Going Against All My Principles Because the World Needs To Know

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

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:

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)

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

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...

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...

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)