, even if your work is desk-work. Your wife wants to see you straight and broad-chested." (No doubt this also applies to the wives...up and out, ladies).

"Don't be too grave and solemn. Raise a bit of fun in the home now and then." Does anyone actually have this problem? I find my husband to be more like a large twelve year old most of the time...

"Don't sharpen pencils all over the house as you walk about. Try a hearth or waste-paper basket, or a newspaper. It does not improve either carpets or the servants' temper to find scraps of pencil-shavings all over the floors." Yes. My servants (and I'm sure yours) would hate this. Please pass this on.

"Don't be conceited about your good looks. It is more than probable that no one but yourself is aware of them; anyway, you are not responsible for them, and vanity in a man is ridiculous." Well. I guess I know a few men who are rather ridiculous - and have no idea. Would someone please tell them?

"Don't refuse to get up and investigate in the night if your wife hears an unusual noise, or fancies she smells fire or escaping gas. She will be afraid of shaming you by getting up herself, and will lie awake working herself into a fever. This may be illogical, but it's true." So we shouldn't shame them to get them to do what we want? Does this also mean no glaring and/or eye rolling? Good thing I have this book...

"Don't be surprised, or annoyed, or disappointed, to find, after treating your wife for years as a feather-brain, that you have made her one, and that she fails to rise to the occasion when you need her help." My condolences to any husband-made feather-brains out there. You should have glared more.

And now, one final quote (although I'm still in the first section {titled "Personal Relations"} and could really go on, and on, and on...)

"Don't forget that you are not immortal. What chance will she have if you die and leave her with no knowledge of the ways of the wicked world?" What can I say? If any of you love your husbands, you'll give them a swift kick in the shins next time you see them, followed by, "See - you felt that. You aren't immortal after all, so wear your seat belt."

Who needs counseling when they can run down and buy a book like this? And maybe next time I'll share some excerpts from the "Don'ts for Wives" section, and change your role as a wife forever. Lucky you.

Regarding My Recent AWOL Status

2009-02-07T23:20:00.000-08:00

Update:

I am still alive. I haven't been on my blog for three days, and I have lived through it.

I have been shopping. With money. SOMEONE ELSE'S MONEY!!! (Thanks Mom!)

I have been with my sisters. ALL (5) of them. Not quite all at the same time, but still.

I have seen Annie's hair with her extensions. (And without her extensions. God bless extensions). (Seriously. I'm not being rude, she just kind of lost ALL her hair after the birth of number three). (Not that I'm never rude - I'm just not being rude this time).

My mom only has one breast, and there were more one-breasted jokes in our hotel room than you could imagine. She cracked half of them. I love my family.

I have new clothes. I love new clothes.

I will be back to reading your blogs and writing my own shortly. Maybe even tomorrow night. I've missed you all, and I swear I'm coming home, so leave the light on for me!

For My Facebook Friends

2009-02-04T00:38:00.000-08:00

I'm really tired, and practically falling asleep, but I'm going to attempt to come up with twenty-five random things about myself so I can appease all the frantic facebookers who keep sending me this tag.

1. I'm really tired, and practically falling asleep.

2. Frantic facebookers keep tagging me. Apparently they're dying to know all about my randomness. (How am I doing guys? Is this okay so far? Just checking...)

3. I can be very random. Unfortunately, this isn't one of my random moments, but cut me some slack, at least I'm trying.

4. Oh, I know - I got to spend an hour with 48 seventh and eighth grade band members today.

5. When they left, they were replaced by 56 sixth graders.

6. For some unknown reason, both my patience AND sanity are gone. Wonder what could have caused that...Hmmm....

7. Everyone reading this is now glad they don't have my job.

8. I don't like food that shouldn't be sweet to be sweet. Like sweet BBQ burritos. Or sweet salad dressing. Or sweet spaghetti, or baked beans.

9. I do, however, like chicken hearts.

10. I really want to try a sardine, but can't ever make myself. Why is that?

11. Whenever I make any kind of list about myself, it always goes back to food. What does that say about me?

12. Speaking of food, I worship buffets. No decisions, and all-you-can-eat dessert. What more could a person ask for?

13. I almost died once. (I know, old news. But still - I did. And it was random).

14. I love driving tractors. Give me a tractor and a manure pit to scrape, and I'll be happy for hours.

15. I fell in a manure pit once.

16. My manure pit story would make a great blog post.

17. I'd love to be a car salesman (Okay, saleswoman - whatever), and totally plan on doing this at some point.

18. I hate to dust (but unfortunately still plan on doing this at some point).

19. The key words in number 18, are "at some point."

20. I thrive under pressure. Unless it involves more than 45 middle schoolers in a room with nothing to do. "Seethe" is a much better word for this situation.

21. I actually have the ability to scare sixth graders into silence. This is a very marketable skill.

22. I think the market for people willing and able to scare sixth graders into silence should be just a little higher paying...

23. This list is taking me a ridiculously long period of time.

24. I can't wear watches, because after a few weeks the batteries always stop. Is that weird?

25. I'm going to bed.

Pregancy: The Secret To Eternal Youth?

2009-02-02T13:54:00.000-08:00

Just for the record, I am done having children. I always wanted four (unless you count seventh grade, when I was insane/ignorant, and thought SEVEN was the perfect number), I convinced my dearly beloved (who didn't really want any) to have four (by refusing to marry him until he swore a blood oath that I could have my way), and I had/have four - INCLUDING a girl child.

I am completely content.

Not only am I completely content with my four lovely children, but there is also zero chance I would actually want to do the whole pregnancy/newborn/car seat/potty-training business again. I've done my time - four is enough. Besides, my husband would probably leave me, never to be seen again, if I said I wanted another child.

But lately I've been thinking. I'm all done having kids, so what does that really mean? Having kids was something I did when I was first married - aka when I was young. So, does that mean that if I'm done having kids I'm not young anymore? And if so, does that mean if I'd just keep having them I'd still feel young?

The answer to this last is obviously a resounding NO!!! but I can't help it. It still makes me feel old to be past that phase of my life. Even though every mother knows that having more than four children is actually bound to age you - both mentally AND physically - part of me insists that it isn't so.

Then today, I was watching home movies from when I only had two adorable babies, and I noticed several things. First, my house was so clean! And life was so much easier! And they were so cute! And I was so YOUNG! (Okay, I really don't look much different - yet...)

And I realized it's not that I want to have more children - I just want to go back and have my own kids all over again. Minus all sickness, fighting, crying at night, potty-training, car seats, and everything about pregnancy except delivery (which was my favorite part - I know, I'm crazy).

So getting back to the pregnancy = youth idea. Do you think this could explain why some women have tons of children? I know women who have five-plus because they just love having babies, and I know some who feel inspired to add to their family, and I know some who weren't necessarily "planning", but could there be women out there who are actually chasing eternal youth? Through childbearing??? Like, "I must be young if I can still reproduce?"

Or am I alone on this one? Has anyone else ever thought of having babies as meaning you're young, or is my mind just strangely twisted? (Because seriously - there's nothing like actually being pregnant for demonstrating the aches, pains, and forgetfulness of old age. In theory, this theory should never work). (But still - ya think?)

The Body Snatcher...

2009-01-29T21:56:00.000-08:00

Jen isn't here today. Unbeknownst to her family and friends, she has been secretly replaced by a raging hormonal maniac we'll call Nej.

Innocently, Jen's poor children accepted a ride home from school with this monstrous creature, thinking it was their loving mother. At first things seemed fine, but then they got out their homework - and then they didn't "get it." Convinced that the homework struggle was a ploy meant to drive her over the edge, Nej jumped down the poor children's throats and wasn't very helpful. Used to a kind, non-hormonal mother who is generally unaffected by the hateful cycle of the moon, the children stared, and cowered at this obvious impostor.

She was completely unmoved.

Then came piano practice. Although their own mother is known to speak rather loudly and repeat words like "COUNT!" and "FINGERING!" the cowering children were ill-prepared for the likes of Nej. Once again Nej was convinced the children were feigning memory loss, and quickly the Jen-impostor took Frustration and Impatience to a whole new level. As the children nervously stumbled through their lessons, the growling beast of pull-your-hair-out-and-try-not-to-beat-them swelled and threatened inside of Nej, begging and pleading to be set free.

Enter husband. JEN'S husband. Used to a loving, caring wife of limitless patience, he thought nothing of waltzing past the creature Nej as she labored at the piano with one of the conspiring children, and set right to fixing himself a bite to eat.

At 4:30.

Right before Nej would have started fixing dinner. I use the term "would have" because Nej didn't actually have ANY plans for dinner, and should have been glad the husband was fending for himself. But that is not Nej's way.

Instead Nej swooped into the kitchen, and descended on poor husband, accusing him of thoughtlessly stuffing his face within moments of dinner time. Statements like "But I've been working all day," and "I'm really hungry" only fanned the flames of Nej's irritation, until she had launched into a ten minute tirade on why eating at 4:30 was the most low-down, disrespectful, irritating thing a husband could do to his poor, abused, over-worked wife.

Husband slinked away (sandwich in hand) and escaped to the gym before another lecture could begin. Unfortunately, this left Nej with the children. Alone. With an hour and a half to kill before they were to depart to a Cub Scout meeting. Nej spent the time sitting on the couch eyeing the children suspiciously - waiting for them to make a wrong move so she could pounce. At one time, all three of the poor, poor, boys were standing in corners simultaneously.

There's no telling how this story might have ended if it hadn't been for the highly developed olfactory senses of Nej-like creatures. Knowing a CS meeting just might push her over the edge, Nej was explaining to the Den Leader that she'd prefer to "watch the children" when she caught a whiff of something on the Den Leader's breath. Chocolate. Practically attacking Jen's poor unsuspecting friend, she secured the necessary information - the visiting speaker had brought Peanut M&M's. And Reese's Pieces.

Within a few minutes, a handful of the chocolate remedy was shamelessly secured. Three handfuls later, the beast Nej was soothed, and becoming almost Jen-like. By the time the meeting was over Nej was feeling almost relaxed. Another handful of M&M's, plus the remains of the Reese's Pieces, and the husband and children began to breath easier, with hopes of living until their patient mother's safe return.

When this blessed, and much looked for event will take place, no one knows, but for the sake of the children (and husband) I hope it's sooner rather than later. And in the meantime - let's keep the chocolate coming.

I'm Not Complaining, I'm Fantasizing

2009-01-28T10:30:00.000-08:00

A private bathroom, and a walk in closet. I have no doubt that these two little things would change my world. Most of you have heard me complain about sharing one bathroom with five other people, so I won't bore you with those details here. Instead, I'll just tell you all the wonderful things that would happen if I had my own bathroom. And walk-in closet.

First, the bathroom:

1. It would be connected to my bedroom (as opposed to being on a separate floor of the house).

2. Thanks to number one, that would mean I'd have TWO locking doors between myself and a little privacy. I seriously fantasize about this. Never again would my bathing be interrupted by the family network of bowel movements.

3. There would be room for all MY stuff - and I wouldn't be constantly assaulted by everyone else's. And my boys wouldn't be allowed to pee in my toilet EVER.

4. I could have my own towel. And it could have it's own hook. And no one would ever use or abuse it, because of all the locks I would put on the door to ward off potential pee-ers.

5. My jewelry wouldn't be strewn between my upstairs bedroom where I dress, and my downstairs bathroom where I get ready. Seriously. This is getting so old.

6. If I ever were to wake up in the middle of the night needing to use the toilet (which never happens), it would be right there.

7. When plagued by the stomach flu, I would actually be able to lay in bed AND have close proximity to a flushing receptacle. I'm telling all of you with "attached baths" - you don't know how good you have it.

On to the walk-in closet:

1. It would have a door.

2. It would have shelves, hanging rods, and a place for my shoes.

3. If I didn't feel like using the benefits in number three, it wouldn't matter because of number one.

4. It would have a light, so I would no longer have to sneak around undressing in the dark - which happens three hundred forty-nine days a year because of my husband's need for a full eight hours rest. Instead, I would simply walk in to my closet, shut the door, turn on the light, and be able to see where I was actually putting my clothes, which would definitely up the chances that they'd go somewhere besides the floor.

Again, those of you currently blessed with these two modern marvels should be thankful. In fact, you should all get down on your knees right now, and show your gratitude for the blessings of modern architecture, because I fear you may be taking these things totally for granted.

I, on the other hand, will continue to attempt to remind myself that I really am grateful I at least have indoor plumbing, and that I wasn't born in China, because (in the bathroom department anyway) those really would both be way worse. And the rest of the time I'll just be fantasizing about the locks I'd put on my bathroom door, and the full closet wall dedicated to my shoes. It really would be a beautiful thing.

*sigh*

Sisters, I Have Sinned

2009-01-25T22:50:00.000-08:00

We had a Relief Society sleep over this weekend. For those of you who don't know, the Relief Society is the women's group at our church. It was fun, and I enjoyed myself, but it was rather disconcerting to learn something critical about my personal salvation. I think I'm going to Hell. Maybe not "Outer Darkness" Hell, but definitely someone as shallow as me doesn't have much chance at Celestial Glory. This depressing revelation presented itself the moment I walked in the door - starved and ready to eat - and discovered soup was on the menu. Healthy soup, to be exact.

I looked for the chips and cheesy-bean dip we always have at our "unofficial" girl's nights - nothing. I looked for cookies, cake, brownies, or any other fattening, desserty type foods - again, nothing. I finally went as far as asking very nonchalantly if I should be "saving room for desert." The answer - THERE ISN'T ANY. I know. Whoever heard of a girls' night without dessert?! And then I learned the cold, hard, truth.

I was at a HEALTH FOOD sleep over. We were "eating light." And as my subconcious mind screamed "NOOOOOOOoooooo!!!!!!!" I was suddenly faced with the fact that what I've always suspected, but never truly admitted about myself is true - I was there for the food. I'd thought all day about the food, and even ran possible menu items through my head as I starved myself at lunchtime to justify the binging I was positive would happen at the sleep over. It was depressing.

And then, just as I'd hit a junk-food low at the prospect of having nothing but vegetable soup to quench my cravings, I realized the eternal perspective of my situation. Surely, anyone who attends a spiritual Relief Society retreat just for the food is going to Hell. All through dinner, there I was thinking about beanie weenies. The get-to-know-you game was witnessed through a sugar-crazed haze. Finally, during the big activity I broke down and asked if there wasn't some kind of chips in the house. I know, I'm totally shameless. But I was desperate! It was so bad I was almost ready to steal my mother's car and drive to the nearest Taco Bell. Instead I had to make due with those veggie rice chips from Costco. Yes, you read correctly, both "veggie" and "rice" came before "chips".

So sad.

And then came breakfast. I would tell you how it consisted of english muffins and fresh fruit (sans whipped cream OR sugar), but it would just be too painful to talk about it. Or how all the other women raved over the strawberries, grapes, and melons, while I sat dejected, trying to imagine there was sugar on my strawberry, while taking what comfort I could from my butter-drenched muffin.

I'm so ashamed. (And apparently, so shallow). But I want to proclaim to all of Blogland that as of this moment, I am going to repent of my obsession with fattening, sugary, deep fried snacks at Relief Society functions, and become more like all the rest of you. I too will be content with the fun games, good company, and barrels of laughter provided by my fellow sisters, and cease to allow health food to come between me and a good time.

And then I'll start planning a girls' night of my own...

VL Club Part Two:

2009-01-20T23:03:00.000-08:00

***In case the title didn't clue you in, this the second installment of my first kiss story. To begin at the beginning, start here.***

Okay, so we'll call him "Phil". (This actually isn't the first post about Phil. Remember the Valentine's Day disaster? Same guy. Except that post (despite a VERY trunkated version of last night's info) was about the end of our relationship, while this is about the beginning. Totally different vibe here. Anyhow).

After two years of playing roughly twelve hours of pick-up basketball a week with 99% male coeds, I had never once been asked out, asked for my number, or even spoken to much - unless it was words like "Ball!" or "Shoot!" Then I go home for Christmas, change my buddy-stamp for an I-want-to-date-you-stamp, and bingo. Within the first week Phil stops me after a hot and sweaty night of basketball (I'm sure I was looking lovely) and asks for my phone number.

I'm sure I was very calm, cool, and collected on the outside, but inside I was doing some kind of primitive victory-freak-out. And Phil was pretty cute too. And six foot five. And a really good basketball player.

So then he called me, and we went to an on-campus dance. And then he called me again and took me night skiing at good old Kelly's Canyon. Poor guy - my court skills gave him the impression I was athletic. It was my second time on the slopes, and he took me to the top. Let's just say it was a really long way down. Yet he still continued to call. And we kept going out on cheesy little dates, and hanging out together.

But there was no kissing. Hand holding - yes, but smooches - zero. Why, you ask? What was wrong with him/me/us? He found out I'd never been kissed and felt GUILTY taking that away from me!!! Here I was trying to get rid of my VL status like it was radio active, and he was all "That's so special. Your first kiss should be really meaningful."

Bleck. But then I put that scheming little brain of mine to work and set about getting what I wanted...

Phil took astronomy. What could be more natural than for me to go star gazing with him? So (at my request) we made a date, and set out for the baseball fields one frigid, February night.

Did I mention it was cold? We're talking Rexburg cold here - like below-zero-with-that-wonderful-blowing-wind kind of cold. Other than that, however, the situation was prime. Beautiful sky, beautiful stars, and me wanting a beautiful kiss. My brother had even called to coach me on how to secure this kiss. He informed me that all I had to do was stare into his eyes... and then look at his lips. I was armed and dangerous, and Phil didn't stand a chance.

But it took him a really long time to believe he was worthy to kiss a VL member. Seriously. He talked about the honor for like ten minutes. And all the time my poor little kiss-starved lips were growing colder, and colder.

Then finally, he stopped talking. (As much). I was staring. We were locked in a tight, kiss-me-baby embrace. Orion and his belt were shining down, illuminating the utter romance of the moment. My neck was about to break from staring straight up at his 6'5-ishness. And then he leaned down, and I stretched up, and our lips met...

Have you ever tried to talk in Rexburg cold? Did you happen to notice how it actually gets difficult to form your words because as your lips begin to freeze off your face they don't work so well? Yeah. Frozen lips do nothing for kissing. My lips were so cold it felt like they'd been shot with novocain and I was chewing on them to see if there was any feeling coming back. And his weren't any better. And his nose was REALLY cold.

And not realizing the full impact our frozen lips were having on our kissing experience I began to panic, sure that I must be the world's worst kisser ever. No matter how hard I tried to make my lips do something besides act like two blocks of wood, they just wouldn't work. I was so depressed. I had been so positive I'd be a great kisser - and even more positive I'd love kissing - and instead, I was a failure.

What a let down.

So we went back to my apartment. And talked. And my lips thawed out. And then... The dream came back alive, baby! Those first kisses might have been like making out with a side of frozen beef, but once I got warmed up it was all good. And don't worry Mom, Phil had kissing rules. As evidenced by his chivalrous attitude toward my VL status, he was very pure. (But he was still a great kisser).

So the moral of the story is, if you live in Rexburg and are plotting your first kiss, plan for summer. I hear the baseball fields are beautiful that time of year.

How I Lost My Membership in the Ricks College VL Club

2009-01-20T00:17:00.000-08:00

So Crash wants first kiss stories. I was going to attempt to put it in her comment box, but I quickly realized such limitations would never allow me to do it justice. Instead, I decided to treat you all to the full meal deal here on my blog. Lucky you.

First off, I would just like to say that my first kiss did not happen before I was sixteen. Second off, I would like to add that it didn't happen before I graduated from high school. To be brutally honest, it ALMOST didn't happen before I graduated from Ricks College.

I know. I attended Dateland America for five semesters, and didn't get kissed until half way through the last one. No innocent pecks. No spin the bottle. Not a single night of NICMO. (For those of you that didn't attend BYU-something-or-other, that stands for non-committal-makeout)(Can you believe I missed out on that???)

I would also like to say, that this not-kissing business was NOT because I was against kissing. It is also not because I had no opportunities. Even as far back as high school, there were definitely boys who would have kissed me - I just didn't want to kiss any of them. The boys I actually would have considered never offered. Go figure.

Then I got to Ricks and found out there was a club for people like me. The Virgin Lips Club. And although I was in pretty good company, I was not a proud member. At any time I would have been very happy to hand in my VL status for a little kissing action, but...

I was too chicken. This is what happens to girls who go that long without being kissed. We begin to wear a stamp on our forehead visible only to eligible members of the opposite sex, that says "Kiss you? No I don't want to kiss you! I mean, not unless you want to kiss me first, which probably won't happen since you'll NEVER KNOW I actually have a major crush on you, because I am so terrified you'll know I really do want to kiss you (or even just date you) that I will act as if I am the world's best buddy instead."

Whatever we put out there truly is what the world sees. And I will prove that point.

I went along like this for four semesters. I lived in three different apartments. I met LOTS of people, got set up on several dates, and was asked out a grand total of one time. I was the perennial buddy. I was "one of the guys". Other girls were jealous of all my "guy friends".

And all because of that stupid, invisible stamp.

And then came my final semester at Ricks. Rather than graduate in four semesters, I saved Math 101 (because I need serious time and help when it comes to math), Fit For Life (because I was avoiding the mandatory running involved), and FA 100 (because I'm a huge procrastinator) for one last semester. Besides that, I had started Ricks in a winter semester, and wasn't really ready to leave the fun behind mid-year.

That Christmas, while my bosom-buddy/roommate/niece (I know, it's weird) Kelly and I were home with the fam, we decided to change our stamps. We adopted a new motto: "Take Rexburg By Storm" (which was actually code for "Take Rexburg's Male Population By Storm").

And we did.

Rather than hiding from prospective flirtations, we left the apartment each day in search of male attention. We were available, and wanted the world to know. Eye contact was implemented, smiles were cast, and our stamps changed to "Date Me!" And within the first week I gave out my first phone number EVER.

Coincidence? I think not.

Who was he? Is he the one that broke the evil non-kissing spell? I'd love to tell you now, but it's getting late (and this post is getting REALLY long), so this story is going to have to be

To Be Continued...

The Dinner Dilema Solved (for one night, anyway)

2009-01-18T20:15:00.000-08:00

I am so proud. Last night, I actually remembered to take meat out of the freezer so we could have a nice, easy, throw-it-in-the-oven Sunday dinner. In fact, I was so proud of myself I even made a cake just so I could really feel that June Cleaver feeling. (But I didn't wear pearls. Or even fake ones. I was, however, still in my Sunday clothes, does that count? Dang! I just realized I forgot the apron! Maybe next time...)

Anyhow, I am seriously bad at the whole plan-dinner-ahead thing. Yes Mother, we do have dinner - it's just generally more of a last minute affair, if you know what I mean. This is really rather silly when you think about it, because planning ahead would be so much easier. And things like roasts, and crock pot meals are so convenient. Just throw them in, go about your business, and be around later when it's time to eat.

But I always forget to take the meat out of the freezer. And inevitably, if I buy a nice roast and throw it in the fridge because I think I have a day to stay home and make it, something unexpected comes up (like work - one of the few drawbacks of subbing) and the meat goes uncooked. Then, still hopeful I'll get a chance to throw it in before it expires, I optimistically refuse to relegate it to the roast cemetery otherwise known as my freezer.

And then my days are contrarily plagued by unexpected doctor visits, morning calls to work, and other disruptive things, and the roast gets wasted.

Then there are the times I simply forget I bought it, and it wastes away in the fridge for no good reason whatsoever. So generally, we eat other, less June-Cleaverish kinds of food. Like bean and cheese burritos (yes they're [usually] homemade), chili and cheese fries, spaghetti, and chicken soup (because I can boil chicken when it's frozen).

The other night, however, I was struck with one of those rare dinner-inspirations. Desperate for something to throw together with only a half hour till the ravenous children would begin to tear my house apart in the throes of starvation, I looked in the freezer to see what I could come up with.

Aha! I had a few remaining pieces of boneless chicken (which also doesn't require thawing), and some frozen stir fry veggies. The obvious choice - stir fry.

Except my kids don't really like stir fry. They like the chicken, and one or two of the veggies, but the rice kills it.

And then I had my grand inspiration. I cooked my chicken, added the veggies, made up some sauce, and... threw it over linguine.

A-La-Kung Foo Panda Noodles!

They loved it. It was a HUGE hit. And seriously - who doesn't like linguine? Or Kung Foo Panda? Putting those two things together is a major win-win situation any way you cut it.

So next time you're having creative-dinner fatigue, reach for the linguine, and treat the fam to some good old American/Italian/Chinese food. Your family will thank you. (And then you can thank me).

Why I Feel Like A Frog

2009-01-16T00:12:00.000-08:00

As many of you know, just before Christmas we found out my mom has breast cancer. But they said it was small, and they'd probably just have to do a simple lumpectomy and possibly radiation. Simple enough - no freak out required. So they did the lumpectomy.

Then, they said they needed to go back in, because there was a little more they needed to get...but it should be simple, although she'd for sure need radiation.

Then, after they went in to finish the "simple" job, they said it was way bigger than they thought. Now she'll need a mastectomy. And radiation. And probably chemo. The surgery is scheduled for the 26th. I can't wait to hear what they have to say when it's over.

How am I doing? I feel like a frog in a pot of water that's gradually being heated up. And I have to admit that after this last piece of news I'm beginning to notice the heat - and I'm hoping (and praying) it doesn't get any hotter. It's hot enough, believe me. Which brings me to my next thought:

Have you ever really thought about food? (I know, shocker that I would think about food at a time like this). Seriously though, have you ever thought about what a huge roll it plays in our lives? Just the other day, Kelly and I were discussing family holidays. She knows someone who has these events catered, rather than making food the old fashioned way. I made the comment that if they can afford it, why not? Kelly disagreed. In light of recent events, I am changing positions. Food matters. A lot.

Just take a minute and think about the food in your house. What you make, how you make it, what recipes you use, what you do (or don't) know about cooking/baking, and what kind of associations you have with different comfort foods. Where does the foundation for your foodishness come from? What makes you the way you are? What determines what makes a good Thanksgiving dinner, or whether you have turkey, ham, or pork on Christmas?

Your mother. And her mother. And maybe your mother-in-law. And every woman who went before you in your family. Through the generations, the food your family consumes has been handed down, tweaked, added to and subtracted from, by each generation of women. The changes came from their lifestyles, tastes, talents, and available technology, and you are the next step in that line. As women, we shape the food tastes, habits, and healthiness of our growing families, and that is a really big job. Someday they will leave and take our foodisms - tweaked accordingly - with them.

I suppose what made me think of this is that food is my mom's thing. In a way, cooking/baking is what defines my mom. Maybe I should say "really good food" is what defines her. And thankfully, she has passed at least a little of that on to all of us, and given us something that we can contribute to our families. (Even if we don't necessarily contribute it as often, or as punctually as she does... It still counts, right? I mean, we don't ALWAYS need a vegetable to be carrying on the family tradition, right Mom?)

Anyway, it just got me thinking - what if my mom hadn't been so into food? What if we'd catered Christmas instead of spending all those hours learning how to make my grandpa's stuffing? (Which is AMAZINGLY good, by the way). What if we'd never started making that rainbow jello salad (that takes a hundred years, but is sooo worth it)? What if Mom's rolls weren't a staple ingredient at every family get together (including anytime anyone shows up in her kitchen for anything)? What if Mom didn't make EVERYONE'S birthday cakes? (Yes, I know how lucky I am).

And what do all of these things represent to all of us? Family. Togetherness. Love. Something vital would be missing from all of our lives if Mom hadn't taken food so seriously. If you are what you eat, than we're all the embodiment of love, because that's the main ingredient in Mom's kitchen.

So today I realized how grateful I am that my family has established food traditions. I love that we all use the same cake recipes. I love that we have Afton's Boiled Raisin Cookie recipe. (I love that it makes so many cookies). I love that we all assimilated Mom's bread making skills from spending so much time hanging out in the kitchen with her. (Our wards are thankful for this too). And I love that we do pork roast for Christmas, because turkey really isn't my thing - and pork roast really is. Who knows? I might never have thought of such a thing if my mother hadn't shown me the way.

Basically what I'm saying is this - I bet I am in some way reminded of my mother every time I prepare a meal. Right now she lives right up the road from me, and I often call her for advice, recipes, or ideas. It's almost like she's a part of my kitchen-consciousness. And I'm glad. I'm glad she's so close, I'm glad she's contributed so much, and I'm glad that she is a part of my life every single day whether I see her or not. Her prognosis is actually quite good, and I expect to have her (and her food) around for many more years. And yes, someday that will inevitably change, so I'm glad that today I had this revelation. One way or another, my mother will always be in the kitchen with me, so yes, my position has changed. Food matters. A lot. (Thanks Mom).

Going Against All My Principles Because the World Needs To Know

2009-01-13T23:40:00.000-08:00

So in case you missed the memo, I HATE CRAFTING. Notice, however that I didn't say I hate "crafts" - just the act of making them. Thanks to a previous post on this topic, I am also relieved to find myself in good company on this one.

Now, while I don't necessarily hate crafts, I must admit that I tend not to be too crazy about anything that looks like someone made it at their kitchen table with a glue gun. Or, anything that screams out "I'M CUTE!" These kind of crafts do absolutely nothing for me. And frankly, even when I've ventured into the intimidating world of "Craft Fairs" I still don't find too many things that suit my taste.

But then sometimes you find something really, super, cool.

That someone made.

Around their kitchen table with a glue gun.

And occasionally, when the stars align and universe sings, and you observe a comet streaking past a total solar eclipse, you find yourself related to one of these glue-gun-geniuses (even if it's only by marriage), whom you realize you've been failing to fully appreciate once you find the online site where they sell their stuff.

And then you feel compelled to go straight to your blog, and tell the world. Because they need to know. So that's what I'm doing. (*Surprise* Tia!)

Now yes, I was aware of some impressive creations from this individual. I have even told others about her talent, and attempted to explain how cool the few things I've seen are. But I had no idea, until I went here, that she was So. Incredibly. Awesome.

Seriously. The creator is my niece-by-marriage Tia Valentine, who is an extremely cool girl, and the name of her boutique-y stuff is Urban Karma. And can I just say that I want to buy one of her amazing signs for Little Miss Two sooooo bad!

So, considering how anti-homemade-craft I am, I figure anything that impresses me this much should be shared with the world. So here you go. Link yourself on over, drool on your keyboard while you check out her stuff, make a selection/wish-list, and then get back over here and let Tia know how cool you think she and her glue gun really are, since there's no place on her craft site for comments.

I can't believe I'm pushing a craft on my blog. The world may end tomorrow. But won't this be a nice surprise for Tia, who has absolutely no idea I just found her craft site and decided she deserves a little attention for being cooler than the average crafter?

(And can you imagine what her scrapbooks must look like? Even I might craft if I could achieve these kinds of results!)

(Oh yes, and please feel free to contact Tia-maker-of-awesome-crafts at valentine@urban-karma.com and order something. Or tell her she's amazing. Or refer her to your friends, because they deserve to know. You can thank me for sending you her way later).

(So did you go there yet? Can you believe she makes that stuff? Out of her own head? Just thinking about trying to come up with anything half that cool makes me tired. Hey! Maybe she'd do some kind of giveaway on my blog for my next limerick contest! I know, I know, earning the title of "The World's Greatest Limerick Writer Ever" is already a HUGE distinction, but there's nothing like taking things up a notch... Feedback people, I need feedback!)

Boys Will Be Boys

2009-01-12T19:59:00.000-08:00

If a little boy and his baby sister (or brother) were being raised on an island by and old woman, how old would the little boy be before he began sitting on his smaller sibling to repeatedly jab his index finger into his/her chest?

Just wondering.

You can see here how I have factored in a care giver that would in no way pass on knowledge of such torture. In fact, since said island is also void of any other humans/television/contact-with-outside-world, I have removed any and all sources for sibling torture information.

And yet, you can see that I am still banking on the fact that it will happen. Eventually. Probably sooner rather than later. Why is this?

I distinctly remember the infamous chest-poking and other (MANY other) tortures inflicted on me by my older brother. Having my nose stuck in his smelly armpit, being exposed to extremely harmful bodily gases at point-blank range, and other worse (MUCH worse) tortures I will save for another post. (This particular brother was so creative in his sibling-torture methods, it will require a separate post to truly appreciate his mastery of this male art).

The inspiration for this post? I just watched my nice little five year old sit on Little Miss Two's stomach, and poke her repeatedly in the chest. This is obviously a genetically hardwired behavior, and it's not the only one either. Take sound effects for instance. Boys are practically born making sound affects. I remember being completely awed by the explosion noises my nephews (who are only a few years younger than me) could make when we were kids. When no one was around, I'd actually practice just to see if I could figure out how to make them myself, and I couldn't do it. Now I sit around and continue to be amazed by my own three boys.

Seriously. Five year old males are better than a sound stage when it comes to Marshall arts or laser gun wars. Little Miss Two makes her feeble attempts at gun sounds and things, but her chromosomes are clearly not designed for convincing noises. Sound affects are not part of female genetic make-up.

The female gift is bossing.

Am I the only one who's noticed this? By the time she was old enough to walk, my girl child could put her hand on her hip and sass with the best of them. She lives for telling people what to do. It's like I have an echo. As soon as someone's in trouble there she is relishing every last chastisement, and doing her best to repeat it all word for word, and gesture for gesture. And if you're smaller (or even just barely bigger) than Little Miss Two, watch out. She will be telling you where to go, and how to get there. And you will be blamed for everything not right in the universe. And if you're around during the prayer, she will have her eagle eyes peeled to catch the slightest break in proper-praying-posture. (Actually, no one - regardless of size - is exempt from this last one).

After watching the scores of children around me (and remembering being one myself) I have come to the conclusion that these things are universally so. And while there are always exceptions to every rule, for the most part I stand by my theory. Boys will be boys, and girls will be bossy.

To Whom It May Concern:

2009-01-09T22:37:00.000-08:00

I have a confession. I'm reading.

I know, I know, I should be doing laundry, dishes, the vacuuming, family history, or any number of other, more worthwhile pursuits - yet here I sit, completely ensconced in the throes of a novel.

I didn't mean to do it, I swear. I went to work this morning to sub for the digital communications teacher (i.e. extremely boring and laid-back day), and innocently went in search of a book to read. I was looking for my usual fare, which would be anything I can a. finish reading during six periods of school, or b. something that's good enough to read, but just barely. That way it won't hinder my abilities to feed my family and assure they have clean underwear.

And then I succumbed to the dark side. As I was rifling through a fellow teacher's plethora of books, I had the misfortune to come across Bresingr, aka the third book in the Eragon series. I tried not to take it, truly I did, but it just sort of jumped into my hands.

All 748 pages of it.

And so here I sit - worthless to my children, deaf and dumb to my husband (who finally gave up and went to bed), reading my book. So don't expect to hear from me this weekend, because I'm also worthless to blogland. The friend I borrowed the book from needs it for students on Monday, so unfortunately (imagine that spoken with COMPLETE sincerity) I pretty much need to read it non-stop in order to ensure its prompt return. True, I'm already half-way through, but what if there was an emergency and I had to take several hours off from reading time?

No, I am all about getting the job done, and so I read. Now stop interrupting me - I have a book to finish.

The Day I Almost Died (of both mortal peril and humiliation)

2009-01-06T21:39:00.000-08:00

I almost died in a freak accident once. Seriously. And it was VERY freaky, let me tell you. The funny thing about it, is that besides being a near-death experience, it also falls into the "most humiliating" category as well - which is close to, but not exactly the same as the "most embarrassing" category.

It happened back when I was a young, know-nothing newlywed. We moved into the second story of an old Victorian home/turned apartment building. Ironically, although I was over three hundred miles from where I grew up, there was someone previously from my home ward (church) living on the same block. We'll call him "Raul". Raul was from another country, and had a strong accent. He'd also left his family to live an "alternative lifestyle" and was living with his significant other, working as an artist of fine (and VERY strange) paintings in a similar Victorian three houses down, on the other side of the street. We didn't talk much, but I often saw him trotting around in his cut-off jeans and clogs. Typically with two different, multi-colored socks. He was a character, but an extremely nice person.

One day, I came home in the middle of the afternoon to find I didn't have my house keys. Normally, the outside door was locked, but by some stroke of luck someone had left it open. I went inside even though I didn't have my apartment key, and decided I'd just hang out till Rusty came home.

But then I went upstairs. As I went to sit on the window seat overlooking the veranda porch roof, I got an idea. That porch roof wrapped right around to our window! AND, our window was open because we had this big, old air conditioning unit my brother had loaned us sticking out of it. I could just walk around the roof to our window and be home-sweet-home.

Did I mention they'd been re-roofing the porch that week? Yep, it was a nice, shiny, blue metal roof I stepped out on in my flip flops and nylon shorts. As I made my way around, I noticed my flip flops didn't provide much traction, so I took them off. That was fine at first, but by the time I got to my window my feet were starting to sweat from the warmth of the roof. Sweaty feet + metal roofing = not-so-good. Just so you know. But I'd made it, and there was my window. All I had to do was open it up and climb inside. I was a genius.

So I grabbed onto the window and lifted it up. But there was a problem.

It seems the roofers had needed to take away the board supporting our air conditioning unit to put on the new roof, meaning the window was the only thing holding it in place. Meaning, as soon as I opened the window the huge, giant, so-heavy-my-very-buff-hubby-could-barely-move-it-alone, borrowed, air conditioning unit started to fall.

It was reflex. I obviously wasn't thinking. I reached down and grabbed a hold of the stupid thing. And then a strange and unusual phenomenon occurred. One moment I was standing behind the it, and the next moment my feet flew out from under me and I was lying underneath it holding it above my head with my palms up.

Did I mention how heavy it was?

And can I draw your attention back to the fact that I was lying on a hot metal roof in NYLON shorts? Oooo, how about the fact that directly beneath me was a flight of cement steps? Did I mention that?

And I was sliding. And not only would I land on those steps, but the huge, giant, oh-so-heavy, ac unit would land on top of me. I was going to die. (or be seriously maimed for life)

In my desperation, I happened to notice that the new roofing had left a small gap between the roof and the siding. In that gap there was a rusty old nail sticking up.

I hooked my big toe around it. (Thank heavens I'd taken my flip flops off, or I might not be here to tell you this hair-raising tale).

Momentarily I was saved, but the air conditioning unit was so heavy I knew I couldn't last too long. What to do? Try to move? Nope. Every time I shifted I started sliding again, and I knew that if I slid too far the angle would be wrong and the nail wouldn't stop me anymore. Wait for Rusty? Impossible. My arms were already shaking from the strain of the ac unit, and it would be at least an hour before he came home. I had only one option left.

I would have to yell for help.

Can I just say that this was one of the hardest things I have EVER done? I did not live in a nice neighborhood. I felt like an absolute fool, and I kept thinking of all those stories about city people who ignore cries for help. But I also knew I was about to die, so finally I started yelling.

The ridiculous sound of my voice screaming "HELLLLPPPPPPP" will forever remain in my memory. When I modified it to "I'M GOING TO DIE IF SOMEONE DOESN'T HELP ME" I knew I was truly desperate.

And then I remembered Raul. Who was always home. So I started screaming "RAUL!!! RAUL!!! IT'S JENNY VALENTINE! I'M STUCK ON THE ROOF! I'M GOING TO DIE! HELP ME PLEEEEEEASE!!!!!" (Isn't it nice that I had the chance to give my identity to the world in my moment of desperation/humiliation?)

Within moments I heard the most beautiful sound in the world. It was Raul's clogs clomping down the street as he yelled in his weird accent, "Jenny?! Jenny Vahlenteen? Wehr ah yooo? It's Raul! I'm cooming, I'm cooming!"

To this day, I have never experienced relief like I felt at that moment. It sometimes makes me emotional when I think of how lucky/blessed I was that Raul lived down the street. Within moments he (and an entire entourage of other interesting individuals who lived in his house) were with in sight, running down the street. Someone grabbed a ladder from somewhere, while I yelled instructions to Raul on how to get to me. In no time at all he was out there on the roof (barefoot) hefting the ac unit while some stranger on a ladder made sure I didn't fall as I stood up. It was a beautiful thing.

I don't know if anyone can really appreciate what this experience was like for me, but it really gave me some perspective. Sometimes we do dumb things. The Lord can't stop us from doing them, but he can send his angels to help us make it through by prompting us to do things like take off our flip flops, providing old rusty nails, and old friends.

And I would also like to say that I'm really happy to be here, because seriously - I almost died that day.

Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I Love Ya, Tomorrow

2009-01-04T17:48:00.000-08:00

If you've come to see the results of the naming contest, go here. If not, don't go anywhere. Until you come to the comment form. Once there, leave a word or two describing my awesomeness, and then you are free to go. And please keep your hands and arms inside at all times. Thank you.

And now we return to normal programing.

Can I just say how excited I am about tomorrow? I may even take the advice I always give my children when they're waiting for something exciting to happen, and go to bed super early so morning can come even sooner. (And after my holiday hours, it's going to seem awfully early, believe me).

And what is it I'm so excited about? What wonderful, glorious thing happens tomorrow? (As if every mother out there doesn't already know EXACTLY what I'm referring to) TOMORROW THEY GO BACK TO SCHOOL!!!!

And I don't mean the neighbors.

I mean them. The ones currently wrestling all over my house (because that's what boys do), teasing their sister (because they do that too), and being bored and hungry the rest of the time.

It was so much fun having them home that first unexpected week when we had the snow days. It was really quite pleasant having them around as Christmas drew closer. Christmas day, I even managed to enjoy them between Nerf gun blasts and nose blowing. The next few days were a blur of messes, and toys, and cold-recovery, but they weren't so bad. As we've drawn closer to tomorrow, however, things have begun to go south.

They're wrestling more. They're teasing more. And they are now the boredest, hungriest kids in the entire universe. (And yes, I know 'boredest' isn't an actual word. Whatever.) I guess you could say that their bored little minds are ready for a little stretching.

And while I'm on the subject of it, can I take a moment to say "God bless elementary teachers"? Seriously. Any woman willing to sacrifice every ounce of energy (both physical AND mental) to teach children and decorate bulletin boards is a saint. Do any of you know what that job is like?

Well, let me tell you. As you know, I am a substitute teacher. I've subbed in elementary school. The children are both adorable AND adoring, but it is constant interaction the entire day. Like every second of every minute. (Well, there was that time I sent the second graders out to recess and took a nice long break until some adult knocked on the door and informed me that my door was locked, and the children had been standing outside for at least ten minutes. I was wondering when their recess was supposed to be over...)

I love subbing in high school. I enjoy subbing in middle school. I will (when absolutely necessary) sub in the sixth grade. Anything below that - forget it. Just looking at those bulletinboards gives me a craft-headache. I can't imagine having to decorate them (and the entire room) for every changing season, and every single holiday. When I get off work from a nice cushy day telling high schoolers to be quiet and do their work, I go to my kids' school to pick them up. Just watching the adults wrangle the children waiting for their parents gives me a headache.

And then I think, "Those amazing women have been doing this ALL DAY LONG. And every day for who knows how long."

And what's even more amazing? They like it. I think some of them even like the decorating/bulletin board thing.

So God bless the teachers, every one. Thank you for all you do. For teaching and mediating, disciplining and tolerating, liking and even loving my children. Mothers every where would be a little more insane without you - not to mention what you're doing for my children and their little minds. I know that I personally, would be lost without you.

And YAY!!! for tomorrow! I may even miss them in my quiet house. Well, maybe not. I'll love them the whole time they're gone, however, and be thrilled to see them when they get home. But the hours in between going and coming are mine. I may even nap. It'll be beautiful.

And may all your tomorrow's be as quiet and peaceful as mine.

Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe - I Couldn't Wait, So Here We Go...

2009-01-04T04:00:00.000-08:00

I know I said Sunday night, but I just couldn't wait any longer. I had to pick a name. The suspense (and indecision) were KILLING me. So here you go:

And the winner is......

Well, actually I didn't just "pick" a name. I couldn't decide. There were so many good ones that it began to overwhelm my indecisive nature, and I started to feel like I was in Baskin Robbins trying to choose a flavor. So I devised a plan.

At the actual Patch, whenever a new doll is born (grown? picked? de-lettuced?) they let the visitors name them, and sometimes take the two names from different people. So I decided that rather than just pick a name, I would take all the names I liked, first and middle, and write them individually on little pieces of paper, and then have Meara draw two names out of a hat. Here are the names that made the first cut:

Tallula, Diamond, Desiree, Princess, Priss, Daisy, Sky, and Tinsle.

But before I tell you the name, I have to answer Pat's question. Apparently, she's mistaken this blog for the Paul Harvey Show, and thinks I should tell "the rest of the story," aka, how my financially challenged parents managed to secure the doll, and what body parts they had to sell to do so. My mother, it turns out, agrees with her. She read Pat's comment and called me right up to give me the details, which I'll now pass on to you.

December, 1984. As previously mentioned (and already known by everyone anyway) EVERY parent with female offspring under twelve was desperate for a Cabbage Patch Kid doll. According to my mother, it wasn't that they were initially that expensive - $19.95, or something like that - it was that they were so unavailable. People who managed to secure one (or more) at regular price were turning around and making a bundle. Or acquiring new body parts. (So the legend goes...)

Well, it turns out my dad's ex-wife - who consequently wasn't/isn't that fond of my mother, OR my dad - was at some toy warehouse (don't ask me why), saw three Cabbage Patch dolls (there were three of us girls) and was apparently in an extremely charitable mood, because she called my mother to see if she was interested in buying them.

Who knew??

So I owe thanks to my dad's ex-wife for the Cabbage Patch doll my girl-child is currently loving and adoring. My own mother hadn't even considered the possibility of trying to locate and pay who-knows-what for one. The three found at the warehouse were at the regular retail price, so they really didn't cost my parents much at all.

(Sorry Pat, you were probably hoping for a little more sacrifice, starvation, or de-limbing than that. I do hate to disappoint - frankly, I'm a little disappointed myself, to tell you the truth. My years of guilt seem so unnecessary now).

And now, The Name:

(Drum roll, please)

"Desiree Sky"

Isn't that great?! I admit we also drew the name Sky Princess, but it seemed just a bit too regal, so I let Meara try again. And ironically, those were both names submitted by Natalie, compliments of her six year old daughter whom Meara loves and adores. Isn't that fitting? It's like Fate, really. Having a Fate-ish name just might make up for all the years of neglect, and help my old Cabbage Patch doll find a little peace and happiness in this world, don't you think?

So thank you Natalie, and thank you Brooke. You should both be soaring on an emotional high right now, due to this remarkable honor. It's almost like you went to Atlanta, Georgia, visited THE original Cabbage Patch, and named a newborn. And it was totally free.

Isn't Blogland amazing???

And thank you all for your submissions, Desiree totally appreciated your concern on her behalf. She thanks you, I thank you, Meara thanks you... And we'll all live Happily Ever After.

The End.

"Out of the Patch" Twenty (plus) Years Later...

2009-01-02T10:33:00.000-08:00

I braved my mother's attic the other day. Seriously. Not only did I have to cut my way through a solid wall of cobwebs, but the light was out, and the boards laying across the rafters that serve as a "floor" are WAY less sturdy than they used to be.

But guess what I found? No, not the things I was actually looking for. Something even better...

I found my old Cabbage Patch. In her original clothes. Her long brown hair was still braided. She was still wearing a diaper. She's in like-new condition, and she deserves someone to love and adore her, because (as you can tell from the description) it's pretty obvious that no one ever did.

Let's go back in time.

The year: I'm pretty sure I was in third grade, making it 1984.

The situation: Every girl-child in the world wanted a Cabbage Patch Doll.

The resulting complication: They were impossible to find, cost an arm and a leg, and I think a few people sold-their-souls/lost-their-lives in the pursuit of obtaining one.

The big lie: I told my parents I wanted one, because that's what everyone else was saying. Good thing they weren't jumping off cliffs...

I have no idea why I thought I would play with one. Kelly had been trying to force me to play with dolls for all six-plus years of my existence, and I really wasn't interested. Besides, I didn't really think my parents would get one anyway. Things were pretty tight for us, and every day there were crazy people paying ridiculous prices for Cabbage Patch dolls.

Imagine my surprise (and mustered excitement) Christmas morning when I unwrapped brown haired, brown eyed, brown dressed, _______ _________.

That's right people. I am apparently the only grown woman in the world who owned a Cabbage Patch and doesn't even remember her name. EVERYONE I talk to remembers the name of their Cabbage Patch! (And the name of their sister's, and their cousin's, and that little girl's down the road). I, on the other hand, have no idea.

You know when there's something you know, but you just can't remember? Like a phone number, an address, or some one's name??? Yeah. Nothing. It isn't in there - it's G.O.N.E. gone. Probably because I only said it like three times. I had hopes that Annie or Kelly would remember, but since they rarely SAW my doll, (because I would never play babies with them) although they can tell me all about each other's dolls, they recall nothing about mine.

But did I mention what fabulous shape she's in? In fact, if it hadn't been for Whitney, she'd still be wearing her original diaper. (Thanks Whit. I'm still holding that one against you). But hey, at least she got played with that one time, right? And since there's no getting that diaper back, she's out of the collectors-item running, so I decided to pass her on to Little Miss Two (who is apparently very un-like me when it comes to playing with dolls, and is bound to give mine all the love and affection she deserves).

But if LMT is going to play with her properly, she needs a name. A Cabbage Patch-ish name. So taking the lead from Annie (who secured a FAKE i.e. nameless Cabbage Patch for her own daughter), I am going to have a "Name That Doll" contest. Leave me you're best, most authentic sounding Cabbage Patch name in my comment box, and I'll choose a winner. If the choice is obvious I'll just choose, and if I can't decide I'll pick out of a hat.

The prize? (In typical lame-prize fashion), My old doll will be the proud bearer of the name YOU submitted. I know. Just think of it. I hope all you hopefuls don't crash my site in your mad dash to earn this important distinction.

And please don't let me down - I need a good selection to choose from. Think of it this way: My poor, old, TERRIBLY (very possibly more so than any other Cabbage Patch in history) neglected doll needs a new name/identity for her new start. You could make this happen. YOU could change a Cabbage Patch life. This kind of good-will opportunity doesn't come along every day, so don't let it pass by! (Besides, I need the help. I can only come up with really lame names that sound like I'm trying too hard. Apparently I just don't have good Cabbage Patch Karma).

(Contest open until Sunday night)

Back When I Was a Flasher

2008-12-31T04:00:00.000-08:00

*WARNING ALL MALE READERS - This post is going to deal with (gasp) breast-feeding. Just letting you know in case you want to make your escape now before you get sucked into the estrogen vortex that unfailingly surrounds such womanish topics.*

Breastfeeding. Remember the joys? The pains? The ridiculous increase in size (that some women get so excited about)?

And the flashing.

Seriously. How many people have seen your naked breasts? Friends, family - complete strangers at Denny's - I don't think I could count the number of my own personal victims. I got to thinking about this after reading Alison Wonderland's post about being comfortable with nudity. She is a nurse, and says bodies don't bother her at all. I couldn't really understand what she meant if I hadn't breastfed four children, but I think I get it.

Remember when you had your first baby, and it was so freaky/uncomfortable when the La Leche League lady manhandled your breasts for the first time? A week later, they are no longer breasts at all. They are just suppliers of milk for that little bundle of hunger who wants to be attached to them every waking (and sleeping) moment. And half of that thirty minute break you get between feedings is spent letting them "air dry". They hurt, they bleed, the BOH won't latch on correctly - and so your mother, your neighbor, your grandma, and her friend all come over and inspect them so they can commiserate (with their own breastfeeding horror stories) and advise.

Everyone sees your breasts. You cease to care after awhile.

Right at this moment, the thought of flashing a naked boob to, well, pretty much anyone I'm not married to, makes me feel a little uncomfortable. So isn't it amazing that while breastfeeding - other than feeling sorry for the flashee - I really didn't care when strangers got the full meal deal? Back then they were just "things". Not much different than arms or legs, they were simply appendages that served a purpose.

And when I was breastfeeding, it was a show, let me tell you. When I had my first child I ballooned to a (dare I say it?) 36 I. As in A,B,C,D,E,F,G,H,I. Regular stores don't even carry that size. I was a freak of nature. How could I not care about flashing those to the world??!!! Yet, strange as it may seem, I was more uncomfortable walking around with clothes on, than I was with flashing a naked boob while nursing.

Example: That poor, poor man in Denny's. He has probably never recovered. You know how some of the Denney's Restaurants have curved, rather than straight walls? So if you're sitting in a booth looking down the aisle there are people on the other side of the curve looking straight back at you? Well, I was attempting to nurse my first baby in a discreet fashion there in the booth, because it was cold outside, and there was no place in the bathroom to sit other than a toilet.

I'm nursing. The blanket is camouflaging any and all inappropriate views. Everything is totally respectable. Then the child decided he was done, threw back his head and his arm - and with it took the blanket. I look down, see the boob - and look up to see this man, paralyzed by the sight, just staring back at me.

Oops. This was seriously my only thought. I think I even chuckled about it. How is this possible? If I flashed my breast in Denney's tomorrow I might never recover!

Yet, due to the constant over-exposure and clinical aspect of them at the time, all sense of modesty completely vanished. What a concept. I'm so glad I returned to normal when the breastfeeding was over. Do you suppose there are women who don't? So Alison, I get what you're saying. For myself, however, I'm happy to remain sensitized to human nakedness for the rest of my life. Somehow, it just makes things more exciting. And dangerous. Ya know?

(And can you imagine how many hits I'm going to get from typing "naked breast" so many times in this post? Too bad I don't have a really good stat counter - this may even beat out working Donny Osmond in! Ya think?)

The Joys of the Christmas Cold (that would be the sniff, sniff variety, rather than the Brrr I'm freezing type)

2008-12-27T22:00:00.000-08:00

I detest being sick. It was bad enough when I was young and my mom would take care of me. Getting sick when you are the mom is so. much. worse. It all started late Christmas Eve when I started sneezing. Just innocent, harmless little sneezes. By the time I had everyones stockings taken care of (including my own, because The Husband was busy sawing logs on the couch - and I'd bought most of the stuff for myself anyway, so what difference did it make?) and the house ready for Christmas morning, my nose was running. I took some medicine and went to bed.

The next morning when I woke up (at 4:30, 5:00, 5:30, 6:00 etc. because my nine year old "just couldn't sleep") I was miserable. I've spent two days on the couch, and apparently should have spent a third there, because today's activities have me right back where I started.

At least there's no throwing up. And no sore throat. Although, come to think of it, those are the two types of illness that lead to instant weight loss, which is EXACTLY what I need after that stupid cookie exchange. Instead I have major congestion merging nicely with perpetual-running-of-the-nose. Yesterday my lucky husband walked in to find me sweeping the floor with a tissue hanging out of my nose. Nice. Vic's Vapor Rub is my constant companion, as well as that head-stuffed-with-cotton feeling, and a sort of out-of-body experience every time I get up to walk around.

And can I just suggest that getting sick and/or becoming extremely-low-functioning on Christmas Day is a real pain? Not because anything special was going on - our family gets together Christmas Eve - and not because people are waiting for fancy food - I never cook on Christmas Day. (Who needs more food after the Christmas Eve binge?) No, the real problem is the mess that is Christmas morning. I swear I have picked the whole place up twenty times over the last two days. Well, my children the lucky little slaves did anyway. Every time I bend over to pick anything up my sinuses congeal into a solid mass of impenetrable mucus. Believe me, I've done as little as possible.

But still, all those stupid new toys have no homes yet, so my toy closet is a disaster waiting for me to rescue it. Unfortunately, the rescue is going to have to wait, because there's no way I'm tackling that project while I feel this rotten. Consequently, having to stare at all these toys for two days has made me re-think a few things.

a. What genius decided fully automatic Nerf guns were a good idea? (answer, Mr. Darling). Can I just say how sick I am of Nerf darts? Seeing them, stepping on them, looking for them, getting shot with a fully-automated-stream of them. Left to my own devices, these toys would never have entered my world.

b. Why do I always add army guys to the boys stockings? Aside from the fact that they apparently make great targets for the above mentioned Nerf guns, I hate them. They are constantly everywhere I look. In the Christmas tree, hanging from my kitchen cupboards, hiding in my fake plants - everywhere BUT the "army guy drawer".

c. What made me think that the cool, expandable, Dora house I picked up at a garage sale for Little Miss Two would remain unmolested by her brothers? Apparently, it is the house of a Colombian drug lord, and they have constant busts there. With fully automatic Nerf guns blasting away the army guys strategically placed in the little pink and yellow house. It's just so wrong. At least I made them stop shooting the family that goes with the house - that's something, right?

All in all, however, despite being sick it was a great Christmas. Hope yours was fantastic - and I certainly hope no one else feels as lousy as I do!

Doing What I Can To Provide Entertainment To Those Bored Enough To Blog During Their Vacay

2008-12-26T00:34:00.000-08:00

I know most everyone is still Christmas-breaking from blogland, but just in case you want something entertaining to read, I thought I should help you out. Not that I'm the one who's going to use precious vacation-braincells to bring it to you - I'm simply going to point you in the direction of the best Christmas Short Story I've read, well, ever. It was conceived over in Machen Land, and you'll need to scroll down to Christmas Short Story Part I to start at the beginning.

P.S. This story is not for the humor-impaired.

Enjoy the rest of your vacation everyone!!!

In Which I Prove I'm Good For More Than Just Limericks...

2008-12-22T22:14:00.000-08:00

Tis days before Christmas, and all through the house
the children run wild, acting very un-mouse.
Decorations are up, and Bing Crosby is singing
Of Snow, and of presents, and bells that are ringing.
Speaking of snow, what's the deal with the weather?
Fun for awhile, it's now become quite a bother
As twelve times a day they all want to go out,
So I bundle, and boot them, and haven't a doubt
That in no time at all they'll be there at the door
Because someone is cold, and the snow's now a bore.
But cheerfully I, their dear, patient mother,
Let them back in and give thanks for the dryer.
But despite all the hassle of snow on my floor,
If it means a White Christmas, then bring on some more!
And then there's the baking of too many treats,
Cookies, cakes, pies, and pastries and all other sweets
Are around every corner, where ever I turn,
I can't seem to resist them. Oh when will I learn!
But alas, and alack, I have nothing to fear,
That old resolution saves me every New Year.
Meanwhile I plan, and I shop till I drop
Buying presents for children, my Mom and my Pop.
Braving the roads, which are covered in ice,
So I can make sure that our Christmas is nice.
So far my list is all doing, and seeing,
But what's much more important is how we're all feeling.
And whether we're thinking of more than just stuff,
And counting our presents to ensure there's enough.
For everyone knows that the true Christmas season
Comes 'round every year because of a reason
Much bigger than presents (or even the treats)
That fill up our thoughts, (and our tummies with sweets).
It's all about giving, and sharing and love,
And remembering the one who came down from above
To ensure we could all make it back there someday,
And be with our families; He provided the way.
So put down that cookie, and tune out the noise
For a moment or two, and remember the Joys
That will last for forever, and all the real reasons
We all share together this greatest of seasons.

Merry Christmas!

Stringing You Along Once Again...

2008-12-19T19:38:00.000-08:00

After suffering the inevitable (if you're me) affects of a cookie exchange, I decided I needed to post about it. Then, once I got started, I realized it was a post more suited to my other blog, Desperately Seeking Skinny Pants, and so if you want to read about it, you'll need to go here.

If laughing at someone else's folly gives you warm fuzzies, I highly recommend following me over there, as I am always willing to sacrifice my personal dieting-dignity for the self esteem of women everywhere. Because let's face it - I lose all dignity when faced with a cookie.

How Santa Saved My Sanity

2008-12-17T00:23:00.000-08:00

I will be very sad when Santa finally comes and goes this year, because (brace yourself) I have been shamelessly using his good name to keep my just-turned-five year old in line for at least three months. We all love and appreciate the parenting tools implied in the lyrics "You better watch out!" and I am no different than any other mother out there. When it comes to things that may coerce my kids into cooperation, I'll try about anything.

But I put a new spin on Santa threats this year. And can I just say that the success rate is through the roof? This has got to be the best mom-deceit scheme I've ever come up with for keeping little people in line. If only I would have thought of it way back when the first two were still susceptible to these kind of tactics - September (which is really just about as far out as you can go with the whole "Santa's watching" bit) to December would have been my favorite time of year for more reasons than just the Fall fashions.

It all started with C's fits. I know you're all about to be shocked (and I'm SURE none of your children would EVER act like this), but he is known for throwing fits when things don't go his way. One moment, he will be standing there talking to you like a civilized person, and then you say something horribly wrong and totally unacceptable (like "No"). His head falls back. His mouth opens. A hideous shrieking noise issues forth. Simultaneously, as if the effort of the sound actually renders his legs useless, he collapses to the ground - always landing on his face.

And there he remains - completely incapacitated in his continuing shriek (because he doesn't breath, but just carries on with enviable diaphramatic control) - completely deaf and blind to me, and any and all threats/suggestions/reprimands/physical-removals-to-the-naughty-corner.

And then September came. And in one desperately-trying-not-to-abuse-my-child moment, the heavens opened, divine inspiration struck, and the following words came out of my mouth:

"Santa's going to bring you baby toys for your stocking if keep acting like that. Don't you know that Santa decides what toys to bring little boys by how they act? If he sees you throwing a baby fit, you'll get baby toys for Christmas because he'll think you're only two. Do you want baby toys in your stocking?"

Bingo. It was like breaking through the tantrum-force field. The shrieking stopped, his face lifted from the floor wearing a VERY concerned expression.

C: He will?

Me: Yep. You don't want a dumb old rattle, do you?

C: (vigorous head shaking)

Me: Well then you'd better get up off the floor and start acting like a big boy, because Santa's watching.

C: (eyes furtively glancing up, down, and all around as he jumps to his feet) Now will I get big boy toys?

Me: As long as you stop throwing those baby fits, and keep acting like a big boy.

There are not words to express the victorious feelings overwhelming me at that moment. Take THAT! almost-five-year-old mentality! I am mother, HEAR ME ROAR!!!!

And can I just say how many times I've used the phrase "Do you want a rattle in your stocking?" since that blessed day? It's been saving my precious patience reserves for three months! AND, the tantrums have definitely slowed down. (Which is the only thing keeping me from panicking about January and the loss of my new best threat).

So although I know many feel Santa is a representation of all that's wrong with Christmas, I would like to disagree. He definitely serves a worthwhile purpose for a solid three months out of every year, and I think I'm giving him my vote for Most Helpful Citizen of the Year.

Thank You Santa!!!!

"When Cookies and Crafts Collide" or "Why I'm Not in the Kitchen"

2008-12-15T22:52:00.000-08:00

I should be in the kitchen right now, finishing off my TWELVE DOZEN cookies for a cookie exchange tomorrow night.

Instead, I'm giving myself another lame blog makeover. Why the makeover? Because my cookies require dipping in chocolate, and for some reason that's feeling just a little too "crafty" to me. I hate crafts. (And if you don't understand what that statement means, OR want to commiserate as a fellow non-crafter, click here for further enlightnement). When I attempt crafts, everything always goes wrong, takes too much time, and makes me tired. I got two cookies dipped, ate one of them, and shelved the whole thing till my energy comes back.

Why is the makeover lame? Because blog makeovers can only be as cool as the person giving them is blog-savvy. I am obviously blog-lame, because every time I search the world wide web for non-lame blog templates and find one I like, it always gives me some infuriating statement about how it "isn't allowed."

I'm tired of disappointment. Which unfortunately limits my choices to the Blogger templates, and their VERY limited color pallet. (Which, consequently, doesn't look the same on my computer as it apparently does on everyone else's [possible reason for some of it's lameness], and one time I gave my background this really pretty yellow, only to discover [a month or two later when viewing on my parents' computer] that it was actually an extremely obnoxious/bright lemon yellow on every other computer in the world. Sorry for that viewers! Who knows what my new selection of lame-blogger-colors looks like to all of you... I'm crossing my fingers).

The worst part about it? I've wasted all this time not-finishing my cookies, and I don't even like my new look. I'm already missing the old one, and no, I did not save it. (Because I - lame blogger that I am - have no idea how one goes about doing such blog-savvy things).

And I keep thinking about the dipping of all those cookies. And then I start regretting my decision to go for the "dipping" cookies, when I could have gone for the "rolling in sugar" cookies. I can handle rolling. I learned that one in kindergarten. The dipping, however, (all two cookies I dipped) is giving me a real headache. I made these no-bake peanut butter crisp balls, and the recipe said to "use a toothpick or fork to dip them in chocolate."

Right.

They fell off the toothpick, and the fork left suspicious looking fork-marks all over the cookie. Currently, the cookies are resting in the fridge, where they will hopefully harden enough to stay on the toothpick and not fall off/apart when dipped.

I should have rolled. And baked. No bakes are worthless - one hundred and fifty cookies later, and my house smells like nothing. It's almost as if I never made the blasted cookies for all the holiday-aroma they provided.

And now (if it isn't already painfully obvious) I'm just killing time, rambling on, and on, about absolutely nothing.

But I should be in the kitchen dipping.

I can do it. I can actually be very "dippy" at times, so it shouldn't be beyond my abilities, right?

But next year I'm rolling.

Way Back When I Was Young...

2008-12-13T22:32:00.000-08:00

The other day, as I was teaching piano lessons, we had a near disaster. Tired of trying to find someone willing to do it for him, C (now five) decided to make his own piece of bread and peanut butter - which he of course wanted to warm up in the microwave like his brothers always do. Always willing to help himself (whether or not he's able), C came in and asked me if how many minutes to put nuke it for.

Yes, a brief thought of caution flashed through my head, but I quickly pushed it aside. I was in the middle of a lesson, and he does know his numbers, so it shouldn't be too hard, right? So I said, "Push nine."

Meaning, of course, nine SECONDS.

Thankfully, the Lord blessed me with a phone call a few moments later, and I had to go into the kitchen. The smokey haze was seeping out from around the seal on the microwave door, and already hanging in an ominous cloud throughout my kitchen.

I looked at the microwave. I have no idea how long it was initially set for, but by the time I got there, it had nine MINUTES and fifty seconds left to go. The piece of bread? A charred chunk of very hard, unidentifiable black stuff. Black smoke billowed out, and my house stunk like burned-microwave-food for two or three days. Nice.

This experience, and conversations with my mother, have taken me back in time to the acquisition of our family's first microwave. I am certain that I am not the only one in the blogosphere who remembers the day/night the modern miracle of the microwave made it's appearance in their life.

It was evening. I must have been about eight years old. My mother and brother staggered into the kitchen lugging a humongous and very heavy box between them. Our microwave had arrived, and boy were we excited. Baffled, and completely clueless as to what we should do with it - but definitely excited.

We all stood around and watched while my brother got it plugged in and settled on the counter. Can I just say that it was HUGE??! I probably could have climbed in there if I'd wanted! I distinctly remember all of us trying to decide what we could put in the amazing new toy we knew nothing about. I think are first experiment was with something really exciting like a piece of bread and butter. Woo Hoo.

For quite awhile, we didn't really do anything constructive with it. Well, not when Mom was around, anyway. When she was gone, my older sister and I would experiment with different things. Some of our better attempts were microwaved s'mores (graham cracker, several chocolate chips, marshmallow, and another graham cracker cooked until just before marshmallow exploded), and microwaved toasted cheese sandwiches (achieved by toasting bread in toaster, while nuking slices of cheese on a plate, and then using a spatula to scrape cheese off plate and onto toast).

Apparently, several other families in the ward were dealing with similar we-have-a-microwave-and-don't-have-a-clue-what-to-do-with-it issues, because it wasn't long before we had a "Microwave Cooking" Homemaking Lesson at our house. I still remember learning how "all microwaves have hot spots where they cook faster," and to find them you were supposed to cut a paper bag to fit the bottom of your microwave (of course there was no rotating plate), dampen it with water, and cook it to see which spots dried up first.

My favorite microwave memory, however, was our first Sunday roast cooked in the microwave. Of course it was Fast Sunday (when we fore go dinner and breakfast, and come home from church famished), and apparently my mother missed the memo about how microwaves cook in A LOT LESS TIME than conventional ovens.

She stuck it in the microwave, set it to cook for three hours, and we left for church.

Three hours later, with my teenage brothers dying of starvation, we pulled into the garage. We could smell it before we got in the house. Devastated, my brothers rushed to the scene of the tragedy, and emerged a few moments later with our dinner. It was roughly the size of a baseball, black, VERY hard, and fit right in with the rocks in the driveway. What a tragedy.

I could go on with stories about "crustless" microwaved bread, and all the special "microwave cookware" everyone bought, but I won't. I am kind of glad, however, that I get to remember things like "life before the microwave." For some reason it makes me feel just a little bit cool - almost like someone being able to say "I remember life before indoor plumbing." It's not necessarily something to be envied, yet it says something about me. I lived before life was as easy as it is now. We didn't used to be able to make s'mores in our kitchen. Wow.

Reminiscing Rexburg

2008-12-09T21:52:00.000-08:00

I was recently reminiscing with some friends about my days at Ricks College, and there's a topic I just have to bring up.

The ice.

Seriously. Whether it was in my nose, under my feet (where it belonged), or flying at my face as I did a triple-twist-land-on-my-rear in front of all those people, I have to say it is one of the top three things that instantly comes to mind when I think of the most memorable aspects of Ricks College life.

I'm from the Northwest. We don't do cold over here. Occasionally we'll get a little cold snap, but it rarely gets below 20, and doesn't usually last more than a few days. On average, if it hovers around freezing everyone here thinks it "sooo cold." I definitely belonged in this club.

Until the first time my nose hairs froze.

Can I just say what a shock it was walking out into Rexburg's sub-zero-freeze-your-rear-off temperature and having my nose hairs freeze? One innocent sniff of that arid, frigid, Rexburg wind and my nostrils became an ice forest. So unpleasant.

Then there was the battle up to the Smith Building. Eight o'clock am religion class - aka good-luck-getting-there-alive-because-they-haven't-salted-the-east-campus-sidewalks-yet. I vividly remember trying to make it up the sidewalk (in the dark) as that same arid, frigid, Rexburg wind (that was busy freezing my nose hairs) hit me so hard I would find myself sliding backwards down the hill. You can bet I was more careful in my schedule planning after that first semester. Nothing uphill until after nine. (Nothing period until after nine, if you really want to know).

But the worst thing about the ice, hands down, was the regular public humiliation that came with falling. It's almost like the Lord put the school in Rexburg just to ensure humility in all prospective students. You'd be walking innocently along, thinking you were doing fine, when all of the sudden BAM! Down on the ice. It wasn't so bad if you had a roomie or friend with you, because then the two of you could laugh together and you could act as if falling in front of hordes of people didn't bother you at all. On a good day, your roomie would go down with you (which could sometimes be arranged mid-fall), and you could share your humiliation as you crawled to the safety of a clear patch before attempting to once more attain a standing position.

But then there were the solo falls. The walking-all-alone-and-really-look-like-a-dork falls. It was like time froze as my feet flew out from under me, my arms desperately windmilling, and my legs flailing in a sad attempt to keep from actually hitting the ground. As I'd sense everyone suddenly slowing to watch the show (no doubt secretly hoping it was a worthwhile crash) I'd try to decide how to salvage a little self-respect once I was lying on the cold, hard, ground.

It doesn't matter how you play this one off, you're a loser either way. Try to act cool and get up as if you didn't just make a complete fool of yourself - and the crowd of people who stopped to watch just stand there and stare, reminding you that no, you are not cool.

Try to look like you're so well adjusted and secure that you can laugh at yourself and do your best to demonstrate how hilarious you think your acrobatics were - and the staring crowd doesn't crack a smile. In fact, you get the impression that they're all thinking you're a little insane, and that none of them have ever been the victims of icy-sidewalks. Liars.

Seriously. Staring people are so annoying.

Looking back, however, I have to say that overall that these repeated (and humiliating) falls were experiences in self-discovery. I learned that humiliation actually wouldn't kill me. I learned to be more considerate of others falling around me. And I learned that despite the hazards, I was not willing to resign myself to clunky old hiking boots every day. For me, feeling cute was worth the risks - both physical and emotional.

Let's face it - at the end of the day, it's all about the shoes.

Getting My Just Desserts

2008-12-07T21:48:00.000-08:00

This weekend was our ward (church) Christmas party. I was in charge. Somehow I managed to live through it. And I haven't looked at a single blog in three days, not to mention the laundry, dishes, or my children. Sometimes I envy people who get paid by their churches to do this sort of thing - not saying I think we should, just saying wouldn't that be nice.

After three days of non-stop running around, phone-calling, tablecloth-dilemmas, decorating, stressed-out-runs-to-the-store, and general feelings of panic and coordination-anxiety, I would just like to say that it all came together, and was a smashing success.

But my feet still hurt.

And next week I'm going to the other ward's Christmas party, I'm not bringing my children, and I'm going to spend the whole time eating, socializing (since it's not like I don't know most of them anyway) and enjoying myself. And secretly crying because their menu has mashed potatoes instead of scalloped/funeral/yummy style like we did, and I didn't get any, and can't seem to get over it. I was very depressed when I cornered their activities person in the hall today (skipping the last bit of sacrament meeting to do so) and found out this sad, sad, piece of news. I don't even like mashed potatoes - except with cottage cheese, which they obviously won't have. Maybe I should bring my own? Hmmm, a possibility...

But then again, I may come out on top after all, because they're having home-made desserts (we did Costco pies), so there's no telling what kind of yummy things people might show up with.

So next Saturday night, I have a date. With myself - and the entire First Ward. And my husband if I can talk him into coming. (Yeah, the odds on that one aren't so good, so I suggest holding off on the bets). And now, just to prove how exhausted I really am after this whole ordeal, I am going to bed. BEFORE ten-thirty. Without reading a SINGLE blog (although it's extremely tempting). And I can honestly say, I don't remember the last time this combination of early-bedtime/non-blog-reading happened. So have a great week, and send lots of little mind-messages to the ladies in the First Ward to make really delicious desserts, because I deserve it.

(And I'm definitely considering the cottage cheese option - do you think I could keep it hidden in my purse? I'd stuff it down my bra, but somehow I think that might not work so well... Wish me luck!!)

"Too Much Information" or "Another Mom Brain Fried in the Wal-Mart Checkout"

2008-12-03T22:38:00.000-08:00

There seriously is nothing like the microscope of the Wal-Mart Checkout to fry a mother's brain. We've all seen it. We've probably all been victimized by it.

But some incidents are more painful to watch (and hear) than others. Such was the case tonight.

The scene: 9:30 in Wal-Mart's Garden Center Checkout.

The players: Me, a young mother with her two children, and about twenty other witnesses.

The situation: Very, very, very sad.

Here's how it went. After a long, meandering, child-free shopping trip, I purchased all my goods but one and loaded my car. I then drove over to the Garden Center to pick up a bike (for C's 5th birthday tomorrow) that I'd set aside at the checkout. As I came around the check station to get in line I see the following:

The said young mother and her kids. She was standing behind her cart, about five yards behind the last person in line, pleading with her 3-4 yr old boy to let her move forward.

His foot (and body weight) were blocking further progress.

Me: Oh, are you in line?

YM: Well, kind of. I'm trying to be. I've been standing here for twenty minutes.

Me: (thinking she meant she'd been waiting in line twenty minutes like I just had) Well then I'll just get behind you.

YM: (Look of panic and desperation set in as I move in behind her)

She then begins explaining how he wants this toy (which I'll call a "blah,blah" since that's what it sounded like when she said it), but there weren't any more - all the while desperately pushing against the kid to get him to move toward the line. He doesn't budge. Two more customers get behind me. She gets more desperate.

Apparently desperation makes her want to talk.

So as she moves to the front of the cart to battle more effectively with her child, she tells me (loudly - definitely loud enough for the man behind me to hear) that she "just needed to get tampons" (waves box in air to prove point). Then she turns to the child:

YM: They don't have a blah,blah. They're all gone. You need to move.

Child: I want blah,blah (whine, whine)

YM: They don't have a blah,blah! You need to move, there are people behind us.

Child: I want blah,blah (whine, whine)

YM: (sounding a little frantic, but still sane) We need to move! They don't have the toy! (physically tries moving child - child goes limp - she gains about three inches - woman two people back sighs loudly).

Child: I want blah,blah (whine, whine)

YM: (to me)(loudly)(getting VERY frustrated)(and probably starting to sweat) I was just sitting on my couch, and I started my period! So I just had to come and get some tampons (waves box again)(I feel man behind me cringe).

Me: (to make her feel better, and to get her off the tampon subject) It's okay, I have four of my own.

YM: How do you do it! I am done. I'm not having any more. (tugs on kid, gains a few more inches. There's still a few people in front of her, so she's okay).

Me: Really? Are you sure? (don't ask why I said it. I don't know. I was trying to make conversation).

YM: (again, speaking loudly) When I had HIM (points to angelic 15 month old in cart) the doctor asked me if I wanted a TUBAL LIGATION. I asked him, "a TUBAL LIGATION?" and he said, "Yeah, a TUBAL LIGATION." I said, "you mean get my TUBES TIED?" and he said "yes, a TUBAL LIGATION." I said "of course I want my TUBES TIED!!! I don't want ANY more!" and he said, "well we could have, since you had a c-section, but you have to give us twenty day's notice, so it's too late."

I swear she really did say TUBAL LIGATION at least that many times. And what's up with her doctor?

About this time the person in front of her moves up. This is when she really started to lose it, and started bargaining with the child. (And where I wished I could help her, but knew that every mother must do her time in the Wal-Mart checkout, and there was nothing to do but watch, and feel a LOT of pity).

YM: (to child, who has been incessantly saying "I want blah,blah" since we last mentioned him) You have to move. If you move, I'll come back in the morning and get you the toy.

Child: I want blah,blah (whine, whine)

YM: Fine. If you don't move, I'll take away the "blah,blah" you already have when we get home.

Child: I want blah,blah (whine, whine)

YM: (repeats this last exchange at least five times before moving on to...) Don't be such a cry baby! I'm taking away your toy. You're such a whiny brat, why can't you be good like your baby brother? You're the one acting like the baby. Don't be a whiny baby.

Child: I want blah,blah (whine, whine)

YM: You're being such a brat! Stop it! If you don't stop crying like a cry baby, I'll call you a baby - I'll call you Riley! (apparently they know a crybaby named Riley) Did you hear me? Do you want me to call you Riley?

Child: No.

YM: Well I will. I'll call you Riley if you keep being such a bratty cry baby.

Child: (miraculously stops crying, moves away from cart, and line proceeds forward).

She then admitted to me (loudly) that she really had always wanted three, but since her first two had different dads she was worried people would think she was a whore.

Another mom-brain fried, compliments of Wal-Mart.

So I think we should all have a few moments of silence for this poor young mother, and all the others like her, who have been recent casualties of the Wal-Mart checkout. If you're among the fallen, you're included. We salute you. (we've all BEEN you). There is no mother who is immune to this hazard (except for those that do all their shopping online), whether it is because of inexperience, over-confidence, crabby/sick/difficult children, or any other contributing factor to public meltdowns of offspring.

Please don't feel bad. This too shall pass.

(But whatever you do, try not to mention your period, tubal ligations, or suggest {under ANY circumstances} that you might be a whore. And if you must mention any of these things, I advise whispering).

(ouch).

My Amazing Self Control (which totally deserves to be rewarded at the earliest opportunity)

2008-11-30T21:46:00.000-08:00

I've been living in the same house as a milk chocolate Symphony Bar for over 48 hours.

And it's still intact. But only because it's not the kind with toffee. My self control only goes so far, after all.

I bought it on (Black) Friday to send in my MIL's birthday package, thinking I could have it out of the house by Saturday morning at the latest. Unfortunately, sending the package requires several other things - like letters/pictures from my kids, school pics of my kids, and other little birthday-ish things - and Saturday was so busy I never got around to any of it.

And it's just sitting there staring at me. And I refuse to eat it, because it's not really mine. It's my MIL's. And I should have a LITTLE self-control. Considering the fact that I've managed to fall asleep TWO TIMES with the stupid thing calling my name is really pretty good for me. Let me just put it into perspective for you:

If I were Edward, the Symphony Bar would be my Bella. My husband (who would be thoroughly disgusted with me for losing control and eating his mother's gift) practically had to physically restrain me earlier.

If it had toffee chips in it, I would have overpowered him.

In fact, the only thing keeping me from the offending piece of chocolate right now is the fact that it is void of toffee. Well, that and the knowledge that tomorrow, at the earliest opportunity, I will go buy myself one (with toffee) and eat it alone so I don't have to share a single bite.

Maybe I should go to bed early so tomorrow comes a little faster. (And I'm seriously salivating RIGHT NOW just thinking about it. Like when Edward talks of his mouth "filling with venom"...) (And I can't believe I'm actually using a Twilight analogy. I didn't even love the books the way I was supposed to - being LDS AND female...)

So, farewell until tomorrow - and the long awaited and totally deserved chocolate attack. You know where I'll be (in a closet), and you know what I'll be doing (inhaling Symphony Bar).

Try not to be jealous. (Or better yet, go get your OWN Symphony Bar!)

Thanksgiving Rebel

2008-11-29T00:21:00.000-08:00

I didn't eat any turkey. Or gravy. Or potatoes.

And it wasn't because I was dieting.

I seriously don't know what happened to me this year! I went to my sister's house with my other sister, and a few assorted acquaintances, and there was a HUGE spread of food. What threw me off? To those who know me well, this will come as no surprise - over half the available entrees were dessert.

I was afraid. Afraid that if I wasted precious room in my stomach digesting boring old turkey/gravy/potatoes, I wouldn't be able to fully appreciate all those wonderful desserts.

Especially after all the snacky food I ate while waiting for the actual feast.

My first trip through the line was for my two year old, and I dutifully put all the appropriate things on her plate - while looking longingly at the desserts. She sat on my lap while she ate, and I helped her pick at her food - thinking of the cheesecake the entire time.

Finally it was my turn to eat. My strategy wasn't premeditated, I swear. I picked up my plate, moved towards the potatoes, planned on a big spoonful - but somehow breezed right past. Same thing for the turkey. And the stuffing. And the gravy. (Obviously. Who wants straight gravy?)

Before I knew it, I was putting a large helping of this yummy pudding-with-real-raspberries dessert on my plate. Then I grabbed a few of those (totally sinful, and EXTREMELY buttery) crescent rolls my sister made. Then I went for the cheesecake. I was the first one there. Same with the pumpkin.

Are you visualizing the food on my plate? Dr. Atkins would have had a stroke! I had every available carb (sans potatoes), and a sampling of every sweet treat on my FIRST plate.

I'm such a rebel. (Good things my kids didn't notice. Especially my oldest, because I'd made him put down his first plate when all he'd dished up was dessert. Wonder where he gets it?)

I would also like to publicly declare that I do not regret my actions. I know I laughed in the face of tradition, but it was worth it. There's no way I could have downed that much dessert if I'd done my turkey-duty, and that would have been a real shame. And while my Thanksgiving diet was completely void of protein, just think of all the calories I saved! Because seriously - I would have eaten the same amount of desserts anyway.

It just would have made me a little sicker to do it.

The Results...

2008-11-26T22:06:00.000-08:00

As many of you know (or have figured out), I love limericks. Why? Because it fascinates me to see all the different combinations of words that can go together in the same format to say similar things so many different ways. Just think about it - you could put a thousand people in a room, have them all write a limerick about the same topic, they could all come up with something, and no two would be the same.

Like I said, fascinating.

But before I get any farther ahead of myself, I must acknowledge our reigning champion Lisaway (aka, the American in Poland), who won the last competition (topic: housework) with this fabulous limerick:

My house is one big laundry pile.
Well, there's two, but they each stretch a mile.
There's "dirty" and "clean"
(and some in between)
You'd never know underneath there is tile!

And let me just say that we had some pretty fascinating entries this time around! (If you missed the competition, go here and check out my comment box). It was very hard to choose, so I'm going to post three that made me laugh out loud. The first was by McFarland. I loved this one - it puts such a "glass half-full" spin on the joys of over-holiday-eating, while tying in a little bit of the diet-gospel as well:

I love eating all of my dinner
It makes me feel like a winner
A winner of what?
A big, jiggly butt!!
But does this make me a sinner?

Didn't that crack you up?! The next one is by Annonymous Jim Pettit (who has no blog), and all I can say is that his three entries were a scream. I have no idea what brought him fortuitously to my blog at the time of my limerick contest, but I sure hope he happens along for the next one! I had a hard time choosing a favorite between his three entries, but finally settled on the following:

Oh, this incline I'm on has me huffing!
It's steep, and my lungs are a-puffing!
I need oxygen! Prayers!...
What? It's only some stairs?!
(Note to self: need to lay off the stuffing.)

And I happen to know that several other people are giving him their vote. (Then again, several people are voting for McFarland, so how to choose?) Moving on, however, is my third pick. This one I love for personal reasons. It's my sister Annie's entry, and it so perfectly describes our holiday-feast attitude that I can't ignore it. If any of you want to visualize Annie or me at any feasting occasion, read on:

I gorge on sweet yams and cooked stuffing
So full that I'm huffing and puffing
I think I might die
Until someone yells, "Pie!"
I roll back in, stopping at nuffing.

This is so me.

Just for kicks, I'm going to throw in the Hubby's number one pick - especially since it was also one of my favorites. It was an early entry by another annonymous male, Doug998. I love his creative meter! Not easy to do in a limerick, and definitely worthy of a little spotlight:

So, my doctor is finally sending
Me back to the gym. Now I'm wending
My way there. I'm keen
On a favourite machine ...
(It's the one that does nothing but vending).

But how to choose? This is the hardest contest to judge so far, because all four of these reached out and grabbed my funny bone. There's actually several more I could have included, but I have to narrow it down somehow!

And then there's the sad fact that poor Doug998 and Jim won't even be able to appreciate the (lame) privilege of being on my sidebar. Then again, there's still the World Title... That may come in handy on their resumes in this lovely econimic climate we're having - so who's to say?

Annie, of course, already has her own place of honor over there, so what good would it do her?

And I actually do think that McFarland's got the loudest actual laugh out of me, so...

YOU WIN MCFARLAND!!!! Please, please, try to contain yourself, I know you're excited (and no doubt hyperventilating - anyone have a paper bag for the poor girl), but it's true, you really have won the highly coveted title of "The World's Greatest Limerick Writer EVER!!!"

You must be so proud.

It's like Christmas in November! Too bad you'll have nothing left to wish for...poor girl...

And I promise I'll get you posted over there within twenty-four hours, so just try to be patient. (I know it's hard).

Thanks again everyone, I loved every entry! And I'd also love to hear which limericks appealed to all of you the most too, if you want to let us know (and give more people the credit they deserve) leave a mention in my comment box. And never fear - I'm sure it won't be long until you'll all have a chance to try once more for that elusive title (and lame spot on my sidebar), so make sure you don't miss it!

And Happy Thanksgiving!

The End.

Get Ready To Limerick! Yes, YOU could win a world title (just think of putting that on the resume!) For more info, read on...

2008-11-23T20:28:00.000-08:00

So, with all this talk about holiday food, and holiday diets, I've decided it's time for a....LIMERICK CONTEST!!!!

That's right, another shot at a spot on my illustrious side bar, and the title of "The World's Greatest Limerick Writer Ever!" I know, it's been awhile, and I'm afraid if Lisa goes any longer unchallenged, it might go to her head. Then again, she may hold onto the title...you just.Never.Know. So let's talk about the rules:

1. Five lines.

2. Lines 1,2,5 have to rhyme.

3. Lines 3,4 have to rhyme.

4. In case anyone is wondering, all lines can rhyme.

5. If you aren't sure of the meter, read the limericks on my sidebar, or the ones I'm no doubt going to dash off a little farther down in this post.

6. You DO get points for making me laugh, and you DEFINITELY get points for having a good meter.

More about the topic. Anything that has anything to do with tempting holiday treats, trying to not eat food, craving food you can't have, exercising to justify food you gave in to, or anything else that in any way correlates with dieting, holiday food, food-in-general, exercise, etc, goes. Let me kick this thing off, and get you all warmed up with a few limericks of my own...

Why is it a Holiday diet
Sends my cravings into a riot?
Pies, pastries and roast,
I love them all most,
The only hope for my mouth is to tie it.

Get it? Tie it shut? If only that were an option. Let's try for another one.

On my stupid treadmill I run
To make up for my holiday fun.
I ate that whole pie
And I think I might die,
By New Year's I'll have put on a ton!

Or how about,

I love thinking of Holiday food
It puts me in such a good mood!
A month worth of eats,
All kinds of good treats!
To not eat it would simply be rude.

And I'd never want to be rude. So there you go, have at it, and write me some good limericks. Contest will be open until Wednesday night, and if I get a chance I'll post some highlights between now and then. Leave your entries in my comment box, and multiple entries are definitely okay - enter as many times as you want.

Well what are you waiting for? Go write a limerick!

Just Doing What I'm Told...

2008-11-20T22:19:00.000-08:00

The other day I posted my not-getting-fat-during-the-holidays plan over on Skinny Pants, but not very many of you made it over there, and I've had several people tell me I should post it over here, so I am.

Good thing they didn't tell me to go jump off a bridge...

If you've already read it, I apologize, if you love giving yourself a reason for that January diet, you are excused, and if you're curious, read on:

Holiday Strategy for the Battle of the Bathroom Scale

So, it's November - aka "The Most Critical Time of the Year." Well, for me and any of you hoping to hold steady (or maybe even gain some ground) in that annoying battle with the bathroom scale. At this time every year I put the battle strategy into play, and get ready to come out victorious on New Year's. And just so you know, this plan is geared ENTIRELY around eating Holiday food, and avoiding goody-deprivation at all holiday food gatherings.

And it never fails me.

Just thought some of you might be interested.

I really should have posted this right after Halloween - since I always get things started at the beginning of November - but I was too busy not thinking about Halloween candy to organize my thoughts... But better late then never, right?

So, the plan. The strategy. It all revolves around advanced planning and preemptive striking. In other words, lose now, gain later, and it all comes out in the wash.

I know, I know, you're thinking, "Like it's that easy to just 'lose now.' If I could do that I already would have. Duh." But just hear me out. This is all about mind power, and is totally doable. I swear. Why? What magic formula will make it easier to lose this time? Motivation. Hanging before you every day from now to Christmas, are all those goodies. The feasts. The cookies. The party foods and appetizers constituting a meals worth of calories in a single bite. All the foods you know you'll want to eat, and should be able to eat because it's Christmas. Do you really want to be the one at the party saying "Well, that hot, steamy, overly cheesy, completely delicious looking, and divine tasting artichoke dip looks great, but I'm really just into celery right now,"???

Trust me. You can do this. You can do anything for a couple of weeks and a big piece of guiltless-pumpkin-cheesecake, right?

So here's the goal. Lose at least two (solid, meaning more than just water weight) pounds before Thanksgiving, and then again before Christmas. And here's the plan to accomplish it.

1. Pick your most favorite eating time of the day and leave it alone (meaning, eat as usual, no suffering necessary). You love breakfast? Fine. Lunch? Fine. Dinner? Evening snack? No problem. All of them? Pick one. And no complaining - it won't work if you're not willing to suffer at least a tiny bit.

2. Look at your two remaining meals, and usual snacks, and start sacrificing. Cut them in half, substitute with healthy/low-fat/low-carb/low-sugar/smaller portion/or-what-ever-it-is-that-works-for-you meals, grit your teeth, think about your favorite holiday treat and how you will guiltlessly consume a second helping, and bear it.

3. Add an extra gimmick just to kick start things. For instance, this year mine is "turn down one thing every day." Sounds so small, but I've given up an ice cream sundae (with LOADS of toppings, all you can eat), brownies (the plural because you know I wouldn't have stopped at just one), pastries, my late-night handful of milk chocolate chips, and a few other things just this week. Other years I've ditched sweet-treats altogether, or eaten one salad a day - whatever. Just pick some small thing and be strict. No cheating allowed.

4. If you have a party to attend, eat light all day to make up for it. (And don't go totally overboard when you get there. It's not Christmas YET). If you have to make goodies, go ahead and have some, but set your limit before they're done, stick to it, and get them out of the house fast. If someone brings you treats, eat them. Then skip dinner. (Well, that's what I do, but I suppose I shouldn't try to sell you on such obviously not-healthy strategies. But it does work...)

5. Look in the mirror at least three times a day (no complaining, if you've read this blog before you TOTALLY knew this would be part of the plan) and tell yourself you're going to be a skinny babe by Christmas.

6. Exercise is extra-credit.

7. When the morning of the big day comes (first Thanksgiving, then Christmas), save your calories up. For instance, have an apple for breakfast. Eat a pile of lettuce for lunch.

8. At the actual event? Enjoy yourself. Eat up. Gain back those two pounds all in one sitting if you want - you earned it. (Or, not. Besides, like you can gain two pounds of actual fat in one sitting. I personally believe one meal never hurt anybody).

I would just like to bear my testimony that everyone should get to eat at Christmas dinner without "watching what they eat." I also believe that gorging on good food for the entire holiday season is going over the top, and should be considered a diet-sin. I know that every woman has at least four weeks of solid diet-self-control in her - especially when the reward is turkey gravy, Christmas croisants, and chocolate trifle. I also know that my little battle strategy works for me, and will work for anyone who undertakes it with real intent. Losing two pounds is really not an impossible task. And you'll thank yourself on New Year's. In the name of Holiday Food, amen.

Just In Case You Didn't Know...

2008-11-18T10:36:00.000-08:00

Today is Tuesday.

NOT Wednesday.

Just though you might want to know, because no one told me until AFTER I dropped my child off at preschool. And went home. And was in the middle of blogging about my holiday weight-control strategy over on Desperately Seeking Skinny Pants.

Yeah. I felt cool. And smart, because there's nothing like NOT KNOWING WHAT DAY OF THE WEEK IT IS to make a person (especially a mom of young children) feel brilliant. This isn't my first calendar casualty either, sad as that is.

Wouldn't it have been even smarter if I hadn't found out until I showed up at the dentist office with the other two for their WEDNESDAY appointments? After getting them out of school?

Yeah, glad that didn't happen...

So now I'm gonna go and think about life, and sing the "Days of the Week" song my preschooler loves...and HOPE IT SINKS IN TO MY HEAD!!!

So have a nice TUESDAY everyone, Wednesday's TOMORROW.

The Day My Stars Aligned Thanks to a Crash Test Dummy (and my mother)

2008-11-15T23:40:00.001-08:00

I haven't shopped for clothes in a long, long, LONG, time. Those that know me will be shocked. This is not like me at all. Sometimes, however, the budget cramps my style, and I simply can't justify more clothes.

Did I mention how much I love clothes?

I love clothes. A lot. Especially Fall clothes.

I did go shopping last Fall - and I distinctly remember getting lots of cute things, and never feeling like I couldn't find something to wear. So now, considering that all of those exact same clothes are hanging in my closet, how is it that I suddenly have nothing to wear? Does this happen to anyone else? I see those clothes...I remember wearing them...even feeling cute in them... Yet they leave me completely uninspired now.

And they all look alike to me.

And I'm SURE some of them must be missing, because otherwise I'd be able to feel just as cute as I did last year, right?

But I don't.

Today I was sitting there thinking about trying to find something to wear to church tomorrow, and I got depressed. So I started thinking about shopping. And how I'd dropped a pound this morning. And how that was clearly a sign that the stars had finally aligned, and I was supposed to go to Ross.

Besides, my mom still owed me birthday money so I had fifty bucks to spend. Me+Ross+fifty bucks = at-least-enough-clothes-to-get-me-by-till-after-Christmas. The whole winter if the clearance racks are full and I don't count shoes...

And then I received divine confirmation that today I truly was destined to go shopping. Just as I called Hubby to let him know I was taking off when he returned, the mail came in. What do you suppose it had for me? Honestly, you'll never guess, so let me just tell you.

Remember Crash's little contest? The one where I won $50 for my little Sasquatch tale? Well, she'd emailed me to get my info, but I kind of didn't give it to her because I felt weird taking money from a stranger. What I didn't know, was that she is a woman bound by her word - and that she has amazing stalker-skills.

I got my $50 in the mail today. From Crash. With chocolate covered macadamia nuts, a pack of cards, a totally cute retro post card, and lots of little balloon foil thingies that went everywhere. And I have no idea how she got my address. (Well okay, I'm pretty sure I know her source, but still - very impressive).

Did I mention they were fifty one-dollar bills? My kids were totally awed by the wad of cash - and I chuckled all afternoon. Or should I say "All the way to Ross, Baby!"

It's been so long since I went shopping (my birthday in June, to be exact) that I was actually a little nervous I wouldn't know what to do when I got there. See, I have a system at Ross. If you give me an hour, I can walk away with an armful. I have a shopping uniform (cute jeans and a black t-shirt), a shopping pattern, a system for putting the clothes in the cart, and a system for trying them on (which has everything to do with the shopping uniform). I am like a machine in that place!

But I was on a time frame.

What if I couldn't do it anymore? What if I was only halfway through my cart when it was time to go? What if my time deadline made me so stressed out and flustered I missed all the super cute nice stuff, and ended up with the cheapo won't-last-after-one-washing junk I've sworn I'd never fall for again???

Can I just say that my game was ON?!

I rocked that store. The clearance racks were packed, the store was practically empty, I got my favorite dressing room (the one where you can see yourself in the community mirror with out actually leaving your room), and that lost pound made all the difference.

So thank you Mother, THANK YOU CRASH!!!, thanks to you lovely ladies I can finally stop setting my alarm thirty minutes early to allow for time to put together something to wear. I made a major haul today, my closet is packed with way cute stuff, and I didn't even have to touch my budget money. (Except for that really cute pair of {extremely necessary} brown shoes I was forced to put on my credit card. With maybe a couple other items. But don't tell).

Anyone want to place bets on whether or not I'll need to go shopping next Fall?

My "Moment"

2008-11-12T10:11:00.001-08:00

I got a little teary eyed at the school today. It was one of those moments. I'm not exactly sure what we call this particular brand of "moment" but I'm sure others have experienced something similar.

Conan was at preschool, the other boys (obviously) were at school, and Meara and I had run into the elementary office to take care of some business. (Namely, turning in some important paperwork and paying the preschool bill - now that it's November. Did you know they actually will let your child attend school without birth certificates, shot records, or cash? Not forever, but at least until November...)

So anyway, Meara and I were just walking along. It was raining, and she was adorable, and I was helping her unwrap a piece of candy and thinking about nothing in particular, when I was struck by a fleeting - yet very vivid - memory.

All of the sudden, I remembered me. I was just starting to think about getting pregnant with my fourth and last child. I had dropped something off at the elementary school, and was walking back to my car. I looked up, and ahead of me walking across the parking lot, was a mom and her little girl.

The little girl was about three, and had long brown hair. She was adorable, and it was just her and her mom, doing nothing special - just walking along together.

A mom. And her little girl.

I got teary that day watching them. I think I got in my car and cried because I wanted a daughter SOOOOO bad, but didn't know if I would get one. I was trying so hard to prepare myself for the possibility of all boys, but I couldn't help coveting the experience of that mom, just walking around taking for granted the fact that there was a little person with long pigtails, wearing pink, (and not doing any fighting moves OR making any sound effects) skipping along behind her.

I wanted to be her, and I felt horribly guilty.

And today, there I was - at the elementary, doing nothing special - with my little girl. It was the most wonderful moment I've had in a long time. And in case your wondering, we may have been doing nothing, and we may have been together, but I was NOT taking it for granted. I am still so overwhelmed by the fact that Heavenly Father gave me my heart's desire, that I honestly can't get over it. Every single thing she does that proclaims her female warms my soul and reminds me of how much the Lord must love me.

Why else would He have sent me my Meara?

The Blogging Verdict

2008-11-08T15:36:00.000-08:00

Wow. You all should be totally "peaced out" by now, if you read my last post and followed the farewell instructions... That was like almost a week of peacing. You've probably never felt better. In fact - I may have changed your life!

I should get into blogging funks more often.

Actually, this last week has been a rather interesting experiment. You know how when you get sick you can't remember what it feels like to be well? Am I the only one who's noticed this? Or pregnant. You're about eight and a half months pregnant, and you really, truly, can NOT remember what it feels like to not be pregnant?

That's how I was feeling about blogging.

As many of you know, I didn't have internet access in my house until July. Of this year. Shocking, I know. Amazingly, however, we had managed to get by just fine with out it. Emailing me information wasn't always the smartest idea - especially if it was urgent - but otherwise, I (we) were pretty normal.

I really didn't know anything about blogs, except that Annie had one. I would occasionally read hers at my mother's, laugh, and wish I had a google account so I could rat her out on stuff, but that was about it.

Then came that fateful day, when I decided to go big, spend the dough, and get hooked up.

Within the week I was blogging.

At first, I thought that like Annie, I was supposed to blog every day. That lasted about one week. Then I regained my sanity, remembered my children, and toned it down to once every two or three days. I was still only reading a few blogs of close friends and family though, so my blogging world was very small.

Enter mormon mommy blogs.

Can we say total takeover? All of the sudden there were countless cool/funny/witty blogs out there, and not only was I finding them, they were finding me!! I comment, they comment, we comment - before you know it, I have some hysterical blog-friends from all over the place.

And I love to write. What could be better than having something to say (even if it's actually nothing but senseless drivel), putting it into words, and having all these people relate/validate/commiserate with you? Especially if you can occasionally make someone smile. To me, that's the greatest.

And in the faculty room, I can say cool things like "Yeah, I have a blogging friend who lives in Poland. She could probably find that recipe for you."

But then, there was the rest of the story. Like the part where you get on the blog to "check your comments" and enter the phenomenon of blog-time-warp. You know, the one where you SWEAR it's only been a half hour blog-time-warp time, but in the real world it's been two hours?

And there's the hungry/neglected/learning-to-fend-for-themselves children (because Mom is stuck in blog-time-warp and thinks it's only been two minutes since you asked for that sandwich). When they started pointing out my computer time, and making certain accusations (that I will not name, and which many of you have probably heard in your own houses anyway) I decided to take a little control of my blog-life.

Like a responsible adult, I imposed computer time constraints on myself, and have been pretty good at sticking to them - but still. Blogging took things over so fast and furiously, I felt like I was pregnant again. Pregnant with a blog post. I just couldn't remember what it was like to not have one rolling around inside me, waiting - demanding even - to be let out into the wonderful world of Blog.

And then there's the matter of my book. Yes, I am finally coming clean - before the blog, I was taking my creative energies out on a novel. It was coming along nicely before the blog. Now it's more like an orphan... kind of like my actual children...

So anyway, I began to have that feeling. That "what was my life like before the blog?" feeling. I really couldn't remember. Did I get more done? Was I a better mom? If I just stopped would life go back to normal, or would I miss blogging and feel a hole in my soul with out it?

Enter Blogging Funk.

I was at odds with the blog. There was no karma there. I could think of nothing to say, because I wasn't sure if I should keep saying something. So I stopped. For almost a week. The results? (I'm sure I have you on the edge of your seats...)

At first, it was like a big sigh of relief. The pressure (inflicted on myself, by myself) was lifted. I wasn't writing, so no one was commenting, so I didn't have to go look and see what they might have said, so I wasn't also going to see what else they said, and what everyone else said about that. Whew. I had fleeting thoughts about how people might abandon me if I went a week with out contributing, but I recklessly pushed these aside. (We'll see how that one turned out now, won't we?). After all, as of Wednesday... Thursday... EVEN Friday, I wasn't sure if I'd be blogging again anyway.

Then Saturday afternoon I looked around at my house.

Destroyed. Just. Like. Usual.

And I hadn't blogged for DAYS.

I smiled. I "Hmphed". I felt a little giddy.

It wasn't the blog after all! It was just me! I'm just a rotten keeper-up-with-the-messes-everyone-is-making-around-me kind of mom! I know I shouldn't feel so excited about this (I'm sure my husband wouldn't), but the verdict finally came in - blogging is okay!

I can blog.

Just not always three/four times a week.

And that's okay. (Right? You'll still love me???)

*Sigh* I feel much better. Now if they'd only let us access Blogger from work...

I Won!!

2008-11-03T20:41:00.000-08:00

Yes, in case you're wondering, I WON THE CASH!!! (And a great big THANK YOU to all of you who voted for me too:). I really can't believe I finally won something. Now what should I do with all that cash...

Yet, strange to say (for someone coming off the high of winning big), I really don't feel much like blogging at all right now. I attempted to write about my house-cleaning funk, but it was a flop. I just couldn't manage to put into words what it's like to have the house you've spent all day on be destroyed every evening while you do piano lessons, homework, dinner, reading, baths, football taxi-ing, etc. I know exactly how Pat feels over there on her hamster wheel - since apparently I'm running around on one of my own.

And then I tried writing a post about child #2 getting sick this weekend. Yes, I thought it was the Halloween candy too - the first four times he threw-up. By round seventy-six, I'd changed my mind. I wanted to express the beauty of having a child old enough to graduate from the "bowl" to the toilet, but it was all just a little too graphic and throw-uppy, if you know what I mean. (But still, can I just say Hallelujah!?!? Talk about convenient! I tried to look sad for him, but really I was totally giddy at the thought that all I had to do was flush...)

Or I could tell you all about how Mr. Amazing Hubby totally cleaned and organized my catch-all room on Sunday. True, he was angling for points so he could head off into the mountains, but still. Shelves were assembled, furniture was rearranged, "stuff" was cleared out - it was enough to break through my house-cleaning funk, and today I even dusted. I know, amazing isn't it? I actually like that room again.

Unfortunately, however, none of these things are that interesting, and so I have nothing of any real value to write about. There are other ideas rolling around in my head...but they would all take an amount of mental effort I somehow just don't feel up to at the moment. Maybe this means I'm in a blogging funk? Is there such a thing?? Hmmm. I'll have to think about that. Maybe tomorrow I'll have something amazing to say that will change all of your lives forever...

But until then, Peace Out.

The Halloween Candy Devil

2008-11-01T23:15:00.000-07:00

So I've entered a pact with the devil. Not the Devil, just the little one who sits on my shoulder, looks just like me, and tries to compete with the little angel on the other side.

The subject matter?

Halloween candy.

If you have similar little friends on your shoulder, trying to persuade you to eat/not eat all that candy, I would love to have you follow me over to Skinny Pants today for a little motivation and commiseration.

I'll be eternally grateful, I swear!

P.S. FYI, there's still time to vote for me over on Crash's blog! (See last post for details). Did I mention I could win cash? Not enough to remodel my house or anything, but still!

Pssst...

2008-10-31T20:34:00.000-07:00

Just a little note to anyone who cares! I am in the running for a really cool prize from Crash over on her blog! But currently I'm getting whooped by someone else, so if you like me even a little, or thought my Bigfoot story was the least bit entertaining, could you please go here and vote??? The poll is on her sidebar, and I'll be forever grateful to any voters if I win. If you want to check out the competition, go here. I mean, that's only fair, right?

(But you're still supposed to vote for me - let's not get confused about THAT!)

Thanks;)

Repetitive Tears and Talking Animals

2008-10-28T21:55:00.000-07:00

When my hubby and I got married, we were too poor to buy a TV. We were married in July. For our first Christmas, my mother-in-law gave us one. But we were too poor to afford cable,and since apartment living put an antenna out of the question, it didn't really help our TV-less condition.

A few months later (right after we FINALLY purchased a microwave), we scrounged up enough for a VCR. It was so exciting! We owned a whopping five movies, and they were all from my personal collection of old musicals. While I was more than content to watch Doris Day and Judy Garland every day, my husband wasn't quite as entertained.

We lived in this TV-deprived state for almost a year and a half. Then we moved. In our new duplex, sticking out of the wall, was a cable hook-up. Hmmmm. T.V. was finally an option.

We passed.

I know it sounds crazy, but we both had no real desire to sit around watching cable all day. Why? Mostly because with no children, a whole 900 square feet to clean, and no yard to take care of, we both knew that's exactly what we'd end up doing.

We've been married for eleven years. We have four children. We still don't have TV. What do we have? A huge video collection. This means that essentially, we sit around watching the same movies over, and over, and over again. But that isn't the strange part. The strange part is how I keep crying over the same scenes, in the same movies, over, and over, and over again.

It's blowing my mind.

Take the movie Ever After with Drew Barrymore, one of my personal favs. It's on my go-to list of movies I feel like watching almost anytime. The incriminating cry scene? The big reunion. The old servant guy gets sold by the mean stepmother, and is being shipped to America. Danielle (Barrymore's character), saves him and brings him home.

The scene changes, showing his old wife hoeing in the garden.

Camera pans. Danielle and old man are walking toward old wife/woman.

She looks up. She sees him. She drops her hoe, picks up her old dress, and runs towards him. Tears streaming down her face, scrawny legs going as fast as she can, while he runs to meet her with arms outstretched. They embrace. Triumphant-yet-emotional music plays, as other old servant and Danielle join the embrace.

I cry EVERY TIME I watch this scene! How can you not cry? They are so old. They have so little. They love each other so much!

My husband thinks I'm crazy and laughs at me, but it gets worse. At least in this movie I'm crying over people.

The next offender? Both the Incredible Journey, and its re-make, Homeward Bound. The remarkable thing? I don't really even like these movies. Especially the new one with the talking animals - way too obnoxious for my taste. Yet despite this, without fail, the reunion scene brings tears to my eyes.

I have been known to break down and bawl.

I'm not even an animal lover! (I like them, but come on - they aren't people) But when those little kids hear those dogs barking off in the distance, and then see them barreling down the hill, I start to feel the tears pricking. It's bad enough with the first dog and the cat, but when the oldest boy thinks his old dog couldn't make it and turns dejectedly back to the house only to hear that far off bark - I'm done for. By the time the boy and his dog collide (even with that ridiculous dog voice practically ruining the whole thing in the talking-animal version) I am a mess.

But this is not the most ridiculous example.

You know the movie Babe? That's right, the one about the pig? There is a scene in this movie (again, a movie I could totally do without) that will actually cause me to drop what I'm doing, move into the living room, and watch with rapt attention (shushing my kids if necessary, so they don't ruin the mood), knowing I'm about to cry.

Over a talking pig.

??????

Which scene, you want to know? Or does it make you cry too, so you've already guessed.

Fine, I'll tell.

It's the end of the movie. Babe and the old man have just taken the field during the sheep herding competition. All the people are laughing, mocking the crazy old man with his pig, and you know he's got to be feeling a little insecure.

The pig runs over to the sheep and holds that ridiculous conversation (revealing he knows their secret "sheep chant"), and the old man just stands there silently watching.

The people are still laughing.

His wife is hysterically crying because she's sure her husband has gone insane.

And then the sheep start to move. In a column. With the pig behind them.

The crowd goes silent. Jaws drop as they watch in disbelief.

More ridiculous animal-conversation happens, and the sheep do everything they're supposed to, ending up in the little pen.

The silent old man walks forward, grasps the gate, swings it shut on the amazing, pig-herded sheep, and the latch clicks in the heavy silence...

And then pandemonium breaks out! Everyone is jumping and shouting, and cheering for the old man and his pig! You think they couldn't be cheering any louder, but as the judges all present perfect scores, the crowd goes wild!!!

And I cry.

Because I'm so happy the old man doesn't feel stupid, and everyone finally appreciates him and his pig.

Why do I get so involved? And why do I feel extra sympathetic because he's a tall old man??? And why don't I get desensitized? I was crying over this scene just two days ago. Crying, and marveling at my ability to continually empathize with made up characters, doing made up things, in movies I don't necessarily even love, involving talking animals.

I'd ask if anyone else does this - just for re-assurance - but I'd be scared of the response. I have this sinking feeling that I'm alone on this one. But if someone wants to lie, and pretend like Babe makes them cry too, I'd be totally grateful.

If you think about it, I am now kind of like the old man. Here I am, feeling a little insecure about what I've just shown the world, and there's that crowd of readers - laughing, mocking, and jeering at the crazy lady...

Except I'm not so tall. Why does that help?

A Sad Tale

2008-10-27T08:22:00.000-07:00

I have this really cute pair of earrings. They fit into that "perfect earring" category, if you know what I mean. They're smallish, so they don't overwhelm. They're pewterish silver, so they go with anything. They're dangly but not very long, and they have this cute little rosette at the bottom with a cute little low-profile pink stone in them.

And I can never wear them.

And no, it's not because I'm allergic. The real reason is much, much, more pathetic and sad than that. The story goes something like this:

Two years ago (yes people, that said TWO YEARS AGO), I was doing my thing, just walking around my house (cleaning again, because as you know I am ALWAYS cleaning), when I find this cute little pair of earrings lying on the bureau in my living room. They sparked the following conversation:

Me: Hey, does anyone know where these earrings came from?

Liam: (seven yrs old at the time) Oh yeah, those are from Grandma.

Me: They are? How do you know? Did she give them to you?

L: No, I found them in the mailbox.

Me: The mailbox? Well how do you know they're from Grandma if you found them in the mailbox? (My mother always writes old-school cursive, and I knew there was no way he could have deciphered that).

L: Because it came with a note.

Me: What did the note say?

L: I can't remember.

Me: Well, where is the note?

L: I threw it in the garbage.

Me: The kitchen garbage?

L: No. The big garbage out by the road.

Are you following this? That would be the big, disgusting, garbage garbage, that all the other garbage goes into. The big smelly one the actual garbage truck dumps on Wednesdays. The garbage way too disgusting for me to scrounge around in looking for some mysterious note from some really nice, thoughtful person.

I was irritated. Frustrated. Exasperated. Why? Why, why, why would he think it was okay to throw away a note? A note written to his mother, accompanying a gift? If he hadn't been so cute - and so pathetically sorry when he realized he'd done something horribly wrong - I would have turned into "Mean Mommy".

But I didn't.

I still had hope. After all, surely I could find the giver of the cute earrings, right? I mean, I don't know that many thoughtful, generous people, right?

Wrong.

I called everyone I could think of. For weeks, I would randomly think of names and call people to ask them if they, by any chance, left a cute little pair of dangly earrings in my mailbox.

No one knew anything about it.

"That's okay," I told myself, "even if I can't thank the person, I can still wear them - right?" Wrong. I can't wear them, and it's so unfair. It's bad enough that some kind, thoughtful person was generous to leave me cute earrings and a note, and I never even thanked them. They no doubt already think I'm the most ungrateful person ever.

But how much worse would it be if they saw me WEARING the earrings - actually utilizing the results of their generosity? There I'd be, with the cute earrings dangling from my earlobes, talking away, STILL not thanking them for the kind, thoughtful gift. Then they'd know - without a doubt - that I really was the most ungrateful person ever.

As it is, the mystery giver probably thinks I just didn't like them. But why, oh why couldn't they have ever called just to say: "So, did you ever get those earrings I left in your mailbox? I was worried one of your kids might have taken them and thrown the note into your big nasty garbage can, and that you might not have known they were from me."

But no, instead they were just too kind and thoughtful to bring up the subject of a pair of earrings I no doubt hated.

And so, the moral of this story is - If you ever mail (or leave in someone's mailbox) a cute, thoughtful gift accompanied by a note, but then never hear from the person regarding the cute, thoughtful gift - CALL THEM! Make sure they actually received the gift (and accompanying note)!

And if anyone reading this blog is the sender of my cute, anonymous earrings, please reveal yourself! I'm tired of only wearing them when I'm out of state visiting strangers, or taking the risk, wearing them anyway, and then feeling compelled to ask every person I know if my earrings look familiar to them.

It's bad enough that someone out there thinks I'm the most ungrateful person ever - I should at least get to wear the earrings

Psychic Drawings and Sasquatch Sightings

2008-10-24T22:26:00.001-07:00

FYI: The following story is one hundred percent true. It is NOT made up. It ACTUALLY happened. And believe me, it was REALLY, REALLY, REALLY spooky. If you're easily scared, please - TURN BACK NOW!!! This incident scared me to death for years after it happened. I'm still not sure I'm over it... But in the interest of winning a Stupid Twilight T-Shirt as a possible prize for CTD's Spook-A-Rama, I decided reliving it this once was a risk I would just have to take.

I was born and raised in Bigfoot country. (I KNOW! It's scary already!) For those of you somehow unaware of the more familiar term (Bigfoot), the scientific name would be Sasquatch. That's right, big, hairy, telepathic, but extremely shy, man-like creatures who leave gigantic footprints, seen by hundreds, yet still discredited by the rest. But believe me people, they are real. I've seen one (sort of), and that's what this story is about.

Generally speaking, my family is big on Bigfoot believing. If you don't believe me, check this out(this is supposed to be a link to Annie's Bigfoot post, but I can't get it. I'll update it tomorrow - sorry). This may seem strange to those of you non-Bigfoot-country-dwellers, but trust me when I say around here, we're normal. Everyone (especially grade schoolers) believes.

Now, back to my story.

I was in second grade. I was at my friend Lisa's house. Tired of making paper airplanes and taping grasshoppers to them (as the pilot, co-pilot, and passengers, of course), we wandered inside where our two older sisters were hanging out.

They were watching TV. The news was on. THERE HAD BEEN A BIGFOOT SIGHTING!!!!

WOW. We were totally into it. Within moments, Lisa's older sister's VERY active imagination was working over time, and she was using her psychic abilities to sketch a picture of Bigfoot.

She had her eyes closed while she sketched. It was VERY convincing.

Then she let us in on the big secret. Bigfoot lived on the hill behind their house.

Yep. That's right. You know that logging road we were supposed to stay away from? The one never used, and all grown over? It wasn't the transients and drug dealers our parents were worried about - IT WAS BIGFOOT!

Whoa. The idea was so intense Lisa and I had to get out of there. We went back outside. Our grasshoppers were dead. There was nothing to do. Until Lisa conceived her brilliant plan.

"I bet if we go up there we'll see Bigfoot."

Chills ran down my spine. I immediately pictured the hairy beast from the psychic drawing. I was terrified. I was chicken. I was seven. I wanted to go home.

"Yeah," I replied noncommittally.

"Well, come on then - no one's looking, let's go!" And before I could back out she was headed for the logging road.

I almost peed my pants, but I followed.

The main road came to a dead end just past Lisa's driveway, and turned into the old logging road. As noted, it was all grown over, and led straight up into the hills behind the girls' house. As we headed up the path, we were soon surrounded by the dense brush and trees that quickly fill any open spaces on the Washington Peninsula. Tall trees bordered the old road, and sunlight trickled down through the green canopy.

Did I mention I was terrified?

As we walked, Lisa kept up a rambling monologue about Bigfoot, and everything she knew about them. We were getting farther up the road. Farther from safety. We went round a bend, and looking back I couldn't even see where the main road started. I tried not to panic.

Then we saw the stump.

It was small. It was right on the side of the road. IT WAS CHARRED.

Yes, it had obviously been blackened by some kind of sinister fire, and as soon as we spotted it Lisa grabbed my arm and jumped back, pulling me away from the stump.

"Oh my gosh! Look at that stump - this is not good."

"Yeah?" I replied, trying to control the urge to run screaming down the trail.

"Wait. I better check..." she muttered, creeping closer to the stump with an outstretched hand.

"OH MY GOSH!!!" She yelled, jumping back the moment her fingertips made contact, "It's still hot! Do you know what this means?" she asked, looking at my terrified face with expectant authority.

"What?"

"Bigfoot. Don't you know they breath fire? One was JUST here. IT BURNED THIS STUMP," she continued, looking quickly into the trees surrounding us. "It could still be right here..."

She continued walking. Having no brain, I continued to follow.

We went about ten yards farther, when she stopped abruptly, eyes wide, frantically sniffing the air. She grabbed my arm again and said, "Do you smell that?" while continuing to sniff as hard as she could.

I sniffed. I SWORE I smelled something... I just didn't know what.

"Yeah," I replied, waiting to be told what it was I was smelling.

"It smells just like rotten fish and garbage - do you know what that means?" she asked me, eyes wide with both excitement and terror. "That's what Bigfoot smells like. We've got to be close."

Before I could gather my wits to make another intelligent response, she gripped my arm tighter, and swung us around. "Did you hear that?" she whispered, her eyes darting all around, peering as far into the trees surrounding us as possible. Standing in complete silence for several moments, we listened to the forest around us.

There was creaking, and snapping (I swear), and the breeze was moaning through the treetops. This ominous sound drew Lisa's attention, and tightening her grasp on my arm (like that was even possible at this point), and clutching me in genuine terror, she pointed into the treetops.

"There! Up there! He's in the trees!" she cried, literally screaming in my ear.

"Where?!" I yelled, half sobbing, knees shaking, as I gazed up into the trees above me. It was all leaves, and dark, and light, as the bright sun cut its way through the canopy of the trees. It was impossible to make out any distinct shapes as the trees moved with the breeze, swaying and moaning and creaking like tall scary monsters.

"Why would he be in the trees?" I yelled back - finally coming up with something half intelligent to say in the midst of my terror.

"Don't you know that Bigfoot can fly?" and then, before I could digest this last comment, "OH MY GOSH, THERE HE IS!"

"WHERE?!"

"THERE! Can you see him?" She asked, pointing madly into the treetops. My heart was pounding wildly. My mouth was so dry I could hardly swallow. Almost out of my mind with fright, I followed her gaze into the dazzling light of filtered afternoon sun. So many shapes were forming and morphing as the trees moved this way and that, I didn't know where to look or what I was seeing.

"Over there! Over there," she yelled, practically crying herself, "Can you see him, CAN YOU SEE HIM???!!!!"

"I SEE HIM!" I yelled back, and without another thought we ran screaming, pel mel, as fast as our seven year old legs could carry us, back down the old road, past the stump, around the bend, and were both sobbing by the time we hit the pavement. We ran into the house and stumbled over each other relating our Bigfoot sighting to our sisters, who sat in rapt attention absorbing every word.

"I knew it," Lisa's sister said meaningfully when we finished. "That picture was a sign. You saw the Sasquatch I drew."

It was a solemn moment as we took this in. We had witnessed both Bigfoot, and Lisa's sister's psychic abilities in the space of an hour.

What a day.

And I've been a true believer ever since.

Regarding Annie (and giving hope to mom's with young daughters who don't always get along)

2008-10-22T09:34:00.000-07:00

Sisters. They can be so many things. And given the fact that these relationships are founded in infancy (and all the obnoxious years of childhood and adolescence) they don't always get off to the greatest start. Somehow, children often fail to see the "potential" behind their siblings behavioral characteristics, and mistake these qualities as "annoying." I was guilty as this as a child, and now I have an opportunity to make up for my lack of foresight in a small way.

So here it is - a big plug for my little sister Ms. Regarding Annie, on behalf of her help-me-see-my-hubby fundraiser.

In case any of you missed the memo - or haven't discovered her blog yet - her husband is currently across the country at "spy camp", training for his new job.

He's been there since July, and won't be home until December.

She has three kids five and under.

She deserves a little support and sympathy.

But I'm worried that if people feel like they don't know her (or anything about her) they won't feel compelled to buy one of her Stupid Twilight T-Shirts. So I've decided to give you all a little history.

She was born bald, red, and big (over nine pounds) and with a good set of lungs. Since I was only two at the time, I don't actually remember hearing her cry, but the volume potential of her voice had to have started at birth. I'm sure of it.

Somewhere around age three (okay, it may have been a little sooner) she finally grew hair. Although I never would have admitted it at the time (or for over a decade later) her platinum curls were pretty darn cute. She truly was "the little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead." For those of you not familiar with this rhyme, it goes on to say "and when she was good, she was very, very good, but when she was bad she was horrid." I remember repeating this rhyme often as a child - we were sure whoever wrote it knew Annie.

One Christmas she had chicken pox AND scarlet fever at the same time. I spent a lot of my childhood being irritated with Annie just because she existed (totally not fair, and I take it all back), but that Christmas I remember feeling genuinely sorry for her.

In first grade (and several after that) she was know to get off the bus proclaiming it to be "the best day in her whole life," come into the kitchen, read her chore list, and change her tune to tears, and her proclamation to "this is the WORST day in my whole life!" Despite this, however, her chore-completion record was somehow always better than mine. Just to be fair, I thought I'd better throw that in.

She started planning her own birthday parties at a ridiculously young age, and my poor mother was swept along by the determined, and extremely social tide that was "Annie". These parties were not small affairs. EVERYONE was invited, and there was "itinerary." (Does this surprise anyone who knows her?)

Jr. High. Keeping in mind that I considered being annoyed by Annie a full-time job during this time period (because I was bratty like that), I'll just say a few things. She had a lot of friends (all of whom I found annoying, proving my opinion was tainted), she did some very impressive science fair projects, and she talked so much she developed vocal nodules.

When I was sixteen, and Annie was fourteen, tragedy struck. Our older sister left for college. Up until that point I had always managed to stand/sit/associate with Laura. Now she was gone. There was no one left but Annie. What was a bratty older sister like myself to do?

For a couple of months I moped, and gave no ground. But as most every one knows, there is a HUGE difference between a twelve/thirteen year old girl, and a fourteen year old girl. Think Mia Maid vs. Beehive. It's like a universal truth. At sixteen, even I was forced to (slowly) acknowledge that she wasn't really that annoying. She'd stopped pinching boys' butts, and was actually kind of fun every once in a while. (Probably the same "while's" when I wasn't successfully ignoring her). I was finally forced to admit that Annie wasn't so bad. We started to "hang out." I actually enjoyed having her around. It was crazy.

Eventually, I came to appreciate most all of her finer qualities. That out-going, center-of-attention thing? Kind of nice to have on hand when you go somewhere out of your comfort zone, want to meet people, but don't know how to go about it. Her dorky sense of humor? Well, since mine is frighteningly similar (and almost as dorky), we do tend to "get" each other. The event-planning, jump-in-and-get-it-done (dare I say bossy) side of Annie? Even this has been known to come in handy on several occasions. What can I say? The girl knows how to get things done. She has way more energy than me for making and following through with big plans.

And she has some great embarrassing moments. Like the time she flashed the painter. She's accidentally flashed so many people the girl could be considered an exhibitionist.

She has tons of other talents, and there are countless stories I could tell, but this post is really about her latest project. Her Stupid Twilight T-shirts. She called me last week and forced me to brainstorm some possible slogans. Within a week she had the t-shirt designs ready to go, and a blog up and running.

Amazing. Only Annie would turn a hair brained scheme into a viable fundraising project in under a week. You've got to give the girl credit. And she really does deserve a trip across the country to see her hubby - I mean, she wanted to go bad enough to conceive, plan, carry out this t-shirt thing, right? I say that kind of ingenuity and determination deserves to be rewarded. So (right after you leave me a comment) go visit her Stupid Twilight T-shirt sight, and put in an order. And leave her a comment by your favorite design so she'll know you were there. She really does deserve this one, so let's not let her down!!!

Help Me! I'm Drowning In Indecision!

2008-10-19T22:07:00.000-07:00

As most of you probably know, I have four children. And if you've read this post, or this post, you know that I hate my house, and have only two bedrooms. And a husband, let's not forget him! That makes six people, and two bedrooms. To be fair, they are very large bedrooms, but still. Only two.

Right at the top of the stairs we also have a fairly large room, but the stairs come right into it, and there's no window that would be in the room if we walled part of it off (and the fabulous 1925 construction of this house won't support a dormer), and you have to walk through it to get to both the other bedrooms. Currently we use it as a family/catch-all room. "Family" because it has a tv and a futon, "catch-all" because it's also crammed with everything normal people, with normal closet-filled houses would put out of site.

So you can see that this room is not a proper bedroom - just a space where someone could sleep.

One of the bedrooms houses all three boys. The other - the math is pretty simple here - belongs to my husband, myself, and my two year old.

Can you see the problem here? Can you see the difficult position I'm in? Can you see how I need an answer to this dilemma? (Moving would be an acceptable solution, if only it were an option). What do I do with all the children?? When do my husband and I get our room back??? I have a few possible scenarios, but none of them seem all that great.

First lets take the boys room. Do any of you know what it's like to have three kids in the same room? It isn't always terrible - especially if we stagger their bedtimes, but it definitely has its drawbacks. For instance, all it takes is for one kid to be feeling very awake, very obnoxious, or get the giggles, and bedtime becomes a joke. Especially if someone else is legitimately tired, and trying to go to sleep. The other night when the Missionaries stopped by just after we'd shut them all in there, it sounded like a war zone with all the boys yelling simultaneously at each other to shut-up.

This word is not even allowed in our house! I'm sure I would never say such a thing...

Anyhow, listening to all the yelling (and wondering why they couldn't understand that if someone actually WOULD shut-up they might get some peace), and trying to nod and smile at the Missionaries, brought my problem into the forefront again.

How do I get peace at bedtime? What to do with the girl-child? Can that room hold one more? Can that room stand ONE MORE VOICE??? I know this will come as a shock, but despite her very feminine and lady-like manner, the girl can hold her own when she's around her brothers. Besides that, she would be way too much of a novelty in there. They'd be so busy playing with her, and trying to make her laugh, no one would EVER get to sleep.

So much for option one.

On to option two. This would be moving someone out into the "family/catch-all" room, and then filling the void in the boys room with Miss Meara. Sound good? Maybe not. In the first place, we like to use the family room. And (even though this sounds totally paranoid) I worry that if there was a fire, anyone sleeping out there would die fast from smoke inhalation, since there's no door. PLUS, even with one kid out of the bedroom, putting Meara in there would cause all the same problems. She'd still be loud, and she'd still get everyone distracted from sleeping.

This makes me wonder if I should just stick with plan one after all.

Or, we could just leave things the way they are and hope that some miracle will occur, making moving an immediate possibility.

But I really want her out of my room. I am NOT a kid-in-the-bedroom kind of mom. I can't stand it that whenever she wakes up - night or morning - she knows I'm right there.

And so it goes. I run these exact options through my head, with these exact arguments, follow this exact pattern, and end up exactly where I am now.

Completely undecided.

So if anyone out there has an opinion - or can see an option I haven't thought of yet - please share your wisdom with me! There must be a best (or at least better-than-all-the-rest) option out there... If only I could see what it was.

I'll be waiting in suspense for all your sage advice.

Please don't disappoint me.

(But if you can't think of any advice, sympathy and commiseration are totally acceptable). (Thanks).

Confessions of a Non-Crafter

2008-10-16T22:17:00.000-07:00

Hi. My name is Jen, and I hate crafts. Perhaps the word "crafting" would be more appropriate, since it is the actual act of cutting/pasting/hot-gluing/painting etc. that I detest. Always, I have been horrible at these things. Always I have forced myself to craft anyway, hoping to improve my skills. After all, surely if I were any good at it I'd start to enjoy it, right? I mean, I only hate crafts because I'm so bad at them, right? This is what I've always believed.

It's true that there have been moments (of the brief, fleeting variety) when I've lamented my lack of crafty talent. Relief Society, for instance. Relief Society Super Saturday (aka: big, huge, crafting Saturday around Thanksgiving that is nothing but cutting/pasting/hot-gluing/painting etc.), to be more specific. These kind of activities are mostly a chance for me to display my lack of talent/ability to all the amazingly crafty women in my ward. During such humbling experiences, I always have pangs of craft-ability longing. But these have way more to do with my pride than any actual desire to make "stuff."

There was also that time I decided to make a couple of flower arrangements to give away as thank you gifts. Anyone can put some of that green foam stuff in a basket and stick some flowers in, right? There isn't even any gluing required, how could I possibly fail?

I failed.

And the sorriest part of this story? I gave the people the flower arrangements anyway. Yes, you should be cringing right now - I certainly am. If there's anything worse than a craft-challenged individual, it's one with zero craft-shame to accompany their creations.

Then the scrapbooking phenomenon arrived. And stamping. Both these activities left me feeling completely baffled. Why would people get out all that stuff, i.e. paper, glue, scissors, glitter, and all the other little scrapbooking paraphernalia, and spend all that time making a mess, just to have to clean up, put away, and STORE IT ALL SOMEWHERE IN THEIR HOUSE???

Then at some pivotal moment of time I came to the following realization: These girls actually enjoy the process of cutting/pasting/hot-gluing etc. Not only do they enjoy it, they think it's fun enough to make up for the clean-up/put away/storing business. ????? I cannot comprehend.

I realized this when two girl friends of mine started scrapbooking once a week and invited me to join them. At first I admired their dedication to making those family records. I figured only women who had set the bar high would be willing to force themselves to set aside one night a week for such torture.

Then I realized they actually enjoyed it. Shocking, I know.

At first I was determined to try it out so I could gain a toleration (I knew love was too strong a word) of scrapbooking myself. "It shouldn't be hard," I told myself. "I'm willing to do about anything to get out of my house one evening a week to hang out with girlfriends." I should have jumped on that scrapbooking excuse the very next Thursday.

But I didn't.

I tried to, really I did. "It wouldn't be that bad," I told myself. "I might even enjoy myself." I even considered just stopping by to chat while they did all their cutting and pasting, just for the social side of it. But I couldn't. And frankly, my aversion to all things scrapbooky puzzled me. It made me reflect a little on my anti-crafting feelings.

I made a surprising discovery. A weight-lifting one, even.

I have always hated crafts! This aversion didn't start in Young Women's that time we were supposed to make Christmas wreaths and mine was so hideous everyone thought I made it as a joke - it started way before then. My birth, most likely. Suddenly I could distinctly remember sitting in First Grade (FIRST GRADE, FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE) dreading Art. What kind of First Grader hates Art???

Me. I detested it.

All that tedious cutting, and pasting, and heaven forbid they ask me to paint anything - I am seriously the world's worst painter EVER. And that includes everything from paper and small craft-like objects, to walls. It all takes so much time... Really, just the thought of Art always made me tired.

So, why would this realization be such a relief?

Because I'm excused. I don't actually hate crafts because I'm bad at them - I'm bad at them because I hate them. Can you see how that's sooo much better? How it totally absolves me from any non-crafting guilt for the rest of my life??? I honestly feel so much better about attending Enrichment meeting now.

And then guess what I discovered?

I AM NOT ALONE! There are other women who proudly stand up and say "Hi. I hate crafts." How do I know this? How can I support such a reckless claim? Because I found them here. Right on the old Mormon Mommy blog. What gets me, is all the times I passed up this blog because it was listed under the crafty women heading, and had the word "glitter" in it.

I now love this blog. I sit around waiting for each new post - and they ALWAYS deliver. you really need to spend a little time looking around to fully appreciate their genius. And they're probably getting sick of me, because I have to put in my two cents on EVERY post. Just so I can feel like we're all best non-crafty friends.

So now I've come clean. I've admitted my genetical defect to a world of crafty mormon women. I'd be worried you'd all cast me off now, but I happen to know that judging is frowned upon in your religion, so I'm feeling relatively safe.

And please don't try to save me. I know you're shocked, but as you can see, I'm in good company. I'll be fine.

And I'll never feel guilty again.

And I'm NOT signing up for any Christmas crafts at Enrichment. So there.

Sister For Sale

2008-10-15T08:18:00.000-07:00

The other day I was talking to my father-in-law (who lives in another state, and who we rarely get to see), and finally mentioned to him that I have a blog. Funny that it's taken me so long to get around to giving him this info, since originally our far-away-family was one of the driving forces behind my intro to the blogging world three months ago. Because this blog is all about my kids, right? I mean, I do mention them at least every ten posts or so... Do you think that's enough to incite grandparent involvement? I'm not so sure.

I did, however, decide that I should probably take a moment to put up some fresh Baxter children info - just in case someone in the inlaw-fam actually decides to check out the old blog. So here goes:

Today I was in the living room with my kids. I think I was cleaning or something (because I never waste time doing anything else), when I saw Meara whack Conan over the head with a toy. The attack was provoked, but still.

I'm busy reprimanding my violent daughter, and I hear Conan say "Why'd we have to have Meara? We should sell her. *sob, sob*"

I was going to ignore this remark due to the head injury (and the fact that he learned it from his brothers, although in their version it's usually him up for sale), when he tacked on the next part:

"Maybe Grandma will buy her."

Well. This proactive approach got my attention. Besides that, it was way too funny to waste on just me, so I quickly say, "Why don't you call Grandma and ask her?" (I know. Great parenting Jen - you're kid wants to sell his sibling, and you jump on the bandwagon. Yes, there should have been some lecture, and maybe a chorus or two of "Families Can Be Together Forever," but I couldn't help myself).

So we call. I dial, hand him the phone, and listen in to the following conversation:

C: Gwaaamma, *sniff, sniff* (he's still recovering from the attack), ummm, will you buy Meara?

G: Buy Meara?

C: Yeah.

G: Well, I'd like to, but I don't think I have enough money.

C: Oh. Well, you can just have her then.

I'm not sure which is worse - his lack of devotion, or his bargaining skills. He didn't even bat an eyelash, or reconsider the price! He definitely needs that lecture. And the song.

In his defense, however, I would like to report that he and Meara do generally get along. They've been playing together a lot lately, and their favorite game is "Puppy". In this game Conan's the puppy, and she's the tyrannical/adoring puppy owner. It's one of my favorite kid-games to eves-drop on. I'll be in the kitchen, and I'll hear her in the other room:

"Pu-ppeeey, (in her most authoritative two-year-old-boss voice) COME HERE! Puppy, SIT DOWN! STAY!" (complete with hand gestures, and immediately followed by...)

"Awww, puppy (in her most adoring two-year-old-obsessed-with-cute-puppy voice, as she hugs and kisses the puppy), nice puppy."

It's all very cute to witness, I have to say.

And now I have one more story regarding Conan. I think Rusty's finally realizing just how much his little son actually worships him. First off, Conan obsesses over the fact that he looks just like his father. Which he does, minus the red hair. Seriously, he's like a little, blond, Rusty clone. But then the other day he took it to a new level of adoration.

Apparently (I wasn't here for this one), Rusty and Conan were talking, and somehow the subject of getting old and dying came up. Rusty's way more brave than me, because he jumped right into how someday "Mommy will get old and die, and Daddy will get old and die." Since the major source of my childhood anxiety was this exact issue, I'll do anything to get out of admitting these facts to my small children. But once the information was on the table, Conan took a moment to digest it and came up with the following:

"Whelp, Dad" (whelp being one of his staple sentence starters) "when I get old, I'm gonna put my arms around your neck like this," (picture cute-four-year-old arms around big-strong-Dad neck) "and we can die together."

So, I don't care if he wants to sell/give away his little sister. The kid is priceless.

Why You Should Make Your Children Learn Piano

2008-10-12T22:47:00.000-07:00

Today the other two pianists in our ward were both gone. For me, this translates into the following Sunday:

Play the organ for Sacrament meeting, and step in last minute for a musical number.

Play for the first hour of primary.

Run down and play for the Young Women so they can practice the song they're singing next week.

Hurry back and play for Relief Society.

Stay for choir, and realize there's no one to play the piano. Surprise!! I get to show off my fumbling, oops! I mean "sight reading" skills. That was great for the old self-esteem. It would have been easier for the poor people trying to sing their notes if I'd actually PLAYED any of them.

Went home for two and a half hours, and had my kids practice their piano lessons. This I obviously can't blame on the missing pianists, but still.

Went back in to church AGAIN to play for a Young Women's program - and found out they'd decided to do a last minute musical number, and oh, by the way, would you mind singing along since there aren't that many of them???

(As a side note to this last one, I actually wouldn't have missed the program for the world, and really was totally happy to play - and even sing. It was just so ironic that my piano-playing Sunday just kept going on, and on, and on...)

So, please. If you have children, make them take piano. I'm begging you. There are not enough of us (outside of Utah anyway), and it's DRIVING ME CRAZY!!!!!! I don't care if they hate it, some day they will thank you. (But not on days like today. On these days they will curse you - and all those nice parents who failed to force their children to continue on even though it was "boring" and they "hated it", because if those parents had just done a little more forcing, then maybe their child would be in your child's ward, and could PICK UP A LITTLE PIANO SLACK!!!!)

Ugh.

If a Train Heads South at 78 mph, and a Goldfish Swims in Circles Counter-Clockwise...

2008-10-09T22:06:00.000-07:00

I felt really smart today. Well, first I felt really stupid, but after that? Smart. And I would just like to publicly say that if Macy's wanted to hire me to figure out how much wrapping paper (of different prints, no less) they would need for their holiday gift wrapping business - and how much it would cost to buy it - I could handle it. In fact, I would be all over it. I'm actually surprised they haven't called already...

So I get to work this morning (local high school, substitute teacher, three periods of freshmen in Career Something-or-other right off the bat) and discover one of my biggest subbing pet peeves.

When I entered my class-for-the-day with approximately ten minutes to spare before second bell, I find this in my sub notes:

"We're starting a new section today on managerial and administrative blah, blah, blah. The lecture notes and instructions are on the following page (lies, all lies, by the way), and here's an outline of the project.

Groups of three with a leader, note-taker, and presenter. (Can I just say that one brilliant freshman asked what these jobs required?)

Give them the following information:

You work at Macy's and are in charge of the holiday gift wrapping from the day after Thanksgiving, to Christmas Eve. Statistics from the two previous years show that daily, you will need 20 small boxes, 30 medium boxes, and 50 large boxes. 45% of these use Santa wrap, 15% use Peaceful theme wrap, and 40% use Snowflake wrap. The wrapping paper comes in 100 sq ft rolls, and you cannot purchase partial roles. How many rolls of each kind of wrapping print will you need? If the wrapping paper costs 5 cents per sq ft, how much will your total wrapping paper cost? Groups should be prepared to present their work to the class when I return.

Yeah. Here's about where I started to feel really stupid. There's nothing I hate more than when a teacher decides to let me introduce a new section (without at LEAST informing me first), unless it's a teacher who wants me to do some kind of lab with lots of complicated steps without giving me detailed instructions OR an answer key.

Did I mention story problems were not my strong suit? At all???

I'm standing up there with these stupid instructions desperately thinking, "isn't some key information missing here? How big are the dang boxes?" .

Is it just me, or does anyone else think a little more info for the poor sub might have been kind?

So here's me in front of the class once I had them in their little groups, and had given out all the instructions listed above:

"Okay, does anyone know what the first step should be?" (this is said very hopefully) (hopes are dashed moments later by a room full of blank freshmen stares).

"Well, I don't really know either, but we need to figure this out so we don't all look really dumb when your teacher comes back." (Nothing like making yourself look really smart and competent in front of your students, right? And thankfully, this was right about the time I noticed a pile of boxes on a side table, with a bunch of rulers.)

"Hey look - some boxes. And rulers. I think we should start by measuring the boxes..." (but how to go about it? Under pressure my brain was just kind of spinning, spinning, spinning. Some kind of measurement that has to do with wrapping paper in 100 square foot rolls...)

I finally swung a deal with the class that if they would all measure away for the first half of the period and think REALLY hard about what they should do next, I'd tell the teacher they'd been good. I spent the rest of the period ruminating over the problem. And by the time 2nd period showed up - I was smart again. I actually managed to figure the whole thing out, breezed through the next two classes like a story problem genius.

Can I just confess that a part of me enjoys this sort of thing? No doubt this is because when it all comes down to it - I like a challenge.

Even if it requires looking like a fool in front of a room full of teenagers. Actually, that's just like taking the whole thing up a notch, which just makes it that much more exciting. And the payoff? Knowing at the end of the day that you handled it. That the old "mom brain" is still working after all.

And so, if there's anyone reading this post who would like a little challenge to wake up a brain spending too much time on housework, here it is: Go back up to the instructions, figure out ALL the steps required to answer both questions (since you don't have the boxes you can't really do the whole thing), and time yourself. Then in the comments you can leave your time. The first person who takes the challenge can also list the steps, and if you think they missed something, list your own version.

After all, I know you're all jealous of my experience today, and wish it had been you. But please try to deal with your feelings, because "Thou shalt not covet," and after all, everyone can't be a high school sub.

Simon Says... Follow Me!

2008-10-07T23:34:00.000-07:00

Once again, I am forced to direct traffic to that other blog I share with my blogging/real-life buddie Natalie, Desperately Seeking Skinny Pants. If you've ever been a woman, or have ever battled it out with your body's amazingly resilient fat cells, please come join me. Apparently I'm in need of some accountability, and if no one comes through there's no telling what might happen next...

And please don't panic - I'm sure I'll be back here posting my regular drivel in a day or two. Today I simply feel the need to address the issue of my body, and the wardrobe it would like me to fit it into.

Hope to see ya there!!!

Another Reason Why I Shouldn't Be In Charge

2008-10-05T01:51:00.000-07:00

I am responsible for giving all the children (and probably some of the adults in my ward) the world's worst sugar high. Last night was our ward's Potluck/Harvest Party, and as I've mentioned previously, the powers that be have decided I need to enhance my party planning skills, and I am now the ward Activities Person. As you can see, I am so out of the activity-planning loop, I'm not even sure what the actual title of my calling is.

I just know that several times a year I must plan, carry out, and clean up huge group activities.

And that it is not my forte, because my brain isn't organized, non-procrastinating, or detail oriented. Yes, we remembered the silverware and plates - but of course we (I) forgot the cups. And the napkins. Apparently, I just wouldn't be me if I didn't forget one of these important items. Oh well, right?

I'd almost rather go back to my previous job of being Primary President. If I hadn't determined that weekly headaches were worse than (pre-activity) headaches lasting a week, it would be a toss-up.

The Harvest Party was supposed to be all about food. Healthy food, to be exact. The kind people grew in their gardens, the wholesome stuff they canned, the good and nourishing things they brought to eat at the potluck, etc. The food theme shouldn't surprise anyone, because if you know anything about me at all, you know that my life practically revolves around food. I love food.

As great as it is, however, bringing food to display and eating food for dinner didn't seem like enough of an activity. What about the children? Surely they need some games, right? And prizes? Looking back, it's clear to see how my thought process totally revolved around food. Not just any food, but sweet, sugary food.

There was the "Candy Walk." Exactly what it sounds like - just walk around and get candy kids, we're giving it out for free. Not the cheap stuff either - I have "good" candy connections to put in charge of events like this. The candy in our Candy Walk was stuff like mini Almond Joy, KitKat, BabyRuth - the Costco goodie bag, if you're familiar with it.

Then there was the donut eating contest. Donuts on a string for all the little children who had just finished gorging themselves at the dessert table. That's right kiddies, just cram that donut in your mouth, and before you have a chance to swallow, we'll shove another piece of candy at you just for playing!

Pin the tie on the Bishop? The Bean Bag Toss? Candy as both victory AND consolation prize at each activity!!!

And as if that weren't enough, a sprinkling of the candy corn mix with the little candy corn pumpkins on all the tables.

Oh yes. And the good people bringing their produce and canning for display deserve a reward. How about chocolate? That's right, all those little children, with all those little sugar-bug infested teeth, got a pile of big old chocolate coins (the cool ones that actually look like fifty cent pieces) for bringing an entry.

Gee, I wonder why the dear primary children were running around screaming like Banshees on the world's biggest sugar high while we attempted to clean up around them? I really and truly believe that only Halloween itself can possibly compete with my Harvest Party when it comes to sweets and sugar. When I realized just how much sugar was flowing (some children - like mine - won candy in the Candy Walk like twenty times), even I was a little taken aback.

Will I be liable for dental bills? What about parents who lost their minds trying to put sugar-loaded children to bed when the activity finally ended at 8:30? Will they send me anonymous, threatening mail? (Even if they did, I'd still know who they were. I was passing out the candy, remember?)

I have to say, I'm feeling a little responsible here. Where was the message of Health? "Here children, look at these nice vegetables you grew in your garden. I'll bet you would all just love some zucchini, but unfortunately the actual focus of this activity happens to be sugar. And more sugar. Sister S. is cranking out powdered sugar covered elephant ears in the kitchen RIGHT NOW, so run along and help yourself."

Should I feel guilty here? Am I a horrible person who is subconsciously passing my love of sweet, fattening food at Harvesty-Fair-type events on to innocent children?

On second thought, maybe I should do it again next time. If those powers that be decide my sugary-food-one-track-mind is too harmful for the children of the ward, they might feel compelled to release me and put me in the library where I can't possibly pose a food-threat to anyone.

Hey, it could happen. I believe in miracles - it's part of my religion.

For now, however, I suppose I should just act like nothing happened. Sugar? What sugar? I have no recollection of sugar, sweets, or a Harvest Party, so don't try pinning your kids cavities on me! If I can just hold out for twenty-six more days, Halloween will come along and erase all memory of my Loads-of-Sugar-For-the-Children Harvest Party.

Any guesses on why I love Halloween?

The Girl-Child

2008-10-02T23:50:00.000-07:00

I totally remember fighting with my sisters - especially Annie - and even occasionally getting into a snit with my best bosom buddy Kelly. There was sassing, there was tattling, and definitely bossing going on. I distinctly remember exchanging insults with Kelly when we were about nine. The very worst thing we could call each other? Miss Priss. For some reason, this was THE insult of the century.

Now I have three boys. They do not fight this way. After the initial incident, their fights go more like this:

Someone gets tackled.

Someone gets choked.

Something gets picked up and used as a weapon.

Something gets broken.

Mom joins the fray, and heads roll.

Can I just say a little bossing and tattling would be refreshing?

Well guess what? I now have a girl. Finally, someone is content to just be prissy (and bossy). I actually call her Miss Priss as a term of endearment - which strikes me as ironic every time. And can I say that this whole girl thing is so unlike any of the boy things I've been through?

Yes, she knows how to sword fight, and has some karate moves, and loves to play in the dirt with her brothers. However. She also likes babies. And kitties. She thinks she's in charge of every human even close to her two year old size, and goes around mothering everything that will let her. Today while I was cleaning the bathroom she brought her baby in, helped it use the toilet, wiped it, and moved to the kitchen where she placed it in the high chair so she could feed it.

SHE'S A GIRL, PEOPLE!!!

Don't get me wrong, I love my boys (and hear they will be WAY easier to raise after the first ten years). And, I even feel comfortable saying I have really nice boys, who get along fairly well with each other.

But it's just different. Like a whole half of me as a mother has been able to come out and play! I'm having so much fun, and enjoying her girliness sooo much, it's prompted me to list the top ten reason's why it's so much fun to have a girl after having three boys:

1. She doesn't pick up every long, stick-like object and wield it like a sword.

2. Or gun.

3. Or break everything that is precious and dear to my heart with said sword-gun-stick.

4. She says things in her sleep like "Pretty, pretty girl", and gets to wear long, silky nightgowns.

5. Potty training. Need I say more?????

6. At football games she already copies the cheerleaders - and I never even pointed them out to her. Like the estrogen sporting female she is, she honed right in on those cute girls waving pom poms around, and instantly got up and did her best to follow along.

7. She may play with her brother's "guys" (even throwing in an occasional sound effect), but if they hurt each other they get reprimanded - and the victim gets patted lovingly while she holds him over her shoulder. Honest. Is that not the cutest thing you've ever heard??

8. She actually wants to be like me, rather than that big redheaded guy all the little boys around here are so smitten with. Finally someone throws herself against the door when I walk out of it! (Not that I want her to hurt herself over me, but gee whiz - for nine years I've watched my husband being followed around by a bunch of little Baxter groupies. FINALLY it's my turn to have a fan!)

9. She already knows how to open and apply makeup. (Okay, okay, I know this isn't necessarily desirable in a two year old - especially when it's mascara, her personal fav, all over her face during sacrament meeting. However. As stated in #8, it's the fact that she's feminine that counts here. She wants to be like ME!)

10. At Christmas and birthdays when she's older, she'll actually be excited to get clothes. And all the other cheap little girly things that most every girl gets thrilled about. And we can do lunch. And decorate her first apartment. And pick out homecoming/prom/wedding dresses. And when she has babies I'll be the actual mother of the mother - rather than just the mother-in-law (translation: she'll want ME there holding the baby and taking care of her). And she'll call me on the phone when I'm old and lonely and we'll chat. And I could go on, and on, and on.

I know that everything on this list does not come guaranteed with a girl-child. There are no "for sure's" with your children because they will grow up and do their thing. I know of lots of women who do not have this kind of a relationship with their daughter(s), and I know there's a chance Meara and I won't actually be soul mates.

But if we're not, it won't be because I didn't pray constantly that we would be.

So for right now, I'm just going to plan on things turning out this way regardless, because any other option is completely unimaginable and unthinkable at the moment. So wish me luck, and enjoy your girls - they are SO MUCH FUN!!!!