Some Must Push And Some Must Pull

A little while ago I received an email from the middle school advertising that they were looking for some part time para educators to work through the end of the year.  I applied.  The main thing about it that piqued my interest was that is was temporary - other than determining who to sleep with for the rest of my life and devoting myself to Pinterest, I'm not into making long term commitments.  But, there’s a couch I want and this little stint would pay for it.  (“ARHAUS” currently has custody of my couch, but I’ve been very consistent with my visitation.  We know each other pretty well at this point, and we’re ready to take our relationship to the next level.)  Plus, this gig sounded really easy.  The job description actually listed the following requirements:

"High school diploma or equivalent" - Done.  (Ha, I'll see your GED and raise you a BS.) (Resist the joke.)
"Frequent bending, reaching, climbing" - (So what you’re telling me is the lady on “Sit And Be Fit" could do this job?  Not only can I move both of my thumbs at the same time while tapping my toes, I can skip to my mailbox - weather permitting.  Get a hold of my mad skills.)
"Visual concentration" - (Short of 8^th grade boys with ADHD, who do you think they are trying to discourage here?)

“Squatting” – Dude, all my cupcake pans are on the bottom shelf.  I’ve GOT this.

“Occasional lifting, pulling and/or pushing” – They seem very intent on making it clear that the person they hire for this job will have to do something besides get from their car to their desk.  Again, who are they trying to discourage?  I don’t think many 27-year-olds playing video games in their parents’ basements are pining to get their foot in the door of middle schools.  I was tempted to divulge on my application that I’ve set up chairs for Bunco NUMEROUS times, but I didn’t want to brag.

Turns out, maybe I should have played the Bunco card.  I didn’t get the job.

Not only did I NOT get the job that required “excessive pulling, pushing, and reaching” but I didn’t even get called in for an interview.  

For real?  

For real.

People say when God closes a door he opens a window.  I say when God closes a door to the middle school he opens another one that leads to Cheesecake Factory.  Incidentally, right across from “ARHAUS”.

Winning!

We're So Cool We Poop Ice Cream

One of the sad realities of my current phase is that most of my social life happens within the aisles of Wal Mart.  I know a lot of people in my community and we tend to shop at the same times, for the same things, in the same places as we strive to score deals with Great Value.

It was during one of these interludes lately that I ran into someone new in my social circle, and she caught me with my eyes glazed over in the skin care aisle.  (Am I the only one who gets sweaty palms in that section?  I never know what product to buy.  I'm old, I live in a climate that is drier than a popcorn fart, and I'm certain my current wrinkles are irreversible.  Despite inflated claims I'm certain no one makes a cream that addresses all that.)  I'm not exactly sure how it happened but somewhere between giving the Clean & Clear products a "to talk to the hand" gesture and throwing some Burt's Bees Night Cream in my cart, I found myself engaged in a discussion about the demise of femininity.  Not to be confused with the Gloria Steinhem fan club, this mom was genuinely concerned about the kinds of women who were interacting with her sons on facebook.  "They're so crass," she lamented.  After citing several grievances she added, "I mean they don't even like guys opening their doors anymore."  I nodded sympathetically and tried to weigh in respectfully, and she wasn't wrong, but my mind kept wandering back to a conversation that took place in my home only hours previously.


Drew:  "Do we have any plans tonight?"
Me:  "Yes, we're going to McDonald's for shamrock shakes."
Sam:  "What's a shamrock shake?"
Cory:  "McDonald's only makes them around St. Patrick's Day.  I used to LOVE them as a kid."
Sam:  "Cool."
Cory:  "And you wanna know the best part?  It turns your poo green!"
Drew:  "Sweet!"
Sam:  "Awesome!"

On the one hand I think it would be sort of awesome for one of my friend's sons to fall in love with my daughter, purely for the social experiment of it all.  But she seems really lovely, so I don't really wish that on her.  What I DO wish, however, is that there's another family out there taking a trip to McDonald's just for the shamrock shakes and their side effects so that my children stand a chance at happiness.  Fingers crossed.

Vern: Raw & Uncut

So, I have this "friend".  She's very funny, smart, and great company over an order of cheese fries.  She's launching a new comedy web series  called "Pretty Darn Funny", and I'm excited to see her talents being put to great use.  (I mean, FINALLY.  Because having worked with William Shatner doesn't really count.)  She's asked people to upload videos of humorous personal stories to share on the web, and despite the fact that I enjoy being videotaped about as much as having my butt rubbed with a brick, I relented and posted a video.  I'm hoping Lisa will feel like she owes me one after this because on a cool factor scale of Kathy Griffin to Jennifer Aniston, Lisa's like Anne Hathaway and I'm like the girl who works security for iCarly.  I could use a boost. 

But before you all go on thinking I'm just SUCH A NICE PERSON trying to help a friend, you should know that there's also a free cruise on the line.  As in, the best video wins a cruise!  Which is why this isn't about friendship at all, and more about YOU helping ME because I want you to vote for my video.  Oh, and while you're there you should post one of your own.  (Come on, be helpful!  Get out of your comfort zone!  It's either that or watching The Bachelor on hulu and YOU'RE BETTER THAN THAT.   I DVR'd it, I should know.)  (Jill:  You should have Dave get on and tell his story about resuscitating that mouse.  Ganelle:  Remember when you licked poo off your finger thinking it was chocolate?  Perfect opportunity to turn that lemon into lemonade.)  (Then again, is it really lemonade?)

My story won't be new to those of you who have followed me here for a while.  Remember when I was found with liquor in my purse at church?  This is the same story, just in spoken rather than written form.  I do not enjoy watching myself on video like, ever.  But what the heck?  I'm a 41-year-old stay at home mom in menopause, it would do me some good to try something besides getting to Kohl's before my 30% off discount expires.  If you want to watch it, go here.  Then look for the video "The Appearance of Evil", watch it, and if you want to vote for me (if for no other reason than to repair the damage of never having been asked to Homecoming in high school) (and if that's not enough consider that I was the girl at lunch in grade school whose sandwich was made with whole wheat bread and all natural peanut butter who didn't know a Twinkie until well into my teens) simply click on the orange "thumbs up" in the corner.  That's it.  I'll love you forever!

Did You Hear? iPhones Are Giving Out Hickies Now.

Several months ago I was caught completely off guard by something I never thought possible.  I started to love running.  I know!  I don't even like to say it out loud because I fear it makes me "one of them".  (If you don't know what I mean, you are probably the President of that club.)  It got worse, and I actually started waking up every morning thinking, "I can't wait to put on my running shoes," instead of, "I wonder if Reese's peanut butter cups would be good cubed and thrown in waffle batter with homemade caramel syrup?"  (It SO would.)  It was a refreshing new path.

Then something happened.  In the middle of a run one beautiful, fall morning I felt something betray me in my lower leg; it popped, I froze, and I had to limp the rest of the way home.  I had to stop running after that, and since then I've sort of been ignoring it for months because I was certain that a trip to the doctor was going to result in an MRI, which appropriately translated means "one thousand dollars that I would rather spend on pedicures for life."  It's funny though, what happens when something is taken away from you.  Just like trans fats, real light bulbs, or "Land Of The Lost" when you lose something without your consent you want it that much more, and that's what happened with running.  My body has been missing it, craving it even, (CRAVING it!  I'm like your Aunt Ruth who just woke up and announced she's going to start waxing her mustache and wear dresses from now on.), so I finally relented and sought out a specialist.  He sent me out the door with the name of a physical therapist and guess what?  NO MRI.  We can afford those two weeks of college for Samantha after all!  I've been going for about a month now and as it turns out, there IS a payoff for enduring repeated deep tissue massage followed by having to peel oneself off the ceiling.  Just last week, he released me to do a little running. 

In the meantime, Cory bought me an armband for my iPhone as a birthday gift so I could listen to my tunes while running outside.  I haven't even been able to use it yet, but since it was SIXTY THREE DEGREES in Denver yesterday I took it on its maiden voyage around my neighborhood.  My review on getting back to running is positive - it felt like I was giving my soul what it wanted.  Then again, that could have been the seductive haze of 63 degrees talking.  Still.  I didn't run far, but I felt free again.  My review on the armband however, is mixed.  Yes, it was nice to not have to hold my phone as I ran, but I hadn't accounted for the chafing.  Or the hickey that developed on my underarm from the suction created as I attached it.  I was like, "Hellloooo?  FIRST DATE here iPhone armband, and I'm not about to give YOU more action than everybody else who took me out for the first time."  Loosening it proved ineffective, and tightening it even more was worse than being dry needled at physical therapy.  So, arm in arm we continued around the bend until I was past feeling. We'll work through it.  In the meantime, I'm free.  Today's forecast:  High of 72. 

BRING IT.

My "Support" Group

I'm a back row kind of girl.  Classrooms, movies, you name it, I don't like to sit near the front.   I'm very shy at my core, and to sit in the front of a room feels very vulnerable - I don't want to be noticed, I don't want to get called on, I just want to be a fly on the wall.  Pretty much the only place I don't like sitting in the back row is on an airplane, and that is simply due to my exit strategy.  After all, the whole reason I ever get ON a plane is so I can get OFF a plane, and if I'm sitting in the very back waiting to exit it's like trying not to pee myself while having my picture taken next to a waterfall after drinking 3 gallons of lemonade.  I can't stand it, can't flash a real smile - all I'm really capable of is saying a prayer of gratitude that I no longer have to travel with small children.

I am the same way with my Weight Watchers meetings.  I weigh in, catch a seat in the back, then try to ignore people for the next half hour so I'm not delayed getting out as soon as it's over.  I don't usually say much. 

Usually.

Our last meeting centered around the topic of stress eating.  The group was discussing how to handle stress without using food, and what to do when one is tempted to use food as a coping mechanism.  "Take a hot bath," offered one member.  "It helps reduce stress and it's pretty challenging to eat while your bathing."  I couldn't resist and piped up, "Challenging, yes.  But not impossible."  It was in that moment when the first 4 rows of people turned around in their seats to stare at me that I realized...

...there are certain perks to sitting in the front.

Monday, Monday

10:30 am - I leave for the gym.  Incidentally, a mile from my house.
10:31 am - Cell phone rings.  It's an 800 #.  I ignore it.  In hindsight, a poor choice.
10:32 am - Arrive at the gym and survey the possibilities - elliptical with TV or treadmill with iTunes?  I opt for TV.  I put phone on vibrate, stuff it in my jacket, and hang it on the coat rack. 
10:48 am - Starting to sweat, I watch the dude on The Price Is Right lose a trip to Thailand while another woman walks off with a boat and designer purse.  I reminisce about my brother winning $40K in cash and prizes back in the Bob Barker days, and how he had Bob hold his shirt while he spun the "Big Wheel", thus revealing his Battlestar Gallactica undershirt.  (a calculated move)
10:50 am - potty break.  The woman in the other stall is wearing too much perfume.  It stinks.  At about this time the police are arriving at my home and I have no idea.
10:52 am - blow nose, switch to treadmill, and judge the girl next to me who is working out in her nightshirt and flip flops.  Try to take a subtle picture of her to post to facebook - dangit! too blurry.
11:07am - Follow physical therapist's instructions:  Run 1 minute, walk for 30 seconds.  Run 1 minute, walk for 30 seconds.  Do this for a mile to gradually break in that calf muscle I tore four months ago.
11:28 am - Final trip to bathroom to wash hands - walk in on nightshirt/flip flop girl dancing in the mirror.  It is all I can do to keep a straight face.  Leave to retrieve jacket, check cell phone, NINE MISSED CALLS, 4 text messages, and two voice mails.  I take it off vibrate, head to my car, and answer Cory's text first in response to his question, "where are you".  I think he is just interested in making lunch plans, so I call him back and leave him a pleasant message on his work voice mail.
11:30 am - Jump in car as quickly as possible to avoid the torrential winds from blowing me to Canada.  Cell phone rings - it's Cory.  He's calling FROM HOME.
"Honey?  What are you doing home?"

"Well, it seemed like the right thing to do when the security company called to tell me our alarm was going off and you were not answering the home phone OR your cell phone.  I was worried."
He was worried.
He also works not very close to home, and I know how busy he has been at work lately so suddenly I felt very guilty that I had, unknowingly, caused such a ruckus.  What happened?  After talking it through for a few minutes we figured it out.

There's a system when I leave the house:  turn on alarm, leave through house door, open garage, and exit.  Today, apparently, the door from the garage into the house didn't fully shut when I left so when I opened the garage the winds (which again, were torrential today.  Like, two hands on the wheel, don't bother doing your hair TORRENTIAL.) blew back open the door without me realizing it, rendering the alarm unable to engage.  When this happens the alarm actually sounds, but I was halfway to the gym by then.  I didn't know - they tried to tell me, hence the 800 # call that I ignored.  So there I was, burning calories and watching people make the highest bid without going over and not only were the police on their way, but Cory called a neighbor to come check on me while he jumped in his car to make the half hour drive.  "I was supposed to be going into a meeting," Cory explained, "but I knew I wasn't going to be able to concentrate."  You guys, he chose ME over ACCOUNTING.  I mean, I've had guys who didn't even choose me over Physics homework and reheated dorm food so forgive me if I think this is a big deal.

Cory might say the moral of this story is to make sure the door to the house is FULLY closed before leaving through the garage.

I say the moral of the story is He Loves Me.

That and if you thing your dance moves are worthy of flaunting in a public bathroom mirror while wearing your nightshirt, think again.

A Trip Inside My Head

I want to blog.
I don't want to blog.
I want to write something brilliant.
I don't care if I ever write again.
I don't like Adele's music.
I am happy for Adele's success.
I don't think Meet The Parents was a funny movie.
I think Zoolander was hilarious.
I don't like reading sad stories.
I have been reading Half The Sky.
I want to do something meaningful.
Watching Ellen do it is easier.
I want to be an influence for good.
I'm not sure that mocking the people on The Bachelor counts.
I want cookies for lunch.
I ate broccoli soup.
I don't want to shovel the snow.
I also want Cory's car to make it into the garage after his long day at work.
I shovel the snow.
I want Kate to confess her true feelings for Castle.
I want HGTV to knock on my door and declare me the winner.
I don't want to move to Utah.
I want a nap.
I want to run.
I want to NOT be sick for the eleventy thousandth time since Christmas.
I want to fall asleep and wake up after the election is over.
I want to be funny.
I want to hug my physical therapist.
I want to stab my physical therapist in the eye.
I want to be the best at something.
I don't want to work that hard.
I want to say something interesting.
Instead you get this.

It's not always easy being me. 

I'm Sexy And I Know It

"Humble Pie" should be a new flavor at Marie Callendar's.  I've been eating a lot of it lately - perhaps it could be inspired by me, bear my namesake and then maybe I could finally get some free pie.  Seems only fair.

I thought it was enough that I was forced into menopause in my 30's.
I thought it was enough that I had to buy a tube of Preparation-H, and not for a practical joke.
I thought it was enough that I chipped my tooth ON A RAISIN.
But no.
During my visit to the dentist to usher in my first crown of all time due to said raisin debacle, my dentist asked, "Did you know that you grind your teeth?"  No, I didn't.  "You're going to need a night guard," he added, "oh, and your insurance doesn't cover it."  (And no more happiness!)  They proceeded to take a mold of my teeth, but to stop there would be like telling a friend over a cup of coffee, "Oh, and then the Nazi soldier asked me to turn the shower head to the left *yawn*".  No, to "take a mold" while following the instructions to "breathe" and "try not to gag" is like telling a bulimic to try and keep it down while staring at their index finger.  In short, A VERY LONG TWO MINUTES.

Last week I went to pick up the finished product.  They shoved it in my mouth and declared it a good fit, "nice and tight" they said.  I thought, "Good as in 'I can now sub for Laila Ali in a pinch'? or good as in, 'There's not a pheromone strong enough to overpower that this side of the Mississippi'?"  Personally, I think it was a little of both, which means a) I may have a boxing future after all and, b) nothing bad can ever happen to Cory.

Are you thinking it stops there?  Silly Brett.  As I got up out of my chair the dental assistant handed me the box and said, "You'll want to get some denture cleaner for that."  Say whaaa...?  "Yes, you need to soak it every night or else it will start to smell."  Within minutes I was buying Fixodent with Scope at Target.

To sum up:  Betty White is in her 90's hosting SNL and getting Emmy awards, I am in my early 40's taking hormones and soaking my night guard in denture tablets.  Now if you'll excuse me, I have to hurry up and get a nap in - Price Is Right is on at ten and Marie Callendar's is featuring a new pie tonight for their early bird special.

"On Little Wings" Winner!

Using Random.Org the winner of "On Little Wings" by Regina Sirois is...lucky #13, "Yarbrough Clan"! Congratulations! Email me at vernmaster at gmail dot com with your contact information and we'll get that out to you ASAP.  If you didn't win and would still like a copy, you can download it to your Kindle for only $2.99 right now through amazon.  $2.99!  That's like choosing between a Gatorade or a full on book (notice I didn't use Diet Coke or chocolate as my examples - I know my audience guys).  Paperback versions are also available for around $10.95. Thanks for the free copy Regina!

White Chocolate Raspberry Bundt Cake

The first time it really snowed I was sick.
Cory went to work.
The kids went to school.
So I shoveled the driveway.  While I was sick.  [cue violins and weeping cherubs]

The second time it really snowed I was sick.
Cory went to work.
The kids went to school.
So I shoveled the driveway.  WHILE I WAS SICK!

The third time it really, REALLY snowed was today, and again, I am sick.
Cory went to work.
The school district canceled school.
So I am making the kids shovel the driveway so I can blog about cake.

It's the one I've been talking about, and I think you know by now that I don't share recipes here unless I am a true believer in them.  Folks, I've never believed in any cake more than this one.  I read about it on Brooke's Blog over at "All Things Thrifty" and while she is often very thrifty and nifty, she spares no expense on this cake and I dare say, this cake will spare no expense on YOU.  I read about it three weeks ago, I have made it FOUR TIMES.  Three times of the white chocolate variety, and once in an experimental vein along the dark chocolate variety.  I surprised myself by preferring the white chocolate version, but not so much that I still didn't eat several pieces of the dark chocolate one by myself while watching "Fat Chef".  You would think after making it so many times I would have paused to take a picture at least once, no?  In fact, no.  But I DID strap it into the front seat to bring home the leftovers one time after a baby shower, and I took a picture of that:

If you look closely you will see that I conveniently left a plastic fork sticking up for easy access on my excruciatingly long, 3-mile drive home.  The seatbealt proved invaluable.  (If you want better pictures, see Brooke!)  So my friends, here is THE RECIPE: 

WHITE CHOCOLATE RASPBERRY BUNDT CAKE

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

DIRECTIONS:

Mix together:
1 Betty Crocker White cake mix (make as directed)
Add 1/2 cup applesauce (no cinnamon)
Add 1 small package of instant vanilla pudding (just the dry mix)

Divide batter - Pour 1/3 (approximately) into another bowl leaving 2/3 in main bowl.

Defrost 1 cup frozen raspberries and mash them up with a fork. Add 1 Tbsp flour and mix.  Add the mashed berries to the bowl containing 1/3 of the original batter and mix well. Set aside.

Take 1 c. melted white chocolate chips and melt them gradually in the microwave.  Add to remaining 2/3 batter add the melted white chocolate. Mix nicely.

Grease bundt cake pan well and coat bottom of pan with 1/2 of the white chocolate/cake batter mix.  Add dollops of all of your raspberry/cake batter mix to the pan on top of the white chocolate batter.  Then add the remaining white chocolate cake/batter on top of the dollops. To create the marble look, make an S pattern through the batter using a knife.

Bake 42-45 minutes.

Let the cake cool in the pan for a bit, then turn it out onto a cooling rack.

IMPORTANT STEP:  Place the cake in the fridge until it is COMPLETELY cool, then frost the bad boy with cream cheese frosting (recipe following). After the cake is frosted, place the cake BACK in the fridge to cool the frosting again, and then serve it cold. It is a million, and I mean a MILLION times better cold.

CREAM CHEESE FROSTING RECIPE:

1 stick softened (NOT melted) butter (1/2 cup)
1 brick softened cream cheese (8 oz)
Mix butter and and cream cheese until soft, add 2 tsp vanilla, beat until light and fluffy.
Add 4 1/2 cups powdered sugar, one cup at a time. Beat frosting until smooth. Add milk a tablespoon at a time until you reach the desired consistency.

Voila - it's the perfect dessert for Super Bowl Sunday, or perhaps marking another basketball loss on a Saturday, any and all holidays, birthdays, movie nights, rare moments alone in your kitchen when everyone else is sleeping, or say, a snow day when you're in your underwear, and you're sick, and the kids are outside...shoveling the driveway.

It's Wednesday, Is It?

My allergies have been giving me FITS lately.  I should mention that I don't have allergies, but I don't know how else to explain being sick for the third time in one month.  Therefore, it seems safe and reasonable to self diagnose that I am officially allergic to oxygen.  Perhaps, also weekdays.  And for sure to any and all articles about politics.  Because it's definitely not the three pieces of cake I had for breakfast yesterday.  Although, it might have something to do with the two I had for lunch.  (I said "might".)  REMEMBER I TOLD YOU I HAD A RECIPE.  It's coming, I swear.  But first I have to go put on some Yanni and take a hot bath.  OR take a Tylenol PM and watch "Dance Moms".  It's the perfect way to see how strong a Tylenol PM is - will I fall asleep beFORE or AFter that certifiably insane woman is done living vicariously through those young girls who possess all the talent that she never had that is so stupid but I can't stop watching?  ("Certifiably insane woman living vicariously" = TAKE YOUR PICK.)

ZZZzzzzz....

LOSING! And then, WINNING! And then, YOU WINNING!

Did you have a good weekend?  That’s nice.  Yours was probably better than mine as it’s hard to compete with spending your Saturday watching your son’s basketball team get annihilated for the 8^th weekend in a row.  Drew has been playing basketball for four years and for three of those years, we have gone ALL season without a single win.  Like, less than 1, more than -1, NADA.  Zip.  Zero. FOR THREE YEARS.  Drew likes to say we are the “undefeated losers”.  I like to say, “Somebody give me an Ambien and wake me when it’s over.”  I started out the season being supportive after our losses by highlighting the positives:  “well, your defense was better”, or “at least you guys got some good shots off”, and “those other guys have been playing together for years, your time will come.”  Well guys, our time has not come and I am out of speeches.  Now I just get in the car, Drew sulks in the back seat, and I say, “That sucked.  Want a milkshake?”  Only one game to go before it’s over, and we’re not exactly planning an after party.

But!  We did go to Red Robin after Saturday’s game and nursed our wounds – it’s amazing what a few steak fries in some ranch can do for a battered soul.  The thing is, I don’t care if we dominate – we don’t have to win all the time, or even most of the time, I would just like to lose by less than 44 points.  Is that so much to ask?  I think not, but our results suggest otherwise. 

After we drowned our sorrows in a pound of beef with special sauce, I spent the rest of my weekend reading a book.  I know!  I see how you guys are with your lists and your critiques of the dozens of books you read every other day, but sadly I’m not much of a reader.  Eater?  Yes.  Stalker?  Yes.  Bundt cake maker?  YES.  (Dudes.  Serious recipe coming to you soon – get your pans and ovens ready, and if you really want to be prepared go out and buy a white cake mix, small vanilla pudding mix, white chocolate chips and applesauce so you can make it the same day you read my post.  You’ll thank me later.)  But avid reader?  Not.  I’m not against reading, I just don’t do it very often.  But when I do, I enjoy it.

This weekend was no exception to that as I picked up a copy of “On Little Wings” by Regina Sirois.  This book is positively delightful.  Set in small town in Maine, a young girl is searching to piece together a part of her family that she didn’t even know was missing.  As she plots to set things right, the author sucks you in to the poetic landscape of a summer ocean and builds characters that make you laugh and cry at the same time.  There are parts that felt like “Grumpy Old Men” met up with Ouiser from Steel Magnolias  and I found myself wanting to get my haircut in the barbershop with all of them at the same time.  There’s just something about crotchety old people that makes me look forward to getting old.  Anyway, I definitely recommend this book – Regina Sirois really has a gift for language as evidenced by this PERFECT definition of what every writer seeks for:  “Words are like cameras.  There’s a million ways to take a picture of the same thing.  But only a few have the eye to master it.  And those few can use the camera, the words, to capture it.  And when words capture it, and you capture the words, then you own a piece of the world you didn’t have before.”  I love that! 

The author's original intention was to simply self publish this for family and friends, but it has received so much attention that it has since been picked up by a hot NY agent who is working on a wider release.  In the meantime, I talked with Ms. Sirois and she has offered to give a signed copy of her book to one of you dudes.   Free books!  It’s like I’m still trying to impress Oprah or something.  Anyway, if you would like to be the one to receive this free copy then do one or all of the following:

1.  Leave a comment. 

2.  "Like" Regina on facebook and then leave a comment to that end

3.  Follow her on Twitter, then leave a comment that you did

YOU HAVE UNTIL FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 3rd AT MIDNIGHT

If you want to skip all that and just buy a hard copy or digital copy, you can visit here.  Or just leave me a comment about how to not lose a game in 10 days.  We need all the advice we can get.

The Dog Guide For Non-Dog People

As you know, we didn't get our kids a dog for Christmas.  Technically.  My kids pretend to be annoyed about the pillow pet I got them in lieu of the real thing, but I had ten teenage girls for a movie night on Tuesday and several brought along their pillow pets and due to my generosity, my daughter wasn't left out.  In the end there are many reasons we chose not to go for it, not the least of which is that I don't even know what kind of dogs there are.  If you tell me what kind of dog you have, ESPECIALLY if it's some kind of a mix, chances are I have no idea what you are talking about.  Big?  Small?  Yippy?  Guard type?  Friendly?  Mellow?  Spastic?  I wouldn't have a clue.  It occurred to me that perhaps I'm not the only one who struggles in this area, so as your friend I have put together a handy little guide.  I think it will help you to understand how we came to our decision.

GOLDEN RETRIEVER

 

SHIH TZU (think about it)

BOXER DOODLE

PIT BULL

CHOCOLATE LAB

GERMAN SHEPHERD

You see why we opted out.

The Vow

As has been previously established, I am a sucker for brain candy movies.  I’m sorta too dumb to follow really complicated plots so I stick with the nice, sweet and predictable ones.  I like to see people kiss in the rain, get proposed to in train stations, and fall in love under twinkly lights (Edward’s diamond skin doesn’t count).  Above all, my most important movie criteria are eye candy and a happy ending.  Which is to say that I would have enjoyed 2001’s Kate & Leopold a lot more if not for Meg Ryan’s overdone lip injections and straw locks that appeared to have recently arm wrestled with a weed whacker but alas, I still had Hugh Jackman.  And even though Ms. Ryan’s career jumped the shark in this romantic comedy, Hugh walked around in double breasted coats with gold buttons and made toast while talking in his British accent which was, sadly, enough for me.

Nicholas Sparks is a romance novelist who seems to get a lot of movies made from his books.  The problem is, I don’t really trust him.  Sure, he gave us The Notebook where one of the main characters reads to his dementia-ridden wife every day and gets her to fall in love with him every time she wakes up in the nursing home, but he also gave us A Walk To Remember.  You know, the one where the good preacher’s daughter falls in love with the school’s bad boy, and the bad boy turns good because of her, and then she dies of leukemia?  Some might appreciate the unpredictable nature of this ending.  I say, this ending sucketh.  What’s so great about remembering a nice walk if she’s DEAD?!  If I wanted to watch somebody die I would just rent The Fugitive, watch the first 5 minutes and save myself the other hour and a half.  Not to mention Nicholas gave us The Last Song (father dies), Message In A Bottle (Kevin Costner's character dies at sea AT THE VERY END, RIGHT AFTER HE AND THE PRINCESS BRIDE FINALLY GET TOGETHER), and Dear John (competing love interest dies while woman's true love is away at war).  So you see why I'm leery.

Nevertheless, see paragraph one of this post wherein I use the word “sucker”.  Nicholas Sparks has another book being made into a movie that comes out soon called The Vow.  I haven’t read the book so I don’t know the full story (and if you do DON’T TELL ME) but here’s what I’ve gathered from the trailer:  The premise is that Channing Tatum’s character is married to Rachel McAdams character, they get in an accident, and the Rachel McAdams character gets amnesia and loses all memories surrounding their relationship/marriage.  My problem is that I fail to see the dilemma.  I mean, if you basically fell asleep and woke up to discover that you were married to Channing Tatum, would you be eager to challenge that?  I think the proper response would be to say, “Nurse?  I’m feeling much better now.  How’s about you slip me a little bottle of Vicodin and I let this nice boy take me home?”   

That’s what worries me though, the fact that I don’t see the dilemma.  I am very much looking forward to this movie – I will probably go by myself in the middle of the day and sit in the middle of the row, 2/3 of the way back with all the other middle aged women with no lives.  But so help me, if someone dies and these two don’t end up back together in the end, for real, as in NO DYING OF ANY KIND MR. SPARKS ARE YOU LISTENING?!  I will be very upset.  Channing, I will see you soon in the theaters.

Rachel, I am also looking forward to witnessing you and your beauty mark fall for Channing all over again.  Don’t let me down, GO TO HIM.  It’s the right thing to do.

Reverently, Quietly. Or Not.

The problem in church today was two-fold.  It started out normally with Drew discovering two Smarties on the ground and asking us if we dared him to eat it, to which we replied “yes”, and so he did.  But we can get into the pros and cons of daring your children to do unsanitary things later.  Next, it is relevant for you to know that when we go to church the kids and I sit together in the pews while Cory’s responsibility requires that he sit on the stand.  Several minutes into today’s meeting a young boy in front of us made a noise.  Not unlike a pig with a sinus infection desperately inhaling for a hint of oxygen, it caught me by surprise and I started to chuckle.  The kids took this as a sign of permission and quickly followed suit.  We quietly laughed amongst ourselves but quickly matured and remembered who we were and what we stood for and simmered down.

And then he did it again.  Longer this time.  And louder.

It wasn’t even that funny, except for some reason it was.  I caught a glimpse of the girl a couple of rows over whose eyebrows also shot up over outburst #2 and as our eyes met, she started laughing too.  And then we sorta lost it.  Like, wiping tears from my eyes, smudging my mascara, snot dripping from my nose LOST IT.  This is usually the part where a responsible parent steps in, issues the death glare down the row and threatens through a hiss, “Do I need to sit between you two?” but as I said, CORY WAS ON THE STAND.  I kept turning to the kids and saying, “Shhh!” but I was laughing amidst my commands, which is kind of like telling your kid to grab a healthy snack as you’re biting down on a donut.  In a word:  INEFFECTIVE.  I determined that I needed to remove myself from the situation and headed to the foyer to blow my nose, get a drink, and take a deep breath.  It worked, and I returned to my seat where my children had also gotten a grip. 

Then I looked up and Cory was no longer sitting on the stand, which was highly unusual.  Apparently, during our little display of inappropriate Sunday meeting behavior an actual problem arose, and Cory was directed by our Bishop to further investigate.  Minutes later I learned that this “investigation” of sorts required my participation as Cory passed down the aisle, whispered some directions in my ear, and resumed his position on the stand.  His whispered request alarmed me, and evoked worry about the well being of someone I cared about.  I did as he asked, learned the information we needed, then gave him a slight nod and knowing look from the cheap seats as if to say, “I think things are under control for now.”  The rest of the meeting was quite lovely, filled with hopeful messages, beautiful music, and general warm fuzzies.

Looking back, it occurs to me that when Cory left his seat only to pass us by a few minutes later and whisper an important message in my ear, this following some seriously irreverent mishaps within our row, it probably looked like he was coming down to tell us to, “Shut up already you guys are emBARRASSING me!”  Alas, he was merely doing his duty and following the counsel of our good Bishop.  Although, had he come to tell us to “shut up” I can’t say it wouldn’t have been uncalled for.  I would have looked up at him, flashed a smile and offered, “Want some Smarties?”

I'm Definitely Not Wearing My Underwear

If you ever want to know what’s going on in your life you should hover your mouse over the tab titled “Recent Documents”.  I just did this by accident and the following three document titles popped up:  “5^th Sunday – Unity”, “Carpool Schedule”, and “Spanish Burrito”.  There you have it, a window into my world.  It doesn’t quite cover it, however, and it makes me realize that I should have written something titled, “An In Depth Look at Regular Kleenex vs. Puffs Plus”, and “Things You Should Avoid Saying To Your Young, Impressionable Sunday School Class While Operating On a NyQuil Hangover”, if I was really interested in being thorough.  

For the record, when you are on day eleventy-twenty-four-hundred of THE COLD THAT WOULDN’T DIE there is no contest; only Puffs Plus will do.  It’s the only way to prevent your nose from looking like Whitney Houston’s after a cocaine spree.  Another valuable tidbit:  When your eyes are leaky, puffy and red and your nose seems to be running for Congress a good remedy might be to watch the movie “The Last Song”.  There’s a part where the little boy has just found out that his Dad, who he’s been spending the summer with and working side by side with making a stained glass window for the local church, is dying of cancer.  His sister is awakened in the middle of the night by a loud crash, and as she explores the house for the source of the noise she opens the door to find her little brother sobbing in front of spilled tools, mumbling something about having to finish the stained glass window by himself before his Dad dies.  Good heavens.  The REAL valuable tidbit here is this:  should you find yourself in such a situation, don’t look at yourself in the mirror for a good 24 hours.  For real, I’m trying to help you here.

Yes, you might say I’ve been a bit of a hot mess lately.  I was supposed to teach my Sunday School class of 10-year-olds yesterday and even though I wasn’t feeling great, it didn’t seem like enough of a big deal to skip church and get a substitute.  I felt a little differently once I got to church, however, but decided to man up and eek out my lesson after which I would go home an hour early.  (That’s right, leaving after two full hours of church would still be leaving EARLY.  We Mormons know how to party.)  Here’s the thing.  I haven’t spent much time in my church life teaching children.  Teenagers?  Adults?  Yes.  And yes.  But kids?  I once did a two-year stint in a leadership position, but never one-on-one in the classroom.  You’re about to find out that I’m not very good at it.  

The sad thing is that these kids really are darling and good, it’s just that I’m used to an audience that is either listening or tuned out, but not randomly spewing out their thoughts while you’re talking.  It’s like living in Rain Man for an hour every week. 
“How can prayer help you?”
“My wart is bleeding.”
“What do you think makes Jesus happy?”
“I like Transformers!”
“So, how can you show courage like the prophets?”
“I’m an excellent driver.”

Normally I am patient and kind with my responses.  Yesterday…not so much.  By the time I was wrapping up the lesson I was exhausted and I was in the middle of sharing my thoughts about prophets when one of the kids blurted out, “I know where Lucy* is!”  What the…?  (Lucy is one of the cute girls in my class who was out of town.)  I wasn’t in the mood to dignify the interruption with a response so I kept talking as if I didn’t hear.  They tried again, “I know where Lucy is!”  I stopped, looked at the child and said, “Yeah, I do too but that’s not what we’re talking about right now, is it?” and then tried to finish my thought that nobody was listening to.

There’s a reason I’m only the 2^nd best.

But I AM an excellent driver.

*Name changed

Careful What You Wish For

Don’t worry, I’m not going to drone on and on about what we got for Christmas this year.  Besides, the Porsche doesn’t like it when we talk about him behind his back.  Kidding!  We didn’t get a new car, let alone a car like THAT.  But, I did take the minivan through the deluxe car wash so it’s not like Santa completely forgot about me.  And as we all know, sometimes you get what you wish for and sometimes you don’t.  Either way, it’s just the wishing that’s fun.  (Lies.)

Sometimes what you wish for happens, just maybe not the way you intended it.  Like when you tell the universe you want to reach your goal weight by the New Year and you start throwing up at 4am.  I wouldn’t say it was the best 24 hours of my life but still, goal weight!

Sometimes you don’t know what you wish for until you see an infomercial for it, and then suddenly you have to have it.  This happened to Drew while watching TV with his buddy and they saw the commercial for the Forever Lazy.  Similar to a Snuggie, the Forever Lazy is meant to keep you warm.  However, true to its name it takes laziness to a whole new level above the Snuggie.  For example, if you were on a road trip and had to go to the bathroom, the Snuggie would pull over and go in the bushes.  The Forever Lazy, on the other hand, would simply scrounge for an empty soda can and keep driving.  Now you understand?  Either way, Drew was enticed by the commercial and he and his friend rolled off the couch laughing at the televised demonstration.  So, you can imagine his delight when the day before Christmas this friend showed up on our doorstep with a box….   Drew was thrilled and couldn’t wait to demonstrate it himself.  Here, take a look (albeit sideways - sorry, don't know how to change that on video):

Other times you’re not even looking to wish for something, you’re just wandering around the mall with a cup of hot cocoa and soaking in the atmosphere when suddenly, you round the corner and there it is.  That thing you didn’t even know you wanted but now you see that your whole life has brought you here to this moment – you trace your finger along its edge, you imagine all the places it could go, you mentally design your bedroom around it, and then you leave.  Because it’s too much and it’s frivolous and impractical and there are people sleeping under bridges downtown.  Then, unbeknownst to you your husband goes back later and buys it for you for Christmas because he is the best boy you've ever met.

Finally, every once in a while you receive something really beautiful that’s made even more glorious when you realize the thought and effort that went into it.  This year, the award goes to Samantha.  She’s been taking a photography class this semester and decided to make our family a gift where she took pictures of architecture to spell out our last name, and then had it framed.  This meant she used her free time to go take the pictures.  It meant that she used her off period at school to hunt down the photography teacher to use the dark room.  It meant she used her friend’s mom to help drive her places and get the supplies she needed, and it meant she used her own money (and quite a bit of it) to pay for matting, developing, and framing.  Here’s a sneak peek, only because I don’t like to advertise my last name to the internet on account of stalkers and pedophiles or say, Child Protective Services.  Suffice it to say there is an "S" in our name somewhere:

I love it, and can’t wait to hang it in the house with the InstaHang Dispenser I ordered off the internet after seeing an infomercial.  I bought it with some money my parents gave me for Christmas – it was either that or Hot Booties.  Tough call.  Maybe next year.

Man, it’s a good thing I didn’t drone on and on about what we got.  This could’ve been a doozie.

Last Night In The Car

The kids and I were driving home from a long day of many errands.  We had run out of conversation, the radio was turned low and I reached over to Drew in the front seat, patted him on the back and said, "I love you buddy."
He looked straight ahead and responded, "O...kay?"  Then, after a couple of seconds he added, "Why do you always do that?"
"Do what?"
"Whenever it gets quiet you tell us you love us."
"I don't know, maybe because one day you'll be on your own and won't have me around all the time and then once in a while, when you're by yourself and it's really quiet you'll hear my voice in your head telling you I love you and you'll feel all warm and fuzzy inside."
"Huh.  I'll remember that...when I'm rocking in a corner...all alone...after my first break up."  And then he pretended to choke back fake tears.

That boy, he mocks me.  But one day he's going to be alone in a room.  And it will be quiet.  And he will have had a hard day.

And he'll know.

The question on everyone’s mind…

…other than, “Who will be the GOP nominee?”
Or, “Which starburst flavor is superior?” (strawberry) (duh) (like, not even a close call)
Or, “What kind of a world do we live in where the Lindsay Lohan Playboy issue sells out but we can’t get anyone to read The Wall Street Journal?”
Or, “How is it that I can rally 127 Google followers but I can’t get one of my family members to accept my friend request on facebook?”  

All good questions, but the one that I know is burning at the tips of at least 11 of your tongues is, “Did Vern get her kids a dog for Christmas?”  My friend Emily stopped me in church Sunday morning with this precise inquiry, so I will tell you basically the same thing I told her.

He’s the color of brown sugar with soft, droopy ears.  His pug nose is dotted with dark brown freckles, and he smiles ALL the time.  He slept through the night on day one and has snuggled his way even into my cold, dead heart.  

Ladies and gentlemen, meet “Jimmer”.

Merry Christmas!

'Twas 2 Nights Before Christmas

‘Twas two nights before Christmas, when I looked at my roots

And declared then and there, I should do something, SOON.

All my regular stylists were busy already, 

with clients who didn’t procrastinate heavily.

So with gift card in hand and some reckless abandon, 

I called a salon and begged my locks lightened.

The stylists were nestled with their hands in one’s heads, 

while visions of Biolage conditioned their dreads.

With one in a burka and I in my coat, 

I searched for the one that might cause me to gloat.

When out of the back there arose such a clatter, 

I looked up and saw what, indeed, was the matter.

For standing there waiting to greet me, her client, 

was a girl fresh from high school, still awaiting her moment.

I followed her, slowly, I crept to her station.  

I bemoaned it already, my keen sense: trepidation.  

For how would a girl whom I sure could have birthed, 

give me and my locks the lift we deserved?

But onward I pressed, reading “People” to help me, 

she washed and she cut, then applied color liberally.   

When what to my wondering watch should appear, 

it had been THREE WHOLE HOURS and I was STILL HERE!

I spoke not a word, but was reaching ballistic 

when she finally quit drying and asked, “Do you like it?” 

I looked and quite frankly, I didn’t much care.   

All I wanted was to get the crap OUT OF THERE.

“It’s great!” I lied and I jumped up to pay, 

but the gift card I had was causing delay.  

I just couldn’t take anymore so I said,

“It’s your problem now – I’m going home to bed.”

I sprang to my car and sped home to my people, 

where dinner was made and o’er food we did mingle. 

Blah blah blah, I can’t rhyme anymore.  The point is I paid way too much money for a girl who probably asked for Polly Pockets from Santa for Christmas last year to cut and color my hair and I almost had another birthday while I waited.  When I came home and regaled my tale of unfairness and OH THE HUMANITY to my husband he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around why this was such an injustice.  While he spared me the line about starving children in Africa I detected a bit of sarcasm as he grabbed me in a hug and said, “It’s okay, you’re home with us now.”  Indeed there are bigger problems in the world, but still.  THREE HOURS?  I should have at least thrown something in the crock pot before I left.

Caramel Winner

Using Random.org it looks like the winner of my caramel hunk o' burnin' love goes to lucky #13 which in this case turns out to be "Jaydee & Shaunda"!  Send me your mailing address to vernmaster at gmail dot com and I'll get this little number out to you.  Oh, and I drizzled it in chocolate.  Hope you don't mind.

When The Hormones Are Rockin' Don't Come A Knockin'

Last night.

I was preparing to go to bed when I passed the living room and saw my daughter in the fetal position on the couch.  "What the...what's wrong?"
"I have a huge Biology test tomorrow and I forgot ALL my notes at school."
It was after 10pm folks, and usually by that time, USUALLY, all of my parenting strategies go out the window because I'm mentally already in bed.  My body still hasn't brushed her teeth or washed her face but my mind is already under the covers, curled up next to my personal space heater in the form of a middle aged man with great legs who is warming up my toes.  But last night, I rose to the occasion.  I put on my mom cape and asked, "What time do you have Biology?"
"First," she replied.
"Perfect," I said.  "Just sleep in and I'll take you after 1st period and you can make up the test later."
I know what you're thinking:  I WISH YOU WERE MY MOM WHEN I WAS A KID.  Aren't you?  Because at this point I was seriously contemplating nominating myself as The Best Mom Ever How Can I Ever Thank You and erecting a statue.  As I stood there waiting for her to jump in my arms and tell me how awesome I was she instead responded with, "What about Seminary?"
(...)  "Come again?"
"I mean, what am I supposed to do about Seminary?"
(You guys, why am I always having to spell out to my children how to be under-achievers?  I recognize I am the resident expert, but sometimes it's exhausting.)
I said, "Well, you would have to miss Seminary."  (Again, this isn't bad news!  Here I am, your mother in her Mother Cape saying, "Don't get up at 4:45 am.  Don't worry about your biology test.  Instead, SLEEP.  And then, EAT A HOT BREAKFAST FOR ONCE.  And THEN!  Make up your test later after you've had plenty of time to study and I will even write your tardy note to the office and WHERE THE HELL IS MY PLAQUE?!)
Instead?  She burst into tears.
???
I don't...I just...what...yeah.
So I took off my pretend Mother Cape and went to bed to let her deal with all of her teenage-ness by herself.  This morning I promptly made up for abandoning her by sending her a text message that I loved her and wished her well on her test, after which I came in to check my email.  I glanced down at the notepad next to the computer and couldn't help but laugh as I saw what Samantha had scribbled on it:

Final December Giveaway

I don't have anything clever, interesting or self deprecating to say so I'm just going to get to the point and tell you that for my final giveaway this month I am offering up:  CARAMEL.  I've already made two batches this season but for you, I'm willing to make one more.  Only one thing you can do to enter and that is:  leave a comment.  You have until Friday, December 16th at midnight so that I have enough time to get your info and hopefully mail it to you before Christmas.  If not, you can enjoy it for New Year's.  Party hats, kazoos and caramel - sounds like a good NYE party to me!

Ready...go!  I hope you win!

Even Better Than A Cardboard Elvis

Two days ago I made a discovery.  Or rather the internet made a discovery.  Actually, the way it started was someone made a delicious recipe, and then they told the Taste of Home magazine in 2008, and then my SIL found it last month, and then she told her blog who then told ME.  Kind of like one of those gossip exercises where you all sit in a circle and one person whispers to the person next to them, "Vern's blog is hilarious" and you continue around and by the time you get to the last person they're like, "Your fern's dog is nefarious?" and everyone learns their lesson about spreading gossip.  Except at the end of this you get cookies.

The point is, my sister-in-law doesn't share stuff unless it's amazing, so when she posted a link to Peppermint Meltaways I knew we needed to make them.  Samantha had to take a treat to school for a meeting today so we decided to try this recipe out.  The result was a revelation.  People, these were so good.  They were even better than finding my boyfriend's star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame:

Better than California Adventure at night,

Drew discovering FaceGoo,

or Samantha getting her braces off.

 Better than the kids meeting Elvis,

seeing Samantha in my wedding dress,

or Drew getting the help he needs.

The only problem with these little gems is that they are bite-size (like "fun size" on Atkins) so it's easy to eat 3 or 4.  Or 7.  I saved 9 of them to give to a friend for her birthday because that's how many fit perfectly in the box, then proceeded to put them in the fridge so I wouldn't be tempted.  There are 4 left.  Hey Cheryl, wanna go to lunch instead?  Moral of the story:  Go here, and make these.  You'll thank me later.