The Body Snatcher...

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

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

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:

***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

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)

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

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).