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

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...

The Hazards of Password Sharing

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.

My Husband Rusty (aka Jeremiah Johnson)

First off, I just wanted to let you know that I'm leaving the limerick contest open until Wednesday, so there's still time to rhyme...

So, my husband really is off in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a poncho for sleeping. In the woods. Alone. After dark. Apparently, he hates to be in the woods at night so much, that rather than worry about walking through them to get to his car, he prefers to just stop, drop, and cover when darkness falls. The good news is that he called today, so I know he's alive.

So what is it with men, anyways? Why do they like to do things like go to boot camp? No, really - they like it. Ever watch a guy while he's watching some movie or documentary about other guys in boot camp? Secretly, they all want to go there and run those obstacle courses in the mud. They think it would be fun. Manly. Apparently their love of playing in the mud never goes away.

It's the same with hunting. I know all men don't hunt and aren't that interested, but the fact remains that an awful lot of them like that kind of thing. The whole, getting up at three a.m., going out into the dark, cold night, (I know it's technically a.m., but frankly that's NIGHT to me) to go hike through nature (or freeze in a tree stand) in the hopes of getting their animal.

Don't get me wrong. I was raised with beef cattle, and I have no problem with hunting. If it was necessary to feed my family, I have no doubt I could go out and kill a deer myself.

Without spraying deer pee all over myself, thank you very much.

FYI, camping with a bow hunter is not fun. The smell of elk/deer urine is very pungent in a small tent.

Anyway, back to men. To be more specific, back to my husband. Why can't he at least be like the other hunting husbands I know, who hunt with their "buddies"? Why does he insist it isn't the same if he has to "drag someone else along"? Why does he have to pick such ridiculously remote locations for his hunting forays? Why can't he just bring a tent? Why did I have to remember that our life insurance is currently lapsed WHILE he was out with the bears??

Maybe because the first stage of my panic attacks is always me, calmly planning out my life after the funeral. Last night, I was just getting to the part where I go over exactly what my funds for the "Life Post-Rusty" will be, when I remembered about the life insurance. Did I send in that reinstatement form? Panic started taking over. Desperately I trie to shut off crazy-anxiety-brain and go to sleep.

Not working. Time for tricking the brain into sleep by forcing it to think of mundane, stupid things. With every exhale I mentally named a different board game. I really did this last night, I want you to know. It wasn't easy either. When was the last time you thought about Parcheesi? But hey - I think it worked. I have no memory of anything after Hungry, Hungry, Hippos.

Tonight I should be okay. He called today. I know where he's planning on sleeping tonight. (In case your wondering how I know this, it's because I have done extensive study of the topo map where he hunts. The valley is five miles wide, and about twelve miles long, and I feel like I've been there. Actually I have, because once he didn't come home on time, so I put all my babies in the car and drove up there in the middle of the night.)

He has to call me by 10:00 p.m. Wednesday (there's a payphone at a camp ground about fifteen minutes from where he parks. No, cell phones and GPS thingys do not work where he hunts. I think that is intentional). If not, he knows I will be up there by 11:30 honking my horn and running through the woods scaring all the elk away while I look for his broken body.

Did I mention I fasted for his safety on Sunday?

Am I the only one with a husband that does things like this? I told him I was today, but I kind of want validation. Yes, I could force him to give up this annual trip, but it's just about the only thing he does for himself, you know? Then in the midst of my anxiety I feel totally irresponsible for condoning such a thing. But he follows my calling rules, and keeps a log in the car of when he's been there, and where he's going (things obviously instituted by me, Ms. Anxiety. He would never bother with such precautions on his own) so I could find him if necessary. That makes it better, right?

So all you girls with non-hunting husbands better hug them tight tonight. And then think of me with pity. And then if you love me, pray Rusty gets his elk soon, so he can come down off the blasted mountain! Now off I go for another lonely night...

Meara - The Bionic Two Year Old

When my mom was young, she had a dog named Sunny that lived in the house. The only thing she's ever told me about Sunny, is that no matter where the dog was, or how hard it was sleeping, you couldn't get into the cookie jar with out Sunny knowing. No matter how quietly the lid was handled, moments later Sunny would come bounding into the kitchen asking for a treat.

Some people have dogs. We have Meara.

For lack of treats and desserts in our house (because I have no self control and cannot sleep if such things are available), (that last was NOT an exaggeration by the way) my husband has come up with his own evening treat. Cake mix. And water. In a mug. Sound terrible, doesn't it? Just for the record, however, it's actually not bad.

To make this decadent dessert, he dumps some mix (preferably yellow) into a mug, pours in a little water, and stirs rapidly until the mixture reaches a smooth consistency. When ready for consumption, he sits on the couch with his treat and eats it with a spoon. And then he leaves the cup lying around so I can find it later with cake mix all dried and crusted inside. (That last sentence has nothing to do with this story, but everything to do with another story).

Needless to say our children are all aware of "Dad's stuff" and like him to share with them. Especially Meara. A couple of nights ago Rusty sneaked off to the kitchen with plans to get his "stuff" upstairs before being detected. As he finished stirring and came walking out of the kitchen with it, he picked up a tail.

We couldn't figure out how she saw the cup - since he practically had it in his shirt - but there was no doubt she knew what was going on. She moved right in behind him with the excited skipping, laughing, pig-tail-bouncing gait of a two year old who knows she's about to get a bite of "Dad's stuff". He made the circuit through our living room/front room at least three times before admitting there was no getting away from her.

FYI, if you have food - there is NO getting away from her.

Tonight we figured out her secret abilities. There we were, sitting on the couch. Rusty nonchalantly stands up and moves into the kitchen. Meara is playing on the other side of the couch. A few minutes later, I just happen to notice the faint "clink, clink" of spoon stirring in mug, and somewhere in my brain the fact registers that Rusty's making his "stuff".

At about this same moment Meara's head pops up. She resembles a hound on the scent. She drops whatever it was she was playing with, puts her head down, and runs for the kitchen.

She meets him at the kitchen doorway - hot on his heels.

SHE HEARS THE CLINKING OF SPOON ON MUG TWO ROOMS AWAY, AND REALIZES IT MEANS FOOD! WHILE BUSILY INVOLVED WITH HER OWN TOYS! SHE IS TWO!

Do you think I could get on Oprah? Maybe That's Incredible would be interested.

And the scariest thing? I'm pretty sure she gets this ability from me. I do have a thing for treats. If I thought my neighbors had cake at their house I'd probably come up with an excuse to go visiting. Even though I hardly know them.

Where these abilities will take my daughter, no one can tell. Maybe she should be some kind of food taster? Does anyone know if there's money in that? It seems like she could be worth something to the right people, doesn't it?

Who knows. But for now, I just hope those of you without freaky-hyper-sensibility-two-year-olds appreciate eating your food in peace. Next time you eat something good - that you don't want to share - think of us and be even happier. We would be sharing.

Survival Camping

One of my favorite things about my husband is all the cool stuff he's willing to do with my children. They go with him when he practices shooting his bow, he takes them fishing, on day hikes, canoing, and camping. And now - that they are 9 and 7 - he apparently takes them 'survival camping'.

He has been working on going camping since the beginning of July, but things kept getting in the way. Finally two weeks ago he settled on this past weekend. Because wilderness time is essential to his happiness and state of mind, I do my best to make these trips possible. When he said he was taking the older boys even though I couldn't go, I was thrilled.

Trying to get any detailed information, i.e. destination, general plan, return time, etc., from my husband is practically impossible, so it wasn't until Thursday night that I had any idea of what he was planning. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: What are you going to do for a tent? (our medium one broke, and all we have is gigantic and tiny).

Him: We're not using a tent. We're survival camping.

Me: Oh. Where are you going? A campground?

Him: No. We're going up on the west fork of the Humptulips (yes, this is the name of a real river, and yes it is out in the middle of nowhere and over an hour from our house.) We're going to hike in so you'll need to pack them food.

Me: Hike? how far?

Him: Not more than three miles.

Okay, lets review. He doesn't get home until 4:00, has to gather all his gear, (I always pack for the boys) load the car, stop at Wal-mart for some last minute supplies, and drive for an hour. If they make it to their campsite before dark it will be amazing. Back to our conversation:

Me: Have you checked the weather forecast? It's supposed to rain.

Him: We'll be fine.

Me: But you're not bringing a tent.

Him: I'll bring a big sheet of plastic and we'll make a shelter.

It's true that my husband is the lean-to king (he was actually living in the woods in a lean-to made with a wool blanket and a couple of sticks when I met him - long story), but all I can picture are my two terrified children wandering around in the woods after dark (refer to last post to see how Liam and Niall feel about wandering around in the dark) getting rained on, while Rusty stumbles around trying to throw up a questionable shelter.

Have I mentioned I suffer from anxiety when my family members go running around in the wilderness?

Anyway, at this point in the conversation I knew there was nothing I could do. Logical brain said "they will be fine, it will be fun, and they'll have a great experience they'll never forget with their dad." Mom brain says "Aaahh! They'll be scared. They'll get soaked. They'll get sick. They'll cry and end up as cougar/bear food!" After many years of experience in this kind of situation with my husband, Mom brain is silenced (well, hushed to a volume audible only to me) and Logical brain overruled.

They didn't leave town until 6:00, and despite what they tell me, I'm sure it was pretty dark when they made camp. The report they brought home was that they: Made camp, ate snacks, went to bed. It rained. Liam got wet, and Niall rolled out of the "sturdy" shelter in his sleep. No one slept much. They woke up at 6:00 am and ate. It rained. They shot the bow and ate lunch. At 9:00 am they headed home and finished their car-snack on the way. They were home before noon. They had a blast. They can't wait to go again. I'm glad Logical brain won and they had this experience. Oh, and the only one who came down with a cold and went to bed sick? Their father.