Laser Hair Removal: The Approach You Should Avoid...

My sister just got a laser hair removal machine. As in, zip-zap-zappo and the leg hair is gone. And we're talking one of the big, fancy, commercial kind that spas use, not some dumb little diy at-home model. Can I just say how exciting that is? Especially when she says things like, "Hey Jenny, your pasty white skin and dark hair just happen to be perfect for laser hair removal. Would you mind growing out your leg hair so I can take before pictures of it and then letting me zap it ALL AWAY FOREVER?"

I had to think about it. For about a millisecond. Then operation grow-out-my-leg-hair commenced. (Of course I already had about a week's head start on it. It's like I'm psychic or something, because I'm sure I never went that long without shaving my legs before...)

That was about a month ago, and today was the big day. My sister has a friend who is training people to use the machine, and I was to be the practice subject for today's student. I admit that I wasn't crazy about the idea of someone 'practicing' on me, but if the end result is no leg hair, sign me up. So this morning I took my hideously hairy legs over there for a little laser action.

I arrive, and she (the trainer/friend) takes a few pictures of my lovely legs and then tells me to shave. See, a laser burns the hair out of the follicle, and the more hair you have above the skin the worse it hurts. Cause it burns. Unfortunately, being the optimistic person that I am, I disregarded the implications here. You know how pamphlets for stuff like this always say things like, "You may experience some minor discomfort," or "The sensation is something like a small pin prick,"? Yeah, as a matter of course I always assume these things to be gross exaggerations made for the faint of heart.

You know what assuming makes you, right?

And so, with my usual disrespect for such precautions, I whipped out my little electric shaver. It's true that the batteries were low, but that didn't worry me. A quick (and not very close or thorough) shave later, and I was ready to have my hair follicles burned out by a high powered laser.

Have you ever smelled burning hair? Have you ever heard the sound of hair follicles popping as they're disintegrated by the beam of a laser? Have you ever seen wisps of smoke coming off your own legs in the aftermath of said disintegration? Let me tell you, it may sound bad but it feels much, much, much worse. And the whole time the teacher and trainee kept saying things like, "Wow, that whole patch really popped, didn't it?" and "It's starting to smell like burnt popcorn in here," (chuckle, chuckle, chuckle). (I was not chuckling.)

The ankles were the worst. Especially because the 'trainee' didn't seem to get the part about keeping the laser pressed straight down on the leg. You see, if you tip it or lift it THEN IT ARCS. You know, like what lightning does when it causes a building to burst into flames? Or like a 50,000 volt electric fence will do if you get too close to it? Yeah, she couldn't seem to get that memo despite the fact that I kept saying  things like, "Um, I think your TIPPING IT!!!" (This last would come out as a shriek as the arc of the laser made contact. Popping and wafts of smoke would generally follow.)

Finally, however, it was done. Over. Finished. Kind of. Because I'll need at least one more treatment, and probably two or three to get rid of all the hair. Is it worth it? Definitely. People get their hair ripped out with hot wax repeatedly, so I think I can take little laser arcing and follicle burning in the name of hairless legs. But will I shave, and then shave again, and then shave again before I go back for round two? Uh, yeah. And I recommend you do the same if you ever get a chance to get any of your hair lasered, because the amount of 'slight discomfort' you will experience will be significantly more if you fail to pay heed to that one, simple, and vastly important step.

The things we do. All in the name of beauty, right?

About My "Other" Blog...

So I've been blogging over on my author blog, like a good authoress should, but...

I feel boring over there.

I can't help it. I mean, I'm interested in the kind of stuff I'm writing, but is anyone else? I'm not exactly a famous (or even established) writer, who has loads of writing wisdom to share with poor little beginning authors like me, so what are the chances there are lots (or any) author-y type people being edified or even entertained by my musings on writing and the pains - uh, I mean the joys - of self-publishing? Unfortunately, although people stop by semi-regularly, no one leaves me comments so I don't know that any of them really care a whit for anything that's going on in my author brain.

Somewhere in the midst of sighing over this I made a grave tactical error. I found the place on my blogger dashboard that let me read all my comments from this blog. Like all of them, as in Every. Single. One.

It was so fun. I stayed up till after one in the morning (even though I had to get up at 5:15) laughing over all my old (and long since gone-from-blogland) friends. They were so funny! I had so much fun blogging with them, and trading comments, and caring about what was happening in their far off lives. There is no doubt that my blogging year was a great little chapter in my life.

Apparently, however, I wasn't the only one who needed to tune in to other things in my life, because almost all of the people on my sidebar have been off the radar for two years or more. They probably all facebook and twitter now, but let's face it - it isn't the same. Catching little snippets of a person's life is something, but it's not the same as the quality of entertainment and interaction we all found in blogland.

And those women could write! And they were funny! Now that I've been editing for the last six years, I have a much better appreciation for all of those (supposedly) non-writing women who could sit down at their computer for twenty minutes and dash off a hilarious, or thoughtful post. Reading all of them was like an education in how to get someone to care about what you write. I didn't realize it at the time, but blogging was like an great big, super fun writing workshop for me, and I am so grateful for all the things they taught me about writing - and marriage, motherhood, tragedy, laughter, hard times, good times, and all the times in between. If even half of them were still around to trade stories with, there is no doubt in my mind that I would go back to writing regular posts on this blog just for the chance to associate with others who are interested in sharing life's noteworthy moments.

Even without anyone around, I admit that blogs have once again been popping into my brain. I soooo almost wrote one the night I made my fourteen-year-old son give my twelve-year-old son The Talk - and eavesdropped in on the whole thing (like any good mother would). (And by the way, can I just say that it was possibly the greatest bit of inspiration I have EVER had as a mother?) Once I managed to extricate the need-to-blog bug in my brain, I got to the point where I hardly ever had those blog-writing moments. Now that I'm writing on the other blog, I find myself noticing all the noteworthy things again, and drafting blogs in my head... I do miss capturing those moments, and I have no doubt that someday when my kids discover this blog they will all want to know why I ever stopped recording the history of our lives.

Great. Now I have guilt.

But enough of this. I either need to forget it, or write it for me, and it's time I made up my mind about it. So even if no one is out there anymore, I just may begin popping in here every now and then to let off some steam and entertain myself. And at least I know about the magical comment place that will now let me know if random people stop by and comment on old posts. (The other night I had to go leave a comment for a girl who'd admitted to lurking on my blog in a comment she left two years ago. So sad that I missed her! I love lurkers!) So if anyone does stop by, I just want to say thanks. Thanks for taking the time, and thanks for sharing in a few moments of my life. And in the meantime (and just for old time's sake) in honor of Thanksgiving, check out this old post. It's my Thanksgiving Dinner limerick contest, and the entries are fabulous. All the entries are in the comment box, so scroll on down and enjoy!

A Sad Tale

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

Confessions of a Non-Crafter

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.

How To Lose Those Last Four Pounds, Crazy Yoga, and Other Stories

You know when you're doing something, and while you're doing it you're thinking "If anyone saw me right now they would think I was a complete idiot"? I had one of these moments this week.

As mentioned a few posts back, this has not been a great week for me. Rotten, in fact. I happen to be one of those lucky people who suffer from anxiety. Not often enough to be medicated, just often enough that every so often (like when someone proposes to me, or my husband goes missing in the mountains, or other various kinds of problems arise) I have an anxiety attack.

I have various ways of containing and handling these episodes to keep them somewhat under control, but every so often things get a little out of hand. Knowing this, (and dreading the fact) I found and bought this "stress relieving herbal tea" that claimed to calm anxiety. It's been sitting in my cupboard for almost a year, waiting for an out of control bout of anxiety worthy of a little product testing. The last two times my husband went MIA while solo-ing it in the mountains, I had the tea brewing when he finally either called or arrived. What a bummer. Twenty minutes later, and I'd have been able to find out if the stuff actually worked.

This week I had my chance.

By Friday I was a mess. The anxiety had been building up since Tuesday night, and somewhere around lunchtime, I felt it coming on. Full blown anxiety attack. Heart starts racing, panicky feeling takes over, what's left of my functioning, rational brain begins shutdown.

Then I remember - I have that stupid tea in my cupboard. It could work. I'd better try it.

I open the cupboard, grab the tea, put on some water, and while it boils I notice this on the tea box: "Yoga To Let It All Go." I read on, and discover there is a yoga pose that's supposed to calm anxiety. I am not really into yoga. I am, however, feeling desperate. I decide that at this point I will try anything.

So I go into the other room, kick enough stuff out of my way to clear a spot on the floor (anxiety SERIOUSLY impairs my ability to do anything productive around the house - we're talking no-laundry-for-four-days kind of serious), and sit cross legged on the floor. With one eye on the instructions, I get into position. Left hand, palm up on my left knee - middle finger crossed behind first, thumb over fingers four and five. (Not joking, I really did this). Right hand, first finger extended - thumb over fingers three, four, and five. Hold right hand at chin level. Close eyes, and twirl finger in the air for one to three minutes. Breathe deeply. Feel like a complete idiot, and hope no one comes to the door, because it has a window and I'm sitting on the floor right in front of it feeling like a crazy lady.

It totally worked.

I actually stopped shaking, and was breathing normally after a minute or two. Seriously, it was so effective I was kind of bugged, because it messed with my product testing. If I'm already calming down, how the heck can I judge how effective the tea actually is???

But I drank it anyway, and it did seem to help. Or, I was just experiencing the full affects of my amazing yoga experience. Who can tell? Now I'll have to wait for my next major anxiety attack (no rush there, Mr. Anxiety) so I can drink the tea BEFORE doing crazy yoga poses.

But don't get me wrong, I am not complaining. I'm just hoping I don't have any public anxiety attacks, so I can keep my idiotic yoga pose all to myself. (Can't you just picture me dropping into the Praying Mantis in the grocery store, twirling my little finger on aisle Nine? What a picture). And there was a silver lining to all of this - thanks to my anxiety-induced starvation diet, I lost 4 pounds!!!

See - just when you think life really stinks, you take a chance, do something that makes you feel like an idiot, achieve minor success, and lose those four pounds standing between you and your skinny jeans. Last week's anxiety - this week's accomplishment.

Just call me Pollyanna.

The Day Laundry Made Me Smile

I just want to announce the discovery of a surprising new therapy.

Limericks on laundry (as amazing as it may sound) written by blogger buddies you may not even know, make a person suffering from emotional stress and fatigue feel remarkably better. The suffering individual may even smile, chuckle, or (if the limerick has both perfect meter, and witty rhyming) induce actual laughter.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. And please don't stop now - you have until tomorrow (Sunday) night to compose your entries. Just think how many unhappy, stressed out people you may unwittingly help by your submissions! Who knows what kind of emotional basket cases may read my blog (after all, they say like attracts like, and I am DEFINITELY feeling rather baskety this week!)

So thank you again, you really have brightened my weekend!

Fat-Around-The-Middle

So, I'm a fat-around-the-middle girl. This classification has no bearing on how much fat I have, it simply refers to where my fat likes to accumulate. I have spent almost two decades trying to decide if I am grateful for this fact, or if I hate it.

First let me explain what it means to be a fat-around-the-middle-girl (aka FATMG). It means I have skinny legs. And no hips. And a little butt. I have friends who try to tell me that I don't have a butt, but I do. It's just not very big. Meaning, it really could stand to be bigger. This is one of the downsides of being a FATMG. Another downside is never having that elusive flat stomach the fat-around-the-hips/butt/thighs (FATHBTG's) ALWAYS have. Or their tiny little waists, or their nice shapely/thin-at-the-top arms.

It also means that 90% of the time I must wear a belt. This is because there is not enough in the hips/buttage area to hold up my pants. Ever try to belt something around a phone pole? Yep, that's me. I rarely have to button or unbutton any of my pants. Undo the belt, wriggle and pull, and they slide right down. (Let's not even talk about the falling-off joke that is maternity pants). The most unfortunate part of this arrangement is that in order to be effective, the belt has to be pretty snug, showcasing the "fat around the middle" by squishing it out over the tops of my jeans.

There are other small irritations, like always having to pull the front of my pants up over my eternal "tummy roll" when I sit down to keep it under control. Holding a pillow/book/purse/anything strategically in front of said roll is equally effective.

Then there's the weight gain vs size issue. I have several friends who fall into the very desirable fat-all-over-girl (FAOG) category. These lucky girls gain their weight everywhere, which gives them so much leeway. I always hear them saying things like, "I gained ten pounds last month." Yet when you look at them, you can hardly tell. Someone once told me to compare a pound of fat to a pound of butter. Every time you gain a pound of fat, it's like taking that pound of butter and spreading it on your body. Can you imagine what it's like for us FATMG's to put ten pounds in one spot? Five pounds (depending on the current weight zone) can grow FATMG's right out of their clothes. This is depressing.

There is, however, an upside.

1. Jackets hide a multitude of sins.

2. When pregnant, our butts don't get bigger.

3. When all else fails, there are those skinny legs.

4. When five pounds means growing out of your clothes, you can't ignore the issue. Let's just say it keeps you on your toes.

But I still think you FAOG's have it made.

So here's to all you FATMG's, FATHBTG's, and even you FAOG's. Hope I didn't miss anyone:)

My Non-Fairy-Tale-Like Tale

I was just reminded of an incident that happened to me back in my single days, and thought I'd share. Once upon a time...

When I was single, my dating life was practically non-existent. Particularly during my time at Ricks (College, that is). I attended Ricks for five semesters. The last was reserved for Math 101, Fit For Life, and Fine Arts 100. And a job so I could save money for BYU.

I was in the VL (virgin lips) club until that last semester. Sad, isn't it? And please do not congratulate me. I was not trying, okay? I mean at first it was fine, and I was all pure, and unwilling to kiss just any old guy (easy to be picky when there AREN'T any guys), but by the time that final semester came around, I have to admit I was feeling a little desperate.

Then, low and behold, within weeks of winter semester starting, someone actually asked me for my number. Stop the presses - THIS HAD NEVER HAPPENED TO ME BEFORE! How is that possible? you ask. How does an average looking girl who goes dancing, and plays basketball at the gym with DOZENS of guys all the time manage to repel men so completely that not one of them will ever have even the slightest desire to ask for her number? I have no idea. But we're straying off topic here. The point is, it had actually happened!

So the guy (whom I'll call Phil to protect the innocent) asks for my number. He's tall (6'5), nice looking, and a complete non-mutant as far as I could tell. So I of course handed my number over willingly - doing my best to act like it was something I did all the time.

We went out. Several times. After a week or two we kissed.

(BTW, I do not recommend kissing for the first time while standing outside in Rexburg-freezing-windchill-sub-zero-weather. Ever tried to talk when your lips are frozen? Yeah, kissing is even more difficult. It was kind of like kissing while wearing those red wax lips. Totally anti-climactic).

So now I was excited. I had a boyfriend. Unless you count Brad Johnson when I was eleven, this was a first.

And it gets even better.

It was almost February. I had already endured two non-boyfriend Valentine's Day's at Ricks College. Were my roommates and I the only ones who referred to this depressing holiday as "Single Awareness Day"? And to make matters even more pathetic, my maiden name was Valentine. How sad is that to be a Valentine and never have one?? Finally, I was going to have someone to give me some cute Valentine something, and smooch with on that stupid holiday.

The big day came. I waited in vain for flowers to be delivered, but finally it was 8:30 am and I had to go to class. No in-class deliveries, no note waiting for me at home, nothing.

Then he called.

He wanted to know if I wanted to hang out, since it was Valentine's Day, and all. He said he'd stop by after dinner.

True, I had entertained hopes he'd take me out for dinner, but whatever. The main thing was that I was going SOMEWHERE with SOMEONE. I was not going to complain.

7:00, the doorbell rings. I greet Phil at the door, and he says: "I thought we could take a walk."

Rexburg, February, freezing, no problem. No single-awareness-moping for me!

We walk the five blocks or so to Smith Park. We hold hands. We walk around the park. We talk. I'm sure we must have kissed, but for some reason I have no recollection. Then Phil starts telling me the following.

"I was at the grocery store today, and I almost bought you one of those roses they have at the register for $1. I actually picked it up. But then I thought about my last girlfriend. I went all out and spent money buying her a dozen red roses. Then we broke up. It just seemed like such a waste. I don't think material things should be part of a relationship, so I decided not to get you the rose."

Okay. This was fine. At this point, I was perfectly fine with the whole thing. I honestly didn't care that much whether he got me a flower, card, box of chocolates, or anything. I admit I was slightly bummed, but whatever. At least I wasn't alone.

Then he continued:

"I did, however, want to get you something, because I think you're really great. So... Here."

What was it? What did my romantic boyfriend give me? What sweet token of his love did he deem more meaningful than the $1 rose?

A green sweetheart. It said "You're #1".

Am I the only one who thinks that this was just wrong??? IF you're going to give your girlfriend one single sweetheart for Valentine's Day rather than the whole box, SURELY you could find one more suitable than "You're #1"??!!

How about "You're Sweet" or "Cutie" or even "Hug Me"?? Any of these could have been seen as a sweet, small, yet meaningful gesture that showed his affection, and illustrated his feelings.

And it was green.

Since when does the color green have anything to do with anything on Valentine's Day? If it had been pink, or even white with pink writing, that would have been something.

It was painful. I would like to add, however, that I handled the situation as graciously as possible, and even thanked him for his "thoughtful" gift. I probably even gave him a kiss, and said something I totally didn't mean, like "thank you so much! This is soooo sweet!" I even distinctly remember trying desperately to read some unwritten, secret meaning in the message that could in any way be interpreted as romantic.

Nothing came to me.

And I never had a boyfriend on Valentine's Day again. The next year I was in between relationships, and the year after that I was (miraculously) married. That stupid green sweetheart is the only token of Valentine's Day affection I ever received while my last name actually was "Valentine".

Is this just a little sad and pathetic, or is it just me? It just seems to me that there must have been at least a hundred other non-materialistic ways he could have chose to say "Happy Valentine's Day, girlfriend whose last name actually IS Valentine."

Without coming across as being a totally pathetic/apathetic boyfriend. Especially since I happen to know he actually really liked me.

Or maybe I'm just being really shallow, and I should be way more appreciative of my one Valentine-boyfriend experience. You tell me.

Ten Jen Quirks

1. I like to burst into song (usually some old, unheard of song) at the slightest provocation. Like the word "If". Or the word "when". Any old word will do, I have a song for most of them.

2. Spontaneous dancing is also possible. Mostly, I prefer the lame-o moves from dance class when I was 11. I suggest doing this in front of your children a lot if you are worried they might think you are too cool. Their response will assure you, you have NOTHING to worry about.

3. I enjoy eating in restaurants. Alone. Ideally with a book so people aren't quite as aware that I am eavesdropping on their conversations.

4. Apparently eavesdropping is one of my quirks. Pseudo-reading so I can listen to the high schoolers' hilarious/sometimes pathetic conversations is also a favorite past time. (I'm a substitute high school teacher).

5. People always accuse me of eating weird things. Like refried beans on a toasted bagel. It's good people! And chicken hearts. Boil them with an entire sweet onion (cut into big chunks) for about two hours - delicious. I really don't care if I can see the ventricles. It's all about taste, baby.

6. As my dear sister Annie has already mentioned (it's a favorite theme of hers), I can be a little fanatical about certain things. Like unpopped kernels in my microwave popcorn. And leftover hair in hairbrushes. And people taking proper care of boardgames. I love how this makes me sound a little OCD. This is soooo not the case, and people who know me are probably laughing right now at the mere possibility that anyone would ever think I was.

7. I have some weird ideas about food. Like, it's better to eat an entire box of chocolates in one sitting (even if it has multiple layers) than over a period of days (or weeks), because there's no way your body can possibly absorb all that fat at once anyway. Most of it is bound to move right through. It's alright to take a few short breaks, however, as long as you get right back to the chocolate.

8. Thanks to a brief period of my life when the only available channel was the outdoor channel (my husband LOVED this), I can tell you all about turkey calls.

9. I love to drive tractors. Especially if it means doing something fun, like spreading manure around.

10. I think cow manure (the kind dotting a field and slowly drying in the sun, not so much large collections of sloppy pee-poo) smells kind of good. When I was in college, this smell was one of my favorite things about coming home in the spring.

Thanks McFarland, for the tag. I tag Natalie, Kristen, and Laura. Ten quirks about you, Ladies!

Tagged!

Okay, okay. Kristen tagged me a while ago, and I'm finally going to make an attempt. It may not be thrilling, but at least I'm getting it done, right???

THREE JOYS
1. My kids. Although not at the moment. When it's 10:30 at night and they still aren't sleeping (great, now someone is crying) there's really nothing joyful about it. But...there are those other moments - like when they are sleeping. Those are joyful.

2. My husband. I know,I know, this is totally cliche, but it really is true. I really do like the guy. He's leaving for a solo week-long hunting trip tomorrow, and having him gone will be the opposite of joyful. Sometimes I wish he was into golf. It's so much safer.

3. This is not breaking news. My third joy is food. Cake, donuts, CHEESECAKE, pie, CHOCOLATE, unexpected treats, and buffets. Actually, buffets could just be my number three. I LOVE BUFFETS! All you can eat baby - especially if it's a pizza buffet. Now that is pure joy.


THREE FEARS
1. Getting pregnant. Been there, done that, SOOOOO over it! I love my children, I did not love being pregnant. There are women I know who act like it is a crime for me to say such things. How dare I blaspheme and denounce the aches, pains, and body distortions of growing a child. It was totally worth it, but does that mean I should have love, love, loved it? Isn't endurance enough??? Anyhow, pregnancy is definitely a fear. Definitely.

2. Think, think, think. (I am thinking, I'm not saying I'm afraid of thinking. Although my thinking may be scary to someone else, I'm actually quite comfortable with it). My second fear would have to be...Oh, I know! Being stuck in this house forever! Petrifying, that one. It would be like a slow, painful death - six people, one bathroom FOREVER!!! (Now is where you insert the Psycho music - you know, from the shower scene? EEEE, EEEE, EEEE - but you picture me trying to shower while five other people beat on the door because they all need to have BM's simultaneously. And one of them is only two, and she WILL go in her pants). I may have nightmares tonight. Thanks Kristen.

3. My last fear would have to be...Ooooo, this one is really current. My husband getting eaten by a bear, or falling over a cliff while solo-hunting out in no-man's-land. He doesn't even bring a tent. He carries his "poncho" and crashes out in the middle of the woods somewhere. Why??? because he hunts so far from his car (let alone a campground, or any other form of civilization) it would take him too long to hike back. Gee hon, hope you catch that elk. Before you make a widow out of me. Have I mentioned that I suffer from anxiety?


THREE CURRENT OBSESSIONS
1. Popcorn. This one has been going on for a while now. I think popcorn is one of the greatest things in the world. Especially light popcorn. It's like the greatest guilt-free food EVER. FYI, the greatest brand of light popcorn - so good my husband will eat it without extra butter - is Redenbacher's Theater Butter Light. I have only found it at one store, but it is the best. Pop Weaver Light Butter is my second choice - found at Wal-mart. Probably no one cares, but now you can see how truly obsessed with popcorn I actually am.

2. I'd probably have to say blogging. I don't spend as much time as some people I know, but I do get on a couple times a day. Sometimes three. Sometimes four? But when you consider I have no TV, it puts it all into perspective, right?

3. Clothes. This is another long-standing obsession of mine. I'm no label girl, either. Just something(s) I can afford, if you please. Ross is my greatest alli, enabling my wardrobe to grow in a fashionably affordable way.


THREE SURPRISING FACTS
1. I'm not fat. Considering my love affair with food, this often surprises me. I'm not a string bean, either, but what I do have I can mostly hide. And no, I don't eat whatever, whenever I want. I do have to work at it. That surprises most people, because they've seen me in the buffet/potluck setting. I tend to go a little hog wild. Especially with the desserts.

2. I suffer from anxiety. I find people don't believe this, and often think I'm joking if it comes up. Ask my sisters - it's VERY for-real.

3. This post is finally over. It's gone on, and on, and now I am finally finished. Hope you're not as relieved as I am.

I tag:
Annie
Laura
Whitney
Cindy