Rabbit In The Headlights

The Dog Guide For Non-Dog People

2012-01-26T08:19:00.000-07:00

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

2012-01-18T16:10:00.000-07:00

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.

2012-01-15T23:22:00.000-07:00

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

2012-01-09T08:56:00.000-07:00

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

2012-01-05T12:40:00.000-07:00

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

2011-12-30T09:07:00.000-07:00

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…

2011-12-28T21:32:00.000-07:00

…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”.

The kids didn’t think it was funny either.

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-25T06:24:00.003-07:00

'Twas 2 Nights Before Christmas

2011-12-23T20:43:00.001-07:00

‘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

2011-12-17T09:37:00.001-07:00

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'

2011-12-15T08:11:00.000-07:00

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:

Bless that girl, she's hard not to like.

Final December Giveaway

2011-12-14T19:22:00.000-07:00

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

2011-12-12T15:34:00.001-07:00

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.

Hatch Patch Creations - Winner

2011-12-12T08:16:00.000-07:00

Do you know what happens when one is in charge of a Christmas program meant to entertain 250 people when the biggest party she has ever planned didn't exceed 20 guests? First, she makes The Polar Express out of a cardboard box, constructs a sleigh out of foam board and the North Pole out of posterboard and streamers, and then orders elf costumes, reindeer antlers, and 300 bells from Oriental Trading Company. In other words, she sort of doesn't do anything else for a while other than plan this party, because if it goes poorly there is no one else to blame. I don't mind doing things poorly as long as I can point the finger at someone else in the end. Case in point: The Felicita Ward Road Show of 1987. I didn't ask to be one of the lead parts so it wasn't my fault that I sucked. (For the record: MARIA'S FAULT.) See how that works?

In the end the program was a success, largely due to the grown man who agreed to squeeze into Drew's pajamas from 2 years ago and my pink Snuggie to play his part, not to mention the other grown men who pranced on stage before night's end or the boys in the process of reaching six feet tall who acted out the enthusiasm of elves. And in case you were wondering, it's easy to make a 15-year-old girl look like a man with a little help from a Napoleon Dynamite wig and glasses. At any rate, now that it's over I can finally announce the winner from last week's giveaway even though the deadline for entering was (remember?) at 7:34 pm on Friday. I used a very advanced selection process and in the end, our winner is: CRAZY LIFE OF VERONEAUS. Congratulations! Please send me your email address to me at vernmaster at gmail dot com and Hatch Patch will send you your gift certificate. I'm planning one final giveaway for the month of December so stay tuned!

My Christmas Wish

2011-12-06T20:10:00.000-07:00

The truth? (Note to my niece Rachel: I hope you are sitting down.)

I want to get my kids a dog for Christmas.

I've envisioned the scene in my head numerous times; we would open all the presents on Christmas morning and then Cory and I would say, "Oh wait, we forgot one," and then we would walk to the garage, carefully lift the one box with holes in the top, and present it to the kids. They might look confused for a moment and then a tiny bark would escape from within, causing their eyes to bulge out like a balloon in the death grip of a toddler. There would be screaming, hugging, and potentially a few tears as they unwrapped the one gift they never thought they would ever get in their whole life, and right then and there as those dark brown eyes peer at them from under the gift wrap they would receive all their answers to the meaning of life. Most importantly, they would learn once and for all that yes, their mother loves them THAT much. The kids would frolic with the dog in the house for a while, maybe take him for a walk, chattering all the while about OH-MY-GOSH-THE-BEGGING-AND-GUILT-TRIPS-FINALLY-WORKED! and they would want to sleep in the same room as the puppy on that first night so it wouldn't be scared.

And the next morning I would wake up and say, "Well, that was fun!" and take the dog back to the store. Breeder. Pound. Whatever.

Because that's really the only reason I want to get the kids a dog, so I can see the look on their face when we give it to them. After that it's just vet bills and watching them eat their own poop, like urinating off the balcony on your honeymoon. What do you think, can a person survive that kind of psychological damage or should I just stick with plan A and get them iCrap and video games?

Book Winner

2011-12-05T22:55:00.003-07:00

The video wouldn't let me rotate, so sideways it is. Either way, Vennessa is the winner of "When I Grow Up I'll Go On A Mission." Vennessa, be sure to send me your mailing address to vernmaster at gmail dot com!

Hatch Patch Creations - Giveaway!

2011-12-05T11:30:00.001-07:00

If you have been reading here for very long you may have noticed a few things about me; I love Pierce Brosnan, my children make me look bad, the way to my heart is through Roberto's and the beach, and I haven't been real heavy on the giveaway front. But it's December, and you're not done shopping yet (Or are you? And if so, did you remember to buy me some tact and an extra memory card for my menopausal brain? WELL THEN GET BACK OUT THERE MISSY.) (Memory Cards for our brains!! Somebody needs to invent that, make it into an app and then remind me to download it.) And since you're probably not done shopping I'm just trying to help you out. (By the way, I haven't forgotten about announcing last week's giveaway winner it's just that I said you had until midnight, and I also said I would let Drew pick the name, and I didn't necessarily think that through because at midnight we were both asleep and this morning he was in a hurry to get to school and blah blah I promise to post it later!) (Blah.)

So.

Today's giveaway comes to you from my friend Jill who eats cotton candy for breakfast, turned down an offer to slay her neighbor's 50 lb turkey for Thanksgiving (she's still new to Montana), and also manages to strengthen families worldwide through her business, Hatch Patch Creations, maker of family home evening packets. You may recall some of my botched experiences with family home evening (like when Drew thought Samantha was Jesus, or when our deep discussion turned to talk of boogers) so this is the kind of product that was intended for people like me.

Sometimes Jill uses people she knows as inspiration which is why our friend Lorie gets mentioned in her "It's Nifty To Be Thrifty" packet, because Lorie is so cheap the Goodwill calls to ask her how she does it. (But she and her husband got through med school with four children and NO DEBT, so you should call her. Except be prepared to send your kid outside to pee so you don't have to pay for the water to flush the toilet.) I hesitate to probe whether I have inspired any such lessons, but I have to say that "Harry The Unhealthy Hippo" strikes me as suspicious. (Besides, HOLY HYPOCRITE BAT MAN, how many pieces of cake did Jill have on her birthday? Answer: No sense in bothering with "pieces" when you can just eat THE WHOLE CAKE.) THE POINT IS, these packets are handy whether you're trying to gather your family around for a teaching moment or need something quick for a preschool or Sunday School lesson, and all you have to do is click your mouse a few times to download it. And...Hatch Patch Creations is giving away a $50 gift certificate to do just that. That will go a long way folks, especially since each packet contains the lesson, illustrations, a scriptural theme, a recipe, and a game or activity idea. In addition, (20% more free!) Hatch Patch is offering a two week promotion where you can buy the "Mary & Joseph" kit and get the "Samuel The Lamanite" kit for free. Simply enter "DECEMBER 12" as the promo code at checkout (picture and info below).

So, you know the drill - you get one entry for a comment HERE and another entry for a comment on "Hatch Patch Creations FHE Kits" on facebook, which you can get to by clicking here. You have until Friday at 7:34 pm. (BECAUSE I CAN.) (And I should still be up.)

When I Grow Up, I’ll Go On A Mission - Giveaway!

2011-12-01T12:13:00.001-07:00

It’s one of my favorite stories to come out of my family yet.

As members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, much like other Christian faiths, we believe in missionary work. Most of our missionaries are young men between 19-21 years old, but many young women and empty nester couples also serve anywhere from one to two years as missionaries. My parents served several years ago in Minnesota, and in the last year we’ve had two nephews return from two year stints in Missouri and Mexico, leaving one nephew out in the “field” who is currently serving in Brazil.

My nephew, Marshal, just got home last month from Mexico. With one sister living in New York, a brother in Los Angeles, and two nephews of his own that had been born during his absence, the entire family gathered at my brother’s home in Utah to be there when he came home. It was a momentous occasion that they all took very seriously, which is to say my sister-in-law got online and set about ordering sombreros and fake mustaches for everyone to wear in the airport as they waited to greet him. That is how I know my SIL is completely integrated into my family because I come from a LONG line of airport shenanigans. Like when we made a big banner out of butcher paper to wish my sister a happy 40^th birthday as she exited the terminal (she was still in her 30’s) or the time my family wore red, white and blue and my Dad played “I’m A Yankee Doodle Dandy” on his ukulele as they welcomed me back from basketball camp. So yeah, sorry Michelle, but YOU ARE ONE OF US NOW. (I’ve known for some time. I hope you don’t take it too hard.)
So there they were, this large crowd of sombrero toting, mustache donning hooligans in the Salt Lake City airport waiting for their son/brother/uncle to round the corner so they could put their arms around him for the first time in two years.

He came around the corner alright.

Wearing a sombrero. AND A FAKE MUSTACHE.

You guys, seriously. This wasn't planned, which makes it only one of the 8,001 reasons I am stoked to share a last name with these people.

(photos courtesy of Kinsey)

I won’t lie, I want my son to go on a mission. He is almost 12, which means he would be eligible in about 7 more years. I’m not anxious to get rid of him, and I know it would be hard to let him go, knowing that I would only hear his voice twice a year on Mother’s Day and Christmas, but I want him to go. I want him to sit in living rooms or grass huts or dirt floors and tell people that Jesus lives. I want him to write emails about seeing people get the light back in their eyes when they hear the gospel. I want him to learn what it really means to rely on God.

I just read a book that I’m going to give Drew for Christmas called, “When I Grow Up, I’ll Go On A Mission”. I love it because it illustrates with real pictures of real missionaries all over the world doing the same work. Unless you have served a mission before (Cory did, I didn’t), all you really know about missionary work is that it’s hard, that you secretly hope you don’t get called to serve in Utah, and that you come back and say it was the best experience of your life. I like the fact that this book gives a peek into the whole missionary experience, from sharing the gospel to helping a neighbor or from eating shave ice to tossing back a coconut, (let’s be honest, the shave ice really sold me) what you really get is a glimpse of love, the way God intended. You see that Heavenly Father knows his children, He loves his children, and He’s using the ones who already know that to make sure the word gets out to the rest of them.

So yes, I’m giving Drew a copy of this book for Christmas. I will also be giving a copy to one of YOU, because the author, Valine Vikari (who, when she’s not writing fun books is probably spelling her name for people on the phone), has donated a book to give away! You can enter by doing two things: 1) Leave a comment and, 2) “Like” the book on facebook, and leave me a comment to that end. You have until midnight Sunday, December 4 to enter after which I will have Drew randomly pick a winner. Seems fitting, don’t you think? If you don't win, you can still order the book from the website. I think it's going to be good for Drew AND you. But if not, we’re still preparing in other ways:

It's Cyber Monday, Can Someone Log On And Get Me A Life?

2011-11-28T19:35:00.000-07:00

This post is going to make me look bad, so before I get into it I would like to brag about my Thanksgiving triumph, just to even things out. I don’t know if you guys know this about me but I make really good caramel. (Care-a-mell? Or Car-mull? I say “car-mull”, not because I feel strongly that it’s correct, but because it’s fewer syllables. And I’m lazy.) I mean, REALLY good. Not like I’m trying to toot my own horn or anything but…what’s that? Oh yeah, *beep*beep*! It’s slap-your-mama-smoke-a-cigarette-to-calm-you-down good. Not that you should slap your mama OR smoke a cigarette, because both would be bad. I’m just saying this stuff makes a person do cRaZy things, so you have to be careful.

Anyway, I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do for the name tags to label the place settings at my Thanksgiving table and decided that I would make (make!) chocolate caramel apples with toasted almonds, using my homemade caramel recipe. So I did. I dipped granny smith apples in the homemade caramel, let it set, then dipped it in milk chocolate, and coated the bottom with chopped, toasted almonds before settling it onto wax paper. The next day I gathered each apple into a cellophane bag, tied it with a ribbon, and attached a name tag to the top to mark each guest’s spot. This is probably the point where I should grace you with a picture but, remember? LAZY. Unless I’m making homemade caramel, then I can be quite stellar.

Okay, so we’re all clear on the fact that I CAN be impressive when I really want to be, right? Excellent. Now for my confession.

Remember a few weeks ago when Samantha ended up in the hospital and I couldn’t sleep so I watched Friday Night Lights on my iPhone? Well, see, what I didn’t tell you is that I hadn’t ever watched this show before, so I started with season 1, episode 1. It was brain candy, which was exactly what the doctor ordered. (Well, technically the doctor ordered morphine, but I was noticeably absent on that recipient list. Trust me, I asked.) But then I wanted (needed) to see episode 2, and since I still wasn’t sleeping I went ahead and hit “Play”. Then Samantha came home and Cory left for China and I was all alone day and night for 9 days, leaving a ripe environment for the over consumption of predictable television where The Breakfast Club meets a football field and a modern day Ward & June Cleaver take over Dillon, Texas.

That, my friends, was the point of no return. It’s been 3 weeks and I’m on episode 58. Do you know how much television that is?! Let me tell you, it’s enough television to make a girl who is still on the couch in her underwear at 11:00 am ask the tough questions like, will Landry be convicted of murder for saving Tyra from her rapist? Can Coach Taylor lead the Panthers to a State Championship? Is poor Tim Riggins going to put down the bottle in favor of a better life? Will Jason Street ever walk again? Is Lyla ever going to be able to hang her head in disappointment without having a perfect strand of bangs fall across her face? Like I said, the tough questions.

I’ve watched it in the car.
I’ve watched it in bed.
I’ve watched it at the kitchen table.
On the couch.
In the (seriously) bathroom.
I would watch it on a boat with a goat or in a house with a mouse.
Here or there.
Everywhere.
It’s shameful. I’m not proud of it, but I still have to finish seasons 4 and 5 so I’m not out of the woods yet.

But I make really good caramel.

Rock, Scissors, Dynamite

2011-11-24T08:06:00.002-07:00

If you are checking blogs on Thanksgiving you probably got a really easy assignment for dinner. Be honest, you're in charge of the olives, aren't you? (Olives! I almost forgot.) Good for you. Nevertheless, I assume if you are bored enough to be checking blogs on Thanksgiving you are in serious need of some entertainment. Or maybe you're just kickin' it until Black Friday starts AT MIDNIGHT so the consumer gods can point down at us and laugh. Either way, I'm here for you. At least until 11:30 pm, which is probably when I'll need to grab a leftover turkey leg and head to Target.

My niece (Hi Meg!) sent this to me the other day and I almost wet my pants, which doesn't really convey how funny it is because I've had a hysterectomy and my bladder works about as well as a water balloon at a porcupine festival. But, here you go. Love it or leave it. I recommend the former.

That's only the beginning though, because once my niece sent me that one I had to have more. So I clicked on "Happy As A Clam" and almost wet my pants AGAIN. Because, yeah.

There's something about his accent that elevates the beauty of this whole experience. He seems genuinely annoyed, which makes me feel genuinely amused. Which is why I had to watch one more:

So much better than Black Friday.

More Precious Than Rubies But Not As Precious As Jumping Off Waterfalls in Kauai.

2011-11-21T20:30:00.000-07:00

I knew it would happen eventually.

Last week I sat next to my daughter who was about to receive an award of recognition (in the form of a necklace) at church for doing a crap load of admirable stuff. It's called her Young Womanhood Recognition, and is earned through a rigorous, lengthy process that begins when they are 12 and ends whenever they finish all the requirements, but must be completed by their 18th birthday. Most people wait until they are 17 years, 11 months, 29 days and 23 hours old to complete everything, but what can I say? Samantha takes after her father. Although the necklace's design has changed over time, women have been earning these awards for decades and many resurrect their medallions for such a night as this. Jewelry that has sat at the bottom of the box for months will get pulled out, dusted off and displayed around one's neck as a unifying symbol of generations of good works and obedience.

I used to have one.

I don't anymore.

This was the first time Samantha noticed. Just before the program was to start she settled into the seat next to me and noticed the woman next to me who was fielding questions about the snazzy chain cradling her medallion. After peeking at my bare neck she asked, "Hey Mom, why aren't you wearing your necklace?"

I looked at her and smiled. "You're so pretty."
"What? No seriously, where is it?"
"Ummm...I sold it?"
She laughed. "No, really."
"Uh, that IS for real."
"You SOLD it? Why?"
"I needed the money to take your Dad to Hawaii."
"Wow. That's just sad," she said as she sat down, shaking her head at me and smiling in amused disbelief.

The medallion these days has a small red gemstone below the emblem of the temple, our holiest place of worship. That night Samantha approached me and asked, "Do you think we could take this gem out and replace it with my birthstone instead?"
"Well," I answered, "do you know why they put a red one in it?"
"No."
"It's from the scripture that talks about your value being more precious than rubies (Proverbs 3:15) so no, I think you should keep that one."
She didn't miss a beat, "Oh! This coming from the one who SOLD hers?!"
Touche.
She proceeded to take one more crack at it and added, "Couldn't we just change it and say that my value is more precious than aquamarine?"

That girl. Not even the Crown Jewels hold a candle.

It's All In The Reflexes

2011-11-15T08:30:00.001-07:00

We are fortunate that Cory doesn't have to travel very much with his job but when he does he goes to one of two places, Missouri or China. As you might guess there are numerous similarities between the two, like both have people who live there and both have "i's" in their name. It might stop there. One of the differences is that when he goes to Missouri he is in and out pretty quickly, but China is another story seeing as it takes two days just to get there. For real, he flew out on a Monday and got there on a Wednesday, skipping Tuesday entirely. I think this is good information to have in case you have a really busy, horrible day coming up and you don't want to deal with it - book a trip to China and you can just skip it. It's a coping mechanism the therapists won't tell you about.

Another difference can be noted in our phone conversations. When Cory is in Missouri he calls me every night and we can talk as long as we want, and with Cory's passion for talking on the phone these exchanges can last as long as 5, even 7 minutes on a really good day. Calls from China go more like this:
"Hey Vern."
"Hi honey!"
"I'm not dead or anything."
"That's excellent."
"I had pig's feet jelly and yellow watermelon for dinner."
"That's disgusting."
"Well, this is costing about 18 dollars a minute so I'd better go."
"Ok, bye."
Still, it's nice to know he's not stuck somewhere with Kurt Russell in a semi truck trying to free an innocent woman from a street gang.

People sometimes ask me if I would ever like to go with him to such a far away land, and while there are a lot of far away places that I would follow my one and only, China is not one of them. On account of the pig's feet jelly, mostly. The way I see it, if you live in a place that makes a soy granola bar sound like fettuccine alfredo based on your other options, it's probably not for me.

Anyhow, we are really starting to miss him around here and it's not just because he usually drives Samantha to seminary at 6am every day. Although Samantha has admitted her preference for her Dad's tendency to drive 55 in a 30 when she is late, and my speech about how in 18 years of marriage I have never received a single speeding ticket and Cory has earned...1...2...plus 9...carry the one... I don't know, SEVERAL, is completely lost on her.

For the most part we have been holding down the fort just fine during the past eight days, seven hours and fourteen minutes. In fact, this last week has included four parenting pay off moments that he has completely missed - I feel badly about it, but at least I can text him certain details and he can mull it over while hunching over his pig footed stew. However, we did hit a bit of a weak moment without him last night when Drew got home from basketball practice.

I was in the office that faces our driveway when Drew's ride pulled up to drop him off and seeing the headlights hit the window, I got up to go open the front door. Unfortunately, when Drew came flying in so did a bird. A BIRD! WAS FLYING AROUND MY HOUSE! Samantha was the first to jump in and help out as she shut herself in her bedroom, screaming. I stood frozen in the entryway at a complete loss for how to proceed. After fluttering around for a bit the bird calmed down and perched itself at the top of our stairs, allowing me to gather my thoughts. Which I did, and after gathering them all together in one little pocket of my frontal lobe the one that cried out the loudest was, "Get your camera!" So I grabbed my phone:

The calm was fleeting, however, and seconds later this poor thing was flying frenzied circles near the ceiling. I yelled for Samantha to shut all the doors which she accomplished while screaming and laughing at the same time, and Drew and I tried to shoo the bird back toward the front door yelling encouraging things like, "Go toward the liiiiiight!" Miraculously it listened, and landed itself right on top of the light in our entryway. At this point it was only a couple of feet from the open door but it wasn't moving, which is when I had my first stroke of true genius and thought, "We should throw a towel at it." So I threw the towel, the bird went crazy and flew the opposite direction of the door leaving the towel draping off our chandelier like a Flashdance shirt. This was going nowhere, and now our new friend had cozied up above a door jam.

Drew was still parked near the open front door, Samantha was safely locked in her bedroom, and I stood there on our landing, staring at the bird and wondering how to talk it into being my friend. And then, wait, doesn't Dad have a fishing net somewhere? "Drew! Go see if you can find Dad's fishing net in the basement." I was standing still, trying to send the bird positive energy about my non-malicious intentions. Drew found the net and creeped slowly up the stairs, and slid the net my direction. I grabbed hold and slowly inched my way to the door jam when finally, as I held it over my shoulder I came down quickly and "bam!" trapped the bird in the net. We grabbed a piece of cardboard, slid it over the net to prevent escape and I scaled down the stairs, went outside, SHUT THE DOOR FIRST, and set it free. Samantha finally came out of her room and the 3 of us sat down and laughed while simultaneously recalling the previous 15 minutes of our adventure.

Poor bird, I think we scared the crap out of it:

So yes, we've been holding down our ~~fort~~ nest just fine, but we're ready for Cory to come home. He probably left tomorrow so we're expecting him sometime yesterday. Can't wait.

Keeping Mediocrity Alive

2011-11-11T15:34:00.000-07:00

As a self proclaimed expert on mediocrity it shouldn't really surprise me when people aren't all that impressed by me. It's not like I don't try, I'm just regularly upstaged. Like in 5th grade when we had a cake decorating contest. I thought, "Dude, I've GOT this." Because I made a cake in the shape of a BAND-AID! And surely nobody else was going to think of that, and if they did I bet they didn't make their cake from SCRATCH let alone use highly evolved tools like a toothpick to add texture, and who doesn't like to think about scabs and neosporin when biting down on a nice layer of buttercream anyway? Like I said, I had this in the bag.

What I hadn't counted on was the castle cake. Needless to say, sugar cone towers swathed in sparkly, blue sugar quickly relegated the band-aid cake to the honorable mention table. My cake wasn't bad, it just wasn't the best. Which was okay, it probably prepared me to ride the bench throughout my high school basketball career. Which reminds me, the bench? WHERE THE MEDIOCRE PEOPLE GO. People like me were the ones who got invited to the party with the new Dutch exchange student who was cuter than a pillow pet at a carnival, but the Friday night one-on-one date always went to the starting forward, no matter how good I was at burping the alphabet to try and impress him.

At any rate, I like to think of this blog as an avenue for embracing my mediocrity, a place where I can say, "I never took a high school AP class and still got several B's," and you might like me anyway. A place where I can vent about being voted the 'Just Happy To Be Here' award at Girls' Camp in 1983, which I am still bitter about. I mean, really? "Just Happy To Be Here?!" That's the award for the girl who takes to macrame like Octa-Mom to the tabloids, declines your licorice in favor of the trail mix she brought from home, and reads Sci-Fi novels during her free time instead of playing cards and saran wrapping the toilet seats. It's the laziest award I've ever received and that's coming from someone who got a green participation ribbon at her 4th grade track meet.

But I'm evolved now. Somehow blogging about mediocrity makes me feel more powerful, which is why I can share the following story with pride. About a month ago I was asked to take over the teaching of a Sunday School class full of 9 and 10-year-olds at church. I said yes, despite knowing that their previous teacher was a stellar overachiever who pored over her lessons for hours and then brought treats to the class in the form of chocolate covered cake balls on a stick. She was awesome, and the kids LOVED her. I showed up on week one with an object lesson and a few Skittles and thought I nailed it - the next week I got this note from one of my new students:


I think I'm going to frame it.

I Mean It, I Can't Do Cartwheels

2011-11-07T07:41:00.001-07:00

We’re somewhat experienced with hospitals in our family. I’ve had 2 babies, 4 pregnancies, and 2 surgeries, Cory has been hospitalized for a blood clot, and Drew has been under the knife 3 times. Samantha is the only one who has skated by without drama but as a witness to most of the above, it has caused her a bit of anxiety to think about what might land her hooked up to an IV. Well, now she knows.

When she woke up Friday morning with stomach pain we considered all of the obvious possibilities and treated it accordingly with Advil, TUMS, and a full DVR. Nothing seemed to be working and by noon, the pain was getting worse. I made an appointment to see her Pediatrician and by the time we showed up she was managing the stabs to her gut with short breaths, a firm grip on the door jam, and tightly shut eyes – like watching Courtney Love wake up in the morning. He proceeded to ask her all the questions that challenge one’s dignity – when was your last period? Last bowel movement? ARE YOU SEXUALLY ACTIVE? I knew it was coming, that question, and I knew the answer. But to interrupt the gentle yet humiliating exchange that was happening between daughter and Doctor with “Of course not Doc, she is perfect. SHE GETS IT FROM HER PARENTS,” didn’t seem like the right move either. So I kept my mouth shut and let her answer “No,” on her own. Even though I already knew it, hearing her say it made me do a little cartwheel inside. That’s how I do all my cartwheels since doing a cartwheel OUTside would require safety gear and a body double, and perhaps a life coach to build me up afterward. Following the Spanish Inquisition he probed her stomach in all the right (and therefore wrong) places and after peeling her lifeless form off the ceiling, determined that she needed to go to the ER.

One CT scan, urine sample, pregnancy test (What part of “Not sexually active” was confusing to you?) and 40 MINUTE ULTRASOUND (“I’m sorry, it’s just that her hips are casting a shadow,” were the tech’s precise words) later, they decided she would need an appendectomy. We were to meet with the surgeon in the morning and in the meantime, morphine would get Samantha through the night as I slept on the fold out couch made of bricks and toilet paper.

Morning came…wait a second. To simply say “morning came” makes it sound like we dreamed of butterflies for 8 hours and woke up to the song of birds outside our window. More accurately, I slept for 3 hours before the heretofore mentioned sleeping on bricks routine trumped my exhaustion and I was no longer able to abide trying to spoon the arm of the sofa under the coziness of my blankets manufactured by Kleenex so I got out my iPhone and watched Friday Night Lights on Netflix at 2:00 am. Have I shared my testimony of iPhones lately? Because I know they are true. With every fiber of my being. But this isn’t about me it’s about Samantha, who is 15 and smart and beautiful and not sexually active who happened to be sleeping…like one of the bricks that made up my bed.

Good for her. Even more good for her was when she woke up and her pain was gone. GONE! She was a little sore, probably from the lady trying to cast Samantha’s hip shadows into outer darkness but the pain that had played the role of the Exorcist only hours previously was gone. Her white blood cell count leveled out and after further observation the surgeon determined that operating was no longer necessary, the new theory being that she had merely suffered from inflamed lymph nodes. Only one more thing – they wanted to make sure she could hold down a regular meal.

Samantha had me call room service immediately. Four French toast, two eggs, a piece of toast and some apple juice later, we got our discharge papers.

When You Meet A Werewolf Be Sure To Stop And Get A Picture

2011-11-04T08:02:00.000-06:00

Yesterday's post may have seemed kind of random, but the truth is we had a little experience at Disneyland last week that exorcised that particular memory from my brain. Samantha doesn't have a celebrity crush like her under-the-influence-of-Tiger Beat-mom did, but she does watch a lot of Disney channel with her younger brother.

At first we didn't notice the small group of teens walking ahead of us along the waterfront of California Adventure, but eventually we observed that every time this young crowd passed by a set of girls, their eyes got big and the girls turned and excitedly whispered to each other. I can't remember who in our group figured it out first, but we soon realized that one of the kids ahead of us was Gregg Sulkin who plays a werewolf and Selena Gomez's boyfriend on Wizards of Waverly Place.

I turned to Samantha and begged her to go ask him for a picture - I could tell she wanted to, but she hesitated. "Don't do what I did Samantha!" I told her, the Pierce Brosnan regrets now fully engaging my frontal lobe. She didn't want to go alone but when she tried to rally Drew for company he vehemently shook his head and retreated further behind. Finally, she approached my friend Jill and asked her, "Jill! Will you go with me?" Being the good sport that she is and someone for whom the word "shy" never applies, Jill was game and saved the day. She ran up to him, tapped his shoulder and politely asked him for a picture. And now I know that if Samantha ever marries a werewolf, they will look really good together:

(thanks to Jill for making it happen, and thanks Gregg for being a good sport! You know I know you're reading this. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone.)

And Now You Know The Rest Of The Story

2011-11-03T10:35:00.002-06:00

If you have followed me here for very long you may have noticed my frequent yet brief references to my adolescent love of Pierce Brosnan. At this point, however, I feel it is necessary to stress that there was nothing brief about my obsession with Pierce Brosnan and all of his Remington Steele-ness of the late 1980’s. I loved him. When his wife died I felt sad for him, and if he had taken the time to return my calls he would have known that. When the show went off the air, I wrote NBC a letter and begged them not to steal my happiness. I wrote about it in my journal every time I watched the show on Tuesday nights at 9/8 Central. One time I saw his picture in a magazine and was so inspired I used a drawing technique to sketch my own copy of it:

I have even forgiven him for running like a dork and agreeing to sing in Mamma Mia. I can do that because I’ve seen him walk along the beach in khakis and a white linen shirt.

Which brings me to my next bit.

The year was 1989. I had just wrapped up my first year of college and my sister, Suzi had just graduated from BYU. She wanted to do something fun before accepting post-grad reality, and I didn’t have anyone begging me to be their roommate for college year #2 so we put our 22 and 18-year-old heads together and decided to go backpacking to Europe. It was a brilliant plan, really, especially considering neither one of us had any money. So we called our Mom, asked her if she would spot us until we could pay her back, and would you believe?! She said yes. My mother, who had 7 children and ground her own wheat to make bread and used chocolate powdered milk to make fudgesicles because she had to be resourceful as a stay-at-home mom being supported on a teacher’s salary, said YES. Not, “Excuse me, but the last trip *I* took out of the country was to cross the border to Tijuana to get the car painted, so how about I go to Europe and I’ll send you a postcard.” To this day I consider it one of her greatest acts of love. I’d like to think I pay her back every time I write something warm and inspiring on this blog…oh, crap. Maybe I should just get her something really nice for Christmas…?

So, Suzi and I went shopping for backpacks and money purses that we could strap on under our shirts to protect our cash and hopped a plane to Europe. One major bonus was that my other sister, Lori was living in London at the time so we enjoyed some serious sister bonding with her before exploring the continent. One such day took us to downtown London – we posed in Picadilly Square, lunched at the Hard Rock Café, and posed with the Royals at Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. We gallivanted through Harrod’s and eventually the three of us took up the sidewalk as we strolled the side streets to window shop. There we were, chatting and shopping and moseying along when all of the sudden I looked up, and there he was. Pierce Brosnan. With one hand in the pocket of his black suit he was sauntering toward me like any other citizen on the streets, except to me, THIS WAS NO ORDINARY CITIZEN. I still remember thinking, “Holy crap, he’s even more beautiful in person.” His eyes were mesmerizing, so much so that I stood in a trance before realizing that he was passing me, and I was missing it, and AREN’T YOU GOING TO DO SOMETHING YOU STUPID GIRL?! I had a camera! In my pocket! Because I was a tourist! And the love of my life was passing me AND I WASN’T ASKING HIM FOR A PICTURE!

Truth be told, I didn’t want to bother him. I wanted to show him that I wasn’t like all the other silly girls who giggle and act ridiculous, no, I was way too mature for that. Except celebrities tend to respond better to the gigglers who ask for a picture and pose for a split a second better than the really mature ones who are like, “Dude, I mean ‘Chap’, I don’t need a silly picture I just want to settle down and have your babies and make you oatmeal in the morning.” He ducked into a clothing store and I paced outside of it as I watched him trace his hand along the sleeves of a suit, and I wondered what to do when he came out. I’ll tell you what I did!

I watched him leave.

And then in total frustration and panic to capture at least a portion of this moment, I snapped a picture…OF HIS BACK. This is all I have to show for it:

FAIL.

Our California Adventure

2011-11-01T23:25:00.000-06:00

"It's a small world, but I sure wouldn't want to paint it."

~ Stephen Wright

I've been gone from California longer now than I ever spent living there, but visiting still feels like emotional CPR. The vines climb the bridges and guide me to Balboa Park, the ocean air whispers calm to my whole being, and the smell of eucalyptus transports me back to a moment as a child, driving in our family suburban with the windows down. Ask me about any slumber party I ever attended as a child and I couldn't tell you much about it (except maybe the one that got a little wacky with the Ouija board for the girl at school who preferred to go by "The Golden Unicorn" as opposed to her given name), but pull out a fresh branch of eucalyptus and it's not just a slave to the glue gun and a bad Michael's craft, to me it's home. Family. Security. Love. It's ME, minus the stretch marks and sarcasm.

This recent jaunt to my home state packed in 3 full days at Disneyland, one day in Hollywood, and one day in San Diego. One key observation about Disneyland is that I would like their staff to come clean my toilets. Dude, that place is spotless. You know how most public trash cans look like chewing tobacco depositories for all the New York Yankees? Disneyland's cans must come with their own cleaning fairies because not even once did I go to throw something away and think, "Jackson Pollock has been here experimenting with a new medium of vanilla soft serve and ketchup." Also, have you ever met an amusement park that didn't have several corners that smelled like urine, especially indoors? Well peeps, meet Disneyland. Not even through the 2 miles of cave that form a line to the Indiana Jones ride did I get a single whiff of urine, and seeing as I can't even accomplish this within the walls of my own home I give serious props to the cleaning powers that be at Disneyland. We wrapped up night #1 with the World of Color show and would you believe I thought of you guys during the program? I totally did, because I was wishing all of you could be there to see it too. I had no idea you could do such cool stuff with water and left feeling like this show should write a letter to all the tsunamis that says, "Here's how you can play nicer with your friends." But since you guys couldn't be with me I took a little video to share - it doesn't do it justice, but it's still kinda cool. Imagine you are Jack Sparrow and it hits even closer to home:

The "It's A Small World" ride was closed while we were there but the sentiment wasn't lost on us as we ran into EIGHT families that we knew from church and school. Samantha was able to hook up with one of her buddies while rubbing elbows with Pluto which worked for all parties involved:

Oh Mickey, you're so fine this roller coaster blew my mind:

Space Mountain: I'm the one that looks like I was just told that I was about to undergo a colonoscopy using a scope with razor blades and no anesthesia. Cory looks ready for a Motley Crue concert, and Drew (sitting in the back row behind him) is pretending to be asleep. He ain't afraid of no ghosts.

Me and my friend Jill pretending to be trapped in the Toy Story box. A Disney employee approached us afterward and said, "I've seen a LOT of pictures taken in that thing but I've never seen anything quite like THAT." I think he liked it, in a twisted Disney janitor sort of way.

I TOLD YOU HE WAS ALIVE.

Why do I always look so wrinkly? And why does Jill look stoned?

I don't remember the joke, but I bet it was good.

Samantha:

The picture that left me wondering how I would ever manage to get myself back on the plane to Colorado:

I still don't know how I did it.

California Girls - The Beach Boys Kind, Not The Katy Perry Kind

2011-10-25T00:30:00.000-06:00

Today, as we waited to exit the plane:

"I gotta get outta here, it smells like farts and ketchup." ~Samantha (I have to say, she sorta nailed it.)

Passing a graffitied building in downtown San Diego:

"Hey, check it out! It's a monkey with an umbrella and a beard." ~Samantha

It's Fall Break around these parts, and when I say "these" parts I mean the parts I left behind this morning as we parked our car at the airport and boarded a flight to the place where I once developed a crush on a boy named Jeremy in 2nd grade, used to ride bikes across town with reckless abandon for coconut frozen yogurt, (back when we didn't have cell phones, and we never called when we got there, and never once thought about child molesters!), and where I was the teacher's pet in ceramics class. I was wild back in those days. I mean, seriously, I would go toilet papering on WEEKnights.

The point is, we're on vacation in my hometown. I've been afraid to talk about it for fear I would jinx it, as the last time we attempted a trip to Disneyland I ended up on a gurney two weeks previous and had to send Cory to the happiest place on earth without me. Not cool, dudes. NOT COOL. So I am here to redeem myself, and I'm counting on all the planets to align and support the process. We start tomorrow, but in the meantime we have settled into the warm pacific air - I have already driven the kids past my elementary school, high school, and showed them where my best friends used to live. Not to mention we picked pomegranates from my parents' tree which my mother used to whip up a little batch of dark chocolate pomegranate scones. Pomegranates! From a TREE! And then, SCONES! Too bad my mom isn't your mom too.

Operation Redemption: Off to a roaring start.

What I Know For Sure - IKEA Edition

2011-10-17T13:22:00.011-06:00

Several months ago I saw my first IKEA but I didn't actually go inside - it was a quick freeway fly-by. But the way people talk about this place you would think the Greeks left out one of their gods and we're just hearing about it. There's been so much hype about the grand opening here that I decided to wait a couple of months to let things die down before visiting for the first time. Last weekend Samantha and I came upon a little mother/daughter girl time and decided it was a prime opportunity to lose our IKEA virginity, except instead of lighting candles and getting a nice little room overlooking the water we entered the great and spacious building that bears my high school colors. BLUE! YELLOW! Hard to miss. Here's what I learned.

1. Quote from Samantha: "Little furniture, BIG napkins!"

2. These birds have big butts and I cannot lie.

3. Ligon Berry juice from the fountain!
4. I don't know what ligon berry juice is!
5. Giant pebble ice, like Sonic ice that hasn't been to fat camp. Awesome.
6. The sign says "Swedish Meatballs", but how do I know they didn't just get it from the giant bag at Costco? This weighs on me and compromises the European feel I'm going after.
7. Still. GIANT pebble ice.
8. Pitcher or Neti Pot? I'm still not sure.

9. Garden Gnome ornaments. You start off wondering, "Who? Why?" and then the cashier says, "That will be $2.98 please."

10. You are the weakest link, hej da!

One thing I know for sure, we have a lot more in common with the Swedes than I thought:

Rhymes With "Harlot"

2011-10-15T06:29:00.000-06:00

Since I'm too old and broken to have anymore babies I often stalk my other friends whose reproductive capabilities are in full swing and have blogs with pictures to prove it. There's a girl I love, and I used to be her youth leader. As in, she looked UP to me as an example, came to me for advice, and relied on me for guidance sometimes. Crazy enough, she turned out anyway! I won't say her real name (rhymes with Barley) or tell you who she's married to (named after the river where Jesus was baptized) or what they named their darling, new baby girl (rhymes with "harlot"), but I WILL say that she posted some pictures lately that made me laugh. As I began to draft a comment I realized that what I really wanted to do was turn the whole thing into a post, so I asked her for permission and what do you know that girl always comes through for me. So, my friends get the credit for the pictures and I will take responsibility for the captions.

Uh, Mom? You've got a bat in the cave.

Seriously. Aren't you going to do something about that?

ACK! SHE'S GETTING IT ALL OVER ME!!!

Perspective

2011-10-14T07:47:00.000-06:00

I really wanted Samantha to set a PR (personal record) today in her cross country meet. I wanted it because she wanted it, and she’s been busting her chops to make it happen. She was incredibly disappointed last week when her expectation to PR was foiled, and I wanted her to see that hard work eventually pays off.

I really wanted her to PR.

I fed her a carb filled dinner the night before.

I wrote an encouraging note and put it in her lunch.

I made sure she had a full water bottle and we both climbed in the car to head for school. “I love you Mom,” she said as I dropped her off. “I love you too,” I managed before she shut the door and I watched her blond hair and green eyes disappear through the double doors.

Later this afternoon I showed up to the race across town. With some time to spare before Sam's heat started I made my way up to the memorial on the hill, a place I had intended to visit before but ran out of time. I read the sign at the entrance outlining “no cell phones”, “no climbing on walls”, and additional requests for certain levels of propriety. I scanned the area to take note of the others meandering the memorial.

Teenagers.

They were quiet, walking slowly and deliberately, and following all the rules. Circling the memorial they stopped to read the tributes engraved on the flattened, polished boulders.

It’s been over 11 years since Columbine, a massacre laid out on a group of students who had been dropped off that morning of April 20^th just like Samantha had been this morning. I walked the path that honored the victims through stories, accomplishments, their goals and beliefs. They were deeply personal and I was deeply moved.

It’s been a long time since that awful day.

I came to the race wanting Samantha to PR. I left feeling grateful just to have her here.

Grateful she could run at all.

It's True, I Have Roasted Edamame In My Cupboard

2011-10-12T16:39:00.000-06:00

Months ago a friend of mine (Hi Kettie!) was sharing her experience on working out with a personal trainer, who had encouraged her to make 80 grams of protein a day part of her diet. A DAY! I was like, "So, let me get this straight. You pay her $50/hour and in exchange you masticate a cow every 17 minutes?" She said, "Of course not, stupid. I masticate a cow every nine minutes, and in my down time I pop a little roasted edamame." I said I didn't know you could make edamame grosser, she said 'grosser' wasn't a word, I said look it up in the Scrabble dictionary, and it went downhill from there. She may have a different version of this story, but the point is, I made fun of her for eating roasted edamame. Because hellooo, too easy.

And then I went to Sprouts.
And the bin of roasted edamame and I came face to face.
My inner voice said, "Don't do it."
The bin cried out, "You know you want to."
My inner voice fought back, "Not really."
The bin argued, "Everybody's doing it."
I said, "No, you must have us confused with Boulder."
Then I got tired of the vulcan mind meld between the bin and I so I broke down and bought some, took a picture, and texted it to Kettie for proof.

It's been sitting in my cupboard ever since. 'Cuz for the record? Not as delicious as you might trick yourself into thinking.

Then today I was at my WW meeting and the leader was asking what our refrigerators and cupboards should look like if we want to be successful at losing weight. "If I came to your house right now," she began, "what would I find in your cupboards?" Perhaps I should have jumped at the opportunity to highlight the abundance of soy gracing my shelves but I couldn't do it. I couldn't be that kid in class in the front row who asks all the questions, turns in his homework before it's due, and requests additional extra credit work for fun. So no, I wasn't forthcoming about my edamame but I also wasn't forthcoming about having a bundt cake for lunch last Thursday so I'm calling it even. I feel like this picture is telling me that's okay:

This one is kind of funny:

As for this one, I SWEAR IT WASN'T ME!

Family Dinner

2011-10-09T20:42:00.001-06:00

As we sat down for dinner tonight Drew was laughing about something when Cory asked, "Hey 'Laughing Boy', will you say the blessing on the food?'" Before Drew could start, however, I observed, "You know, Dad would have been good at naming Native Americans." We chuckled, Drew prayed, and then Cory turned to Samantha, "Hey 'Runs on Gravel', how was church today?"
"It was fine," she answered.
Then, turning to me he inquired, "How about you, 'Blogs With Rabbits', did you go to your new class?"
"No, not until next week," I replied.
As Samantha slurped up a final spoonful of soup she asked, "Is there more soup or is it all gone?"
"Well," I began, "I gave most of it to 'Grunts When Poops' but I think there's a little left."

We don't have a lot of friends.

Highs & Lows

2011-10-08T15:30:00.001-06:00

Yesterday the high in Colorado was, no, not Ziggy Marley, it was 67 degrees.
The day before that the high was 78.
The day before that the high was in the 80's.
And the 27 days before that the high fluctuated between the 70's and 80's.

Last night it started to snow for the first time this season, and it's still going strong.
Windy, rainy, wet, blustery, side blowing snow.

Tomorrow is forecasted to be in the high 50's with sunshine.
The day after that should hit around 69 degrees, with sunshine.
The day after that Mike Nelson said it should be in the 70's.
Same for Wednesday and Thursday.
And Friday.

I'll let you guess which night Cory had to take Drew camping with the scouts, and which day we had to deliver 320 Yellow Books for the school fundraiser.

The One Where You Google "Anti-Depressants" And Email Me Your Findings

2011-10-05T08:19:00.002-06:00

My birthday is coming up next month and I will turn 41. FORTY. ONE. It's not like it's that high of a number, but if I was a celebrity this is about the time I would have to start considering dog food commercials instead of movie deals just to pay the rent. So, you can imagine how relieved I am not to be famous. It goes to show, really, that being mediocre in all things is a pretty good gig. This way if someone called me up to do a dog food commercial I'd jump on my blog and be like, "YOU GUYS! Watch Channel 9 and look for the ad with the backlit, middle-aged woman in the meadow getting mauled by a golden retriever - THAT'S ME!!" This way it's a celebration instead of a walk of shame, and at the end of the day I get to come home and sleep with an accountant who golfs on Fridays and be totally happy with that.

I'll tell you what else I can be happy about when it comes to getting older is that I'm discovering how many strong opinions I have, and how I care less and less about whether people like them or not. I think this is why old people have a reputation for being so crotchety, because they don't give a flying fig (digression: I have no idea where the phrase "flying fig" originated, but if I had to guess I'd probably say a rest home food fight is a decent possibility) what you think. They don't care if you're their friend as long as you bring them their pudding on time and keep their TV on "All My Children". It's where I'm headed, I can feel it.

A few days ago I ran into a skinny friend at the store who had just finished a marathon over the weekend in THREE HOURS. I asked her about it and was all prepared to congratulate and pat her on the back and say all kinds of nice things when she began to lament her time. But that's not even the point where I got mad, because I understand the difference between myself and an elite runner. (Elite runner: "I didn't average a 5 minute mile" Me: "I got to the finish line before they turned off the lights!") It was when she launched into her dissertation about being fat that I completely lost my mind. This girl needs to lose weight the way Carson Kressley needs to shed a little of his masculinity. I looked her in the eye, smiled, and said, "I'm sorry, this conversation is officially over", and walked away. Cory's worried that I was too rude, but I'm at a point in my life where I refuse to tolerate that kind of utter nonsense. I mean, if you were standing in a store talking to Martha Stewart and she said, "If I could just get a little more creative".... See what I mean?

AND ANOTHER THING.

I'm also starting to get grouchy already about winter waiting for me just around the corner. Because around here, "Winter" should be spelled "WINDter". Wind in the summer can be kinda nice, but wind in the winter is like nature's way of saying, "I've never liked you very much." Seriously, it gets so blustery around here that Chicago starts calling to see how I'm holding up. I'm not ready. One time last year when I was running around the neighborhood it was so cold and windy that I stopped dead in my tracks, raised my fists into the air and yelled, "STOOOOP IIIT!!!" It yelled back at me, froze my snot and told me to run wee wee wee all the way home if I was going to be such a baby about it. The wind - it mocks me. As do the neighbors who may have witnessed this event.

So yes, soon I won't just be 40, I'll be "in my forties". I've decided to celebrate by complaining without apology all year long. Cory is super excited. (p.s. Buy me something really nice.)

How To Get A Good Pedicure

2011-10-03T15:34:00.001-06:00

STEP ONE: Pick a color that doesn't suck.

That's it, just the one step.

(What was I THINKING?)

In Your Dreams

2011-09-28T19:03:00.001-06:00

My favorite dreams are flying dreams. They don't happen very often, but when they do I wake up feeling invigorated and interesting. Probably because of all that fresh air.

My most NOT favorite dreams are the ones when I am standing in the lunch line at Miller Elementary and I realize I forgot to wear underwear, and my 2nd grade love interest just dumped me for a girl with a boy's name, and my teacher is leaning over me to help me with my Math but I can't concentrate because her shirt is showing her cleavage and she is trying to mask her coffee breath by chewing cinnamon gum. Sometimes my dreams are really vivid.

Worse than that are the dreams where someone is chasing me and I can't scream. I blame those on the rape seminar I attended when I was 12 years old back when I thought that people who kissed each other in movies wore some kind of invisible lip guard, because certainly they didn't actually kiss each other, on the lips, when they weren't even dating in real life. You see why I never pursued acting. That and the fact that when one turns a camera on me you may as well be asking Sean Penn to let out a good belly laugh during an Ellen interview. Not happening.

Last night I had a dream I had never had before. No chasing, no flying, no Sean Penn jokes; it was a different kind of dream entirely. I was...

...washing dishes.

That was my dream. I was standing at my kitchen sink and washing dishes. IN MY DREAMS.

???

Remember in 10th grade when you wanted the hottest senior boy to ask you out and pick you up in a red Ferrari and bring you a cake and kiss you over the lit candles (WITHOUT INVISIBLE LIP GUARDS) after your sister's wedding as he wished you Happy Birthday and your friend laughed at your fantasy and said, "Ha! IN YOUR DREAMS!" I guess I should have wished to do dishes ad nauseum over my kitchen sink wearing mom jeans because now I could totally call up that friend and be like, "Well, well, who's looking stupid now?"

Buttprints In The Sand

2011-09-26T08:43:00.000-06:00

When Drew is bored he sighs a lot. He'll walk around glumly, shoulders slumped, and while exhaling he'll drone, "I'm booooored." I usually ignore him, which is his cue for a heavier sigh, followed by en extra exasperated, "There's NOTHING to DOOOO." I look at him and don't say anything, but the furrow in my brow that would make the Real Housewives jump on the phone to schedule botox says, "Say that again and I'll get you a bag and some gloves and you can go show those weeds how there's NOTHING to DOOOO." He got the point and walked away without further theatrics. Later, I walked by the living room and saw this:

The whole room was covered with Drew's handprints in the carpet. I guess it's better than pulling weeds. Then I thought to myself, "Hmmm...'Handprints In The Carpet'." It reminded me of the poem "Footprints In The Sand", which is a poem I hate. I'm sorry if you like this poem and I just offended you, but it's overdone and I find it...annoying. Here's a clue: when something is so popular that people start printing it on small plates for display, it's time for a new poem. This also goes for vinyl lettering over your doorway that says, "Live, Laugh, Love" or "All Because Two People Fell In Love" or "Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but by the number of moments that take our breath away." Now I've really done it - I think all my readers from Mesa, Arizona and Sandy, Utah just un-followed me. But seriously, stop it.

If you want something more original there is inspiration everywhere. I was in a public restroom once and a four line diddy that was carved into the aluminum doors has always stuck with me:

Here I sit,

brokenhearted.

I came to crap,

but only farted.

Not that I would put that anywhere in my house, but it just goes to show there are other places to get ideas. Then again, it's your house, do whatever you want. Who am I, anyway? I'm just some stupid blogger! However, as for me and my house, I am likely to display something more like this:

BUTTPRINTS IN THE SAND

One night I had a wondrous dream,
One set of footprints there was seen,
The footprints of my precious Lord,
But mine were not along the shore.

But then some strange prints appeared,
And I asked the Lord, "What have we here?"
Those prints are large and round and neat,
"But Lord, they are too big for feet."

"My child," He said in somber tones,
"For miles I carried you along.
I challenged you to walk in faith,
But you refused and made me wait."

"You disobeyed, you would not grow,
The walk of faith, you would not know,
So I got tired, I got fed up,
And there I dropped you on your butt."

"Because in life, there comes a time,
When one must fight, and one must climb,
When one must rise and take a stand,
Or leave their butt prints in the sand."

Yeah. That's more like it.

Erasure, The Flex Capacitor, and Beeth-Oven

2011-09-23T14:24:00.002-06:00

If you ask most people where they would go if time travel were possible they might say something like, "the Renaissance" or, "the time of Jesus" or perhaps, "1776". I'm somewhat of an expert on the topic as I used to watch Quantum Leap and have seen Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure at least 4 times, but if you ask me I'm torn; it's a toss up between 1984 and 1991. 1984 because Remington Steele was still on the air and 1991 because I'd really like to ask that one guy I liked why he dated me every weekend for four months and never kissed me, and why he sent me a dozen roses, wrote me all summer after I went home, then came to see me as soon as I got back and suddenly NEVER CALLED AGAIN. (???) It's not like I want to go back and marry him or anything, I'd just really like to know. Was it my mustache? Was he "playing for the other team" and just really enjoyed my company? It's a mystery.

At any rate, my husband long ago confided that if he were allowed to travel back in time his choice is clear: 1987. Or, the year of the stake dance. Not HIS stake dances mind you, but MY stake dances. As a teenager my youth group sponsored these dances just about every weekend, and I hardly ever missed. I have expounded before on my love of dancing, but I may not have been quite as forthcoming about the fact that while I love the dance, the dance does not necessarily love me. Cory has heard stories and as such would very much like to witness for himself the social disaster that was Vern in 1987. I was a dancing fool back in the day, emphasis on the "fool" part, and the one song that got me more excited above all the rest was "Oh L'Amour" by the band Erasure. I. Loved. Erasure. I tried desperately back in the day to get our basketball team to use them as our warm up music but our star point guard had leanings toward Chaka Khan, so Chaka Khan it was. I guess no one cares what the star bench warmer wants.

So yes, I loved them.
Yes, I danced like Gumby getting the electric chair when their music played.
Yes, I went to their concert in the 80's and yes, we looked like Sister Wives on Date Night: (me, my sis, Nicole, and Mike)

Erasure is coming in concert to Denver next week.
No, I'm not going. I can't give Cory the satisfaction and make it that easy on him, he's going to have to wait for time travel. Better get crackin' on that flex capacitor babe! In the meantime, how about those tights?

The Ambigram Tat

2011-09-20T08:36:00.000-06:00

Holy crap! Where did the last week go? I can't believe I left you hanging with such a dramatic post and then ignored you for 7 days. Rude. We've had so much going on I don't know where to begin, so let's start with the fact that Cory wants to tattoo my name on the underside of his forearm.

Not really.

Here's what happened.

Some co-workers of Cory's showed up at work recently to proudly showcase their matching tats in the form of an ambigram. I'll wait while you Google that.... Ok, so now you know that an ambigram is something that looks like it spells one thing, but then you turn it around and it looks like it says something else. This particular pair had taken their kids' names, formed an ambigram out of it, and tattooed it on their arm. Not for me, but to each his own. Inspired, (?) Cory looked up our names and sent me an email saying he loved me so much he wanted to take needles and swirl our names together forever onto his body and be like those that had gone before him. I was like, "Wait, aren't you the guy who passes out when giving blood? Plus, you don't even like tattoos. And what if I die and you get remarried and your wife has to look at my name EVERY SINGLE DAY FOR THE REST OF HER LIFE? That doesn't seem fair to her. Also, could you remarry someone named Esperanza or something, because I think that's going to be really hard to make into an ambigram and while I'm totally fine with you discovering happiness after my untimely death, I don't want you to be able to swirl your name together with anyone else's. And for the record, if she happens to have healthy lady parts and a desire for more children, I want you to know I support that. Especially if she's ugly, because the last thing I need is to look down and see that your new kids are cuter than ours. It's the least you can do to honor your dead wife!"

Anyway.

Here's what Cory sent me - MY name: (using my real name, "Kristy", not my stage name, "Vern")

And when you turn it the other way around you can see his name, "Cory":

It looks more like "Cody", which was the name of the evil dog our backyard neighbor's used to have, so that doesn't bring back good memories. It also kind of looks like "Cony", which reminds me of Coney Island and the Chili Coney Cheese Dog from Sonic, which does bring back good memories.

I guess the take-aways from this post are three-fold. One, if tragedy strikes and I actually DO die soon? This post will probably be painful for Cory to look back on, and he will probably start looking up women named "Esperanza" on match.com. Two, now you know the definition of "ambigram". Three, mmmmm...chili cheese dogs.

In Which Vern Turns A Wee Bit Dramatic

2011-09-13T21:57:00.000-06:00

I’m staging a revolution in my head. The accumulation of thoughts and feelings has reached a boiling point – I’m at a crossroads, and I can’t decide if I simply need to lower the heat and simmer down or hit full blast, allowing the bubbles to roll over the edge and hit the burner to get someone’s attention. I don’t entirely know my place but if I don’t find it quickly and secure a firm position, I’m going to be the one who ends up getting burned.

I already feel like I’m getting burned.

It started in the middle of July when Samantha informed me that her cross country practices were already commencing. I hated this for many reasons. One, it annoyed me that the school was infringing upon my summer, like showing up at a birthday party that advertised it would last for 4 hours and finding out it only lasted for 1. Two, the practices were every day beginning at eight o’clock in the morning which is to say, the host of that 1 hour birthday party just announced there won’t be cake or presents. Nevertheless, my daughter made a commitment to be part of the team, and as her mother don’t I want her to respect her responsibilities, be dependable, learn to work hard, and understand how to sacrifice for something you want? Of course I do, so I dutifully drove her to practice every morning.

After school started I got this bombshell one Friday night. “Oh Mom, by the way we have practice tomorrow morning at 8am at a park 70 miles from home because the coach wants to take away more of your happiness.” Or something like that. Maybe it wasn’t exactly 70 miles away, but it WAS at 8am and it WAS a 45 minute drive. And if you’re going to drive 45 minutes for a two hour practice it doesn’t make sense to go home and come back, so this had me alone in the middle of an unfamiliar area trying to kill two hours on a Saturday morning. Enter the silver lining: Mimi’s Café and the Ciabatta Breakfast Sandwich with citrus remoulade. I’m nothing if not resourceful.

My tension built last week when another practice went extra long because the coach decided they needed more time in the weight room – Samantha was due to babysit for some friends of ours, and I had to call and tell them she was going to be late. Annoying for all parties involved except, of course, the school/coaches. Ultimately, the final straw hit me last night. Practice ran overtime, we were late for dinner with friends, and en route to our dinner (which was prepared and waiting for us – delightful) Samantha began to stress about the workload she still had that night. I lost my patience – school and sports had already taken ELEVEN HOURS of my daughter’s day, and now that it was time for food and a little family time and a few minutes to, oh I don’t know, let’s get crazy and say “RELAX!” school was still in charge of my family. And for the record, she was up until 11:45 pm doing homework.

I’m completely frustrated, and part of my frustration stems from feeling unsure about my role here. Ultimately I believe I am the parent and I get final say. Right? Not right? I don’t even know. If I tell her to let something go am I holding her back? If I tell her she can’t participate on a Saturday because we’ve made plans as a family and damn it all to hell THEY CAN’T HAVE HER, am I preventing her from learning commitment to a team? Am I just mad because I feel like I’m losing my daughter when this is just the natural course? This is brand new territory for me. I feel like I’m not the one wearing the pants in my own family, and that All Things School has essentially opened the gate, let my daughter in, shut the gate behind her and told me I can peek if I want to from the other side.

What’s a mother to do?

(Seriously.)

Cupcakes For Lunch. And Other Weight Loss Secrets.

2011-09-09T08:11:00.003-06:00

On Tuesday I had four cupcakes for lunch. But I thought Vern was on Weight Watchers. I am. Incidentally, four cupcakes equals 36 points, and I am only supposed to consume 29 in a day. Luckily WW accounts for situations like this and gives us 49 extra points each week to allow for things like PMS. But I thought Vern didn't have a uterus and couldn't get PMS. It's called phantom PMS - it's very rare but affects approximately 1 in every 5,792 hysterectomies. I think she's making this up. I might be making this up. White lies are a side effect of phantom PMS.

At any rate, I was sorta hoping I could keep this cupcake thing on the down low so that people could go on thinking I'm awesome for losing the equivalent of about three newborns so far. Well, two newborns if you descend from the Gardner line in my family, maybe five newborns if they are premature. Is she fishing for presents? I'm registered at Target. THE POINT IS, when I shared the video of my son dancing like Urkel after one too many pixie sticks I received multiple inquiries about the cupcakes? muffins? that were featured in the background. Here's what I have to say about that; if you guys can look past the glasses, the dancing, and the red basketball shorts hiked up so high they got altitude sickness to see the food on the counter then YOU ARE MY PEOPLE. For the record, they were indeed cupcakes, but not just any cupcakes. These were sort of an experiment on my part and may I say, they turned out delicious. I'm calling them Orange Dreamsicle Cupcakes with Chocolate Chip Cheesecake filling. If you like the combination of orange and chocolate you will love them, and I assume you will want the recipe. So. Let's get to it, shall we?

THE CAKE:
Yellow cake mix (Are you disappointed that this isn't from scratch? Too bad so sad. I can only be so amazing.)
Red food coloring
2 tsp orange extract

*Mix according to box directions. Add a few drops of red food coloring to give it that nice, citrus-y tint. Add extract. Spoon into cupcake liners.

THE FILLING

8 ozs softened cream cheese
1/3 cup sugar
1 egg
dash of salt
1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
* Mix cream cheese, sugar, egg and salt until smooth then add chocolate chips. Spoon about a tablespoon onto unbaked cupcakes. Bake according to box directions, about 20-25 minutes.

ORANGE BUTTERCREAM FROSTING

1/4 cup softened butter
1/4 cup margarine
1/2 cup shortening
4 cups powdered sugar
2 tsp. orange extract
zest of one orange
Milk

*Mix ingredients and add milk until you reach your desired consistency.
*Frost cooled cupcakes and refrigerate. Serve cold.

Here's what it looks like when you cut one in half - the filling sort of sinks to the bottom while baking and you get a nice, dense taste of chocolatey goodness surrounded by the smooth buttercream and fluffy cake.

And that's why I ate four.

It's OK, He Said I Could

2011-09-06T07:12:00.001-06:00

Drew likes to play games. One of his favorites is "How Many Times Can I Play The Same Song Before Mom Yells At Me?". I dare say we are equally yoked when it comes to this charade. Yesterday as I stood in the kitchen I heard Al Yankovic's voice streaming for the eleventy thousandth time to his parody titled "White & Nerdy". I don't know why it's one of Drew's faves, but it makes me want to drown myself just to make it stop. I was nearing my breaking point when suddenly he appeared from around the corner wearing basketball shorts hiked up to his chest, 3D movie glasses with the lenses popped out, and his slippers, lip syncing along to the song with...I guess we're calling it "moves". It cracked me up and I asked him if he would do an encore that I could record and upload to my blog, and he agreed. So if one dancing dork wasn't enough for you yesterday, I offer you one more. I apologize that you can't hear the music very well but I hope you enjoy it anyway:

When I'm Not Eating Fried Alligator I Stick Firmly To Weight Watchers

2011-09-04T22:39:00.002-06:00

I haven't mentioned Weight Watchers lately, but in case you're wondering I'm still doing it. I don't like to talk about it because mostly I don't think anyone really cares, and the last thing I want to do is make people wish for a nearby stake to thrust themselves upon when I'm rambling on and on about how many points their hamburger is. Speaking of hamburgers, I had one a couple of weeks ago that would sway PETA to trade their vegan ads for posters that say, "Beef. Everybody's doing it." Again, this delicacy came from a bar/grill that was featured on Food Network and was honored particularly for their burgers- naturally, a few friends and I had to experience it for ourselves. I ordered a quarter pounder with all the regular fixin's then added pepper jack, herbed cream cheese and fresh, sliced avocado.

I have to say, I'm normally not the type to venture outside the box when it comes to burgers - I just like a normal cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato, pickles, mayo and ketchup but I'm here to say that The Cherry Cricket has changed my mind, and perhaps my life, forever. This burger was a revelation, and I said as much on the radio a couple of weeks ago when my local station DJ's asked listeners to call in with the best thing they ate over the weekend. The DJ's took calls from 5 or 6 of us, listened to our description, and at the end they declared a winner to receive a prize: $50 in food vouchers at the Taste of Colorado. And I won. I won! So, with vouchers in hand Cory and I headed for a date to the Taste of Colorado in downtown Denver yesterday. What's the Taste of Colorado you ask? It's basically a food festival. A FOOD FESTIVAL! And I had COUPONS! So we ate for FREE! I felt like Joan Rivers at a botox convention.

We had shrimp and chicken gumbo, red beans and rice with plantains, bacon wrapped chicken (you heard me), a coconut samosa, cinnamon cashews, cupcakes, a snow cone, and...FRIED ALLIGATOR. I knew you wouldn't believe me, so I took a picture for proof:

For the record, fried alligator isn't that great. Trying to mask the chewiness of the alligator with a crunchy cornmeal coating is kind of like trying to hide JLo's butt with a potted plant. FAIL. You would think that the fact you can make purses and boots out of the stuff would have tipped me off. Oh well, here I am with my cute date:

They also had some non-food related booths. Nothing says "Failing Economy" like "Hand Carved Musical Frogs" for sale!

There was a concert. And a weird guy dancing by himself:

All because I ate a hamburger and talked about it on the radio. By the way, anyone know how to calculate the points on fried alligator?

I probably shouldn't tell you this but my brother-in-law still does blue darts

2011-09-02T12:27:00.001-06:00

Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city.

~ George Burns

We enjoyed not one, but two family reunions this summer; one in San Diego (my peeps) and the other in Southwest Colorado (Cory’s peeps). We had a brilliant time in both places (she said in her best Hugh Grant voice) and we didn’t want to come home. Drew was in heaven with his paternal roots where gas is passed freely and without apology, not to mention it was his first year of eligibility to ride the 4-wheelers solo. Samantha took naturally to the horses and both were enamored with Grandpa and Grandma’s newest acquisition: a dog. I would tell you his name but dog lover that I am (not) I can’t remember it. The kids tried to use this as an opportunity to impose guilt upon me and my anti-animal sensibilities (“Everyone has a dog but us, even Grandma and Grandpa!”), but as far as I’m concerned I’m the hero here. See, I promised I would drive them to see that dog every single summer, which is just like having a dog if you pretend that you have to board it for 51 weeks a year while you travel for business. They think I’m totally uncool but the joke’s on them, because “cool” in the Vern dictionary is defined as “doesn’t have to pay vet bills, clean up poop, or vacuum dog hair from the stairs.” It’s all relative.

As for San Diego, well, I got off the plane, breathed in the air and said, “Ah, I’m home.” We toured the Star of India, walked the San Diego Harbor, and had Cheerios and fresh fruit every day on my parents’ deck. When I wasn’t fantasizing about how to retire there I watched various family members scale the inflatable waterslide that my mom and dad rented or inhaled a chocolate raised creation from Peterson’s Donut Corner. Sheer joy. Best quote of the week from that trip came from my brother Greg: “I don’t want to live in a world where you can’t ride poodles naked.” HA HA HA! Oh. I guess you had to be there. Anyway, I put some pictures together and compiled a musical slide show for the three people that are interested in looking at that. My in-laws will be wondering why there are four hundred pictures showcasing California and five highlighting Colorado; my response can be summed up in one word: Vanessa. Next time I will invite her to the other reunion too so we can have equal representation. The free gas passing alone seems like enticement enough. Vanessa, you in?

It Was So Hot I Even Heard Satan Crying

2011-08-30T09:20:00.001-06:00

Sometimes when we don't have a lot going for us we have to accentuate the positive and focus on our best features. Like Kate Middleton is to the Royal Family, the Outback's bloomin' onion is to the vegetarian, and the Grand Canyon is to Arizona. There's always a silver lining. Speaking of Arizona, I just spent the weekend there but I wasn't visiting the Grand Canyon so I had to search for other redeeming qualities in the area. I've decided to sum up my brief jaunt into three categories: 1) Things I cannot explain, 2) Things I don't need to explain and, 3) Things that are hard to explain but worth trying.

THINGS I CANNOT EXPLAIN

1. 115 degrees

2. The 4 women in the airport who wore matching shirts and mini trolls glued onto their shoulder.

3. Did you hear me? I said ONE HUNDRED FIFTEEN DEGREES.

4. The other woman in the airport who traced through security with me wearing a backless dress that revealed a tattoo covering her entire back. The tattoo was a picture OF HERSELF. I was tempted to slip the phone number of a photographer into her bag with a message on the back reading, “There’s an easier way.”

5. Seriously, we actually said the words “It’s too hot to go swimming.”

THINGS I DON’T NEED TO EXPLAIN

1. Nielsen’s frozen custard

HARD TO EXPLAIN BUT WORTH TRYING

1. We went to see The Help. Having read and fallen in love with the book I had high expectations which were surprisingly met. I was so happy that it fell in line with everything I had envisioned in my head when I read the book! The tension and violence of that time and place in history was felt but not overdone. The blind ignorance of characters such as Hilly Holbrook was blatant and frustrating yet disturbingly believable, while the actors who brought Aibileen and Minny to life felt like my good friends by the time the movie was over. “You is smart. You is kind. You is important.” I loved, loved, loved this movie. I want to marry it.

2. Featured on Food Network's Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives, we headed over to Joe’s Farm Grill for lunch one afternoon. I had the Fontina Burger, sweet potato fries and a dark chocolate shake, which is to say I forgave Arizona for being so hot that my spleen was asking to borrow my anti perspirant.

3. I tried to teach my 4-year-old nephew about jaundice in regards to his Grinch stuffed animal with yellow eyes. I think he gets it now.

I know a lot of you who read my blog here at RITH call the Grand Canyon State your home, and I’m happy for you. However, in the future I think I’ll restrict my visits to fall between November and February. It’s better that way.

Big Sky Country

2011-08-26T08:08:00.002-06:00

Last year something bad happened when Drew's best friend and one of my best friends, Jill moved away. They traded their easy access to Costco and restaurants that stay open past 6pm for open skies, neighbors with goats, and an elementary school that raised their own chickens. It wasn't an easy transition for any of us, so when Drew's birthday approached this year I decided that instead of throwing him a traditional birthday party where dozens of boys would come over and spray an inordinate amount of testosterone around my house, I would fly him to Montana to see Ben. And since it would be incredibly irresponsible for me to send him alone, I would graciously accompany him.

When we landed in the Missoula airport we were greeted by many friends. This group seemed particularly enthused:

This guy totally had a crush on me. I haven't been pawed at like this since the Erasure concert in 1987.

Some even brought signs!

There's something you should know about Jill. She is crazy, and we love her. For her 30th birthday present she wanted ONE thing...a cotton candy machine. She got her wish, and has made cotton candy for herself just about every day since. Once when talking to a friend of mine she went on and on about how she doesn't like healthy food but it hadn't seemed to affect her that much...as blood dripped from her gums. True story. The truth is, Jill doesn't just love cotton candy but ALL carnival food, and since moving to Montana she has sucked up to their local gas station owners and as such has additionally scored a nacho machine, pretzel warmer, popcorn machine, hot dog rotisserie, and milkshake blender. Other than housing a pig with the largest gonads this side of the Mississippi her house is a regular state fair. Which is why one day the boys got together, made a bunch of carnival food and sold it by the roadside. The cotton candy, like a freshly coiffed up-do on my Grandma, was a big hit. The boys made almost $30 which is saying something for setting up on a road where only 8 cars a day pass by!

As for the littlest dude on the far left, he gave me a hug every morning when he rolled out of bed as if it was something he did every day. So cute. It's true what they say, by the way, Montana is beautiful:

Some of my favorite quotes from the trip:

Ben: "Mom! Can you get Sarah out of here? She's trying to infiltrate the force."

***

Jon: "I love pizza. It has all my favorite fruits."

***

Nate: "I'm gonna make myself a ham sandwich."

Ben: "You just ate."

Nate: "So? You know I eat 2nd lunches and 2nd dinners like a hobbit."

***

Jill, to her husband as he arrived home from work: "There's a dead bird in the basement with a necklace on it." (apparently discovered by 2-year-old Sarah, she saw the need for the bird to be gussied up a bit.)

***

Jill: "Sarah, DO NOT put fruit loops on my hot dog roller." (There's so much material to extract from this quote alone I wouldn't even know where to begin.)

And FINALLY, as I was sitting in church there was an announcement made from the podium about a memorial service being held for a woman's husband who had passed away months previous. The details as to why they had waited so long to memorialize him are...quirky, and frankly none of my business, but I couldn't help but chuckle when I heard the woman behind me whisper to the woman next to her, "Who is John Doe?" and the other answered, "Oh, he died in the winter."

Oh, Montana. You slay me.

He Is

2011-08-24T13:14:00.002-06:00

The house was quiet, most of the lights were turned off, all signs pointing to the fact that the day was supposed to be over. I shuffled near the kitchen table picking up the remains of the day and after tucking away the final glue stick into its place in the drawer, I looked up and took note of the scene taking place under the only lights still on in the house. There they sat, father and daughter huddled side by side poring over a set of algebra problems.

It’s moments like this that I want to snicker at the nay-sayers who mock Accountants - they have obviously never had a teenager with Honors Algebra and seen the benefits first hand. The little girl sitting there is concentrating as deeply as one can who has already fit in an hour of Seminary, 8 hours of school, 2 hours of cross country practice, and an hour of youth group. Her hand is planted firmly on her forehead, and as small pieces of her bangs poke through her fingers she checks her answer with the man sitting next to her.

He is her Dad.

He is my Husband.

He is an Accountant who remembers Math who, as far as I’m concerned, carries more power in that mechanical pencil than I could ever hope for in a superhero’s cape. He was concentrating too, as much as any man can who has already fit in the morning Seminary drop-off, eleven hours of work, an hour of basketball with his son, and two hours of extra meetings to cover his church responsibilities.

He is her Dad.

He is my Husband.

He really is.

So Random

2011-08-23T08:02:00.000-06:00

It’s a bad combination when you’re experiencing the highest temperatures of the season and you’re A/C goes out at the precise time your doctor tells you to stop wearing deodorant, but that’s what happened. Everything is okay now – the A/C got fixed yesterday, my underarm rash is fading, and we’ll finish the week out in the 90’s.

***

Also a bad combination – going on a run after a dentist appointment and trying to hock a loogie while half of your face is still numb. This particular appointment had required more than one shot of Novocain and left me unable to press my lips evenly together as I left. I felt like a carp that had been tagged with a hook through my upper lip. It’s almost worth getting a shot of Novocain and trying it yourself to see what it really feels like.

***

I sent my youngest off to middle school like a lamb to the slaughter yesterday. I resisted the urge to walk him all the way to the bus stop, but I didn’t resist the urge to spy on him from the corner behind my neighbor’s bush. Baby steps.

***

My facebook buddy J.L. changed my life and posted this link to a recipe for frozen hot chocolate. I’ll tell you the same thing I told him after making it – I know this drink is true with every fiber of my being.

***

I still have so much to tell you about my summer! Pictures of bears, presidents, funny quotes, and fun memories. Like the time Samantha and I left the house dressed the same and when I noticed I asked her, “You’re not embarrassed by looking like me are you?” Silence. Drew chimed in, “Oooooh!!! Mom, the silence is NOT a good sign.” There’s more to come – in the meantime, do yourself a favor and whip up a little frozen hot chocolate. Ironic, yes. But delicious? Also, yes.

Duh. LOSING!

2011-08-17T19:17:00.000-06:00

When a dude named Byron showed up at my door today to diagnose the trouble with my air conditioning, I was expecting him to find some inane problem that reflects mine and Cory's incompetence. (I was also expecting him to pull out some sort of monogrammed towel or something as he set to work. I don't care if you're a service tech or a butler, if your name is Byron you need to embrace the monogram.) Something along the lines of, "Well ma'am, if you want your A/C to work you should try plugging it in," or "See this button here on your thermostat? The snowflake button makes it cold, cold, cold." But no. After some time in the basement and another 20 minutes outside with hoses and such hooked up to our unit, he began to explain, "The coolant...blah blah blah...extension valve...blah blah blah...refrigerant...yadda yadda..." and as I tried to understand it all I found myself wishing for a mime to help translate. [The mime begins with his hands together - the hands separate dramatically, the mime's eyes get big, and he gestures a silent "kaboom!" THAT I can understand.] Instead I think I stared at the technician like this:

I tried to reiterate so as to confirm the diagnosis, but ended up looking more like this:

Incidentally, also the face I make when trying to grasp the point of thongs and tongue rings. Good ol' Byron could see the look on my face but he kept trying, bless his heart. I think the reason he kept trying so hard was because he wanted to avoid disclosing the dollar amount of this catastrophe, and he wanted me to be able to justify the cost with his explanation. I'm sure just one day Byron dreams of having a customer say, "Well, of course! If it's the extension valve that has to be fixed then naturally you need to charge me ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS." Byron didn't get his wish, but he got a nice dose of this action:

It's An Honor Just To Be Nominated

2011-08-16T11:29:00.000-06:00

Last night during an effort to clean up my neglected, post-vacation email Inbox I came across a message announcing that someone had nominated me for the "Funniest Mom Blog" over at the Parents.com website. What a nice way to come back, don't you think? I don't know who nominated me but obviously she reads my blog so hey, whoever you are, will you let me know so I can pay you that money I owe you?

I gotta be honest, I'm really flattered. I'm trying not to be but YOU GUYS! I already have SIX votes! Six people totally like me, which means I'm already more popular than broccoli and snakes. Drew passed by the office as I read the email and I said, "Hey Drew, my blog was nominated on a national website," to which he asked, "Do we get a prize? Like a Toyota?" Silly Brett. Still, I think it would be awesome to get more votes because winning is fun, and it rarely happens to me. Aside from being Tetherball champion in 2nd grade, scoring a box of chocolates and a gift certificate to Applebee's from a radio contest, and winning Cory's love I have always been more on the "loser" side of things. So, if you want to help me turn things around click on that hot pink button at the top of my sidebar over there and cast a vote my way, will ya? Please? Do it for the children.

Return To...Which Mountain?

2011-08-16T00:13:00.003-06:00

Hi. Remember me? Pink Snuggie, no uterus, made a Jehovah’s witness sing Happy Birthday, gave bacon to my Jewish neighbors, caught with bourbon in my purse at church? Good grief, who HAVEN'T I offended? Any Catholics out there that I missed? I was just trying to make sure you knew it was really me but now all I can think of is how I should hurry up and rescue some orphaned AIDS babies before my earthly stint here is through to balance out my resume.

I can hear St. Peter now, "I don't know Vern, it says here that you had some liquor in your purse..."

"Right, but if you jump down to line #87 you'll see that I once donated six dollars to the March of Dimes..."

"...and then you swore in front of your children during an unfortunate water incident..."

"They were brand new hardwood floors! *sigh* If you keep reading you'll see I've also written checks to the Food Bank of the Rockies..."

"What's this...did you really tell your Jewish neighbors they were going to hell?"

"Uh, my shirt, you see, it was a gift."

"And how did you handle the potty training mishap with your child on the marble steps of the Denver Capitol Building?"

"Boy oh boy, can you get a load of the acoustics in that place?"

"Mm hmm."

[awkward silence]

"I walked out of a dirty movie once."

What I'm trying to say is, after a summer spent frolicking through the mountains of Montana, the beaches of California, the hills of South Dakota, and the Rockies of Colorado, (more to come on all of that later!) I'm back. I've missed writing, I've missed reading, and if I don't do something with my Google Reader Inbox I fear its contents will spew right through the monitor. I look forward to catching up. Oh, and if you happen to know any orphaned AIDS babies....

Queen of Denial

2011-08-02T11:19:00.001-06:00

Last night on the phone my friend asked, “So, how are you doing with the whole school starting and Drew beginning Jr. High thing?” I responded maturely by essentially jamming my fingers in my ears and yelling, “LA LA LA!” For now, and for the next 3 weeks until my glorious summer comes to a bitter halt, denial is my friend. Hey, it worked for OJ.

The unfortunate part where denial goes in the crapper is when you’re sitting in the DMV and they call off your daughter’s name to get her picture taken for her permit. I was like, “What? I thought this was the line for Panda Express. My bad.” I should have remembered that Panda Express doesn’t require a copy of your birth certificate. A few minutes later I got confused again when a dude on his cell phone started cussing as if representing both sides of an argument between two Jersey Shore cast members. I couldn’t decide if I was being Punk’d or had been transported into an episode of “COPS”, but the guy was seriously out of control. Cory told him to watch his language or take his call outside and that’s when everyone else began protesting and he was quickly kicked out. Welcome to the DMV! “Samantha?” the lady behind the desk called out. It was finally her turn to pose in front of the blue tarp – she proceeded to snap the cutest picture to ever grace a government issued ID and we handed her the keys to drive home. That’s when Denial got up out of its chair and said, “It’s been nice knowing you” and I gripped the armrests for the next 7 miles.

Denial betrayed me once again earlier this morning. I had just come home from taking Samantha to cross country practice and I peeked in to check on Drew, still asleep. As I poked my head around the corner and surveyed the scene, I had to blink a few extra times to focus. The boy in this bed wasn’t mine – his legs nearly extended to the footboard, his torso curved around the middle, and with an arm dangling over the side and his head propped in blissful rest, this boy’s body filled up that entire space. He couldn’t possibly be mine.

My boy is growing.

My girl is driving.

My head is spinning.

Three weeks left.

I Have A Pet Rooster. I Have A Pet ROOSTER?!

2011-07-18T09:32:00.000-06:00

Sitting down to dinner last night we had just called Drew from outside to come and join us. As he trailed in from the heat and turned the corner of the hall he said, "Uh, Mom? Did you know we have a bunch of stickers on our car?"
"What?" I said, confused.
"I don't know, there's like people on it. Come here and I'll show you."
I followed him outside with Cory and Samantha in tow and as we turned the corner to view the once naked rear window of our van, I spotted THIS:

My first reaction: This isn't our car. But then I checked the license plate and it WAS our car.
My 2nd reaction: Looks like Ganelle has been busy today.

I called her to verify my suspicions and sure enough, our 10-year prank war continues. It was sort of her turn, seeing as I was the one who wrapped her refrigerator contents when they were on vacation. Anyway, apparently she put these on my car DURING CHURCH but we didn't even notice until Drew discovered it several hours later. From a quick glance it may not seem like much, but to look closer you will see that the role of my Accountant husband has been replaced by Michael Keaton:

And while Cory's decal is busy getting all the chores done, here's how Mama pays the bills:

This is so inaccurate, nobody ever gets a royal flush. And wait, how many kids do I have? One...two...camo...butterfly wings...is that...a pet ROOSTER?

Minus the pet, the two extra kids, and my alleged gambling addiction I guess it's not completely erroneous. Cory does do his own laundry! Good show Ganelle, good show.

We Missed The Testicle Festival By 3 Weeks

2011-07-13T22:56:00.002-06:00

In the last few weeks I have been in four different states, eaten with my hands in front of a belly dancer, discovered a culinary masterpiece, sampled soda bread from a Farmer’s Market, toured a submarine, panned for sapphires, tasted the best fudge of my life in a candy store with pink, crystal chandeliers, eavesdropped on a woman rehashing her near death experience about waiting out an earthquake on a toilet, and fell in love with running for a whole week (I know! And, can you believe it? Followed by, neither can I!)

I guess I just wanted you to know that I’m taking my blogging hiatus very seriously, and not just wasting it by watching Cash Cab in my underwear or something.

In the meantime, let me leave you with a small nugget. Drew and I were en route from one small town in Montana to another small town in Montana with some friends when we saw a massive billboard alongside the road advertising the “Testicle Festival”, where the consumption of Rocky Mountain Oysters (also known as fried bull testicles) is apparently taken very seriously. We got a chuckle out of the sign and it led to the following conversation between my son and daughter:

Drew: Hey Sam, do you know what rocky mountain oysters are?

Sam: Not really.

Drew: They’re sheep’s balls.

Sam: Okay, I did NOT want to know that.

Drew: Sam, it’s IMPORTANT for you to know. I mean, what if a hobo came up to you and said, “Hey, want some rocky mountain oysters?” and you didn’t even know what he was talking about. Wouldn’t you want to know?

Sam: How about I just NEVER TAKE FOOD FROM A HOBO!

She’s got a point. Not to mention, whatever happened to driving along secluded Montana roads being a wholesome experience? Maybe we should watch more Cash Cab.

Checked out or Plugged in?

2011-06-21T21:54:00.000-06:00

I may be stating the obvious but I haven’t felt much like blogging lately. In all honesty, I didn’t expect the weeks since school let out to be so positively blissful. In years past the summer has been something I approached with short, deliberate breaths and clenched fists as if preparing to open a Tupperware dish with unidentifiable and long overdue contents. Imagine, if you will, that instead of opening that Tupperware dish and discovering ricotta cheese that looked like Spanish moss you happened upon a bottomless container of sparkly whipped cream and dancing fairies.

That has been my last two weeks.

I have largely disengaged from the internet, trading my Google reader for excursions to the pool, trips to the library, afternoons planned around Sonic happy hour and mornings that don’t start until 9am. Or 10. Whatever, you probably stopped reading back at the dancing fairies part.

The stark reality for me is noticing the profound difference in how I feel.
It is profound.
It is very different.
We’re talking clouds lifted, seas parted, veil withdrawn, I am HAPPY.

I’ve been trying to figure out why, and I suppose the answer is rooted in the conversations I have forced ad nauseum upon my husband and friends for a while now, pertaining to this: What am I supposed to do with my life? My time?

I have no problem filling up the calendar on a daily basis, the problem is it doesn’t seem to be full of things that satisfy, elevate, or excite me. Here I am, stay at home mother of 2. It’s a path I chose and a path I’m grateful for, but the fact is this full time job of mine is to take care of children who are largely not around. Once they leave for school I have to figure out the next 8 hours on my own. Sounds dreamy, right? I won’t lie, it often is. When my kids were little I fantasized about the day I could grocery shop ALL BY MYSELF, work out ANY TIME I WANTED, or ponder the Home Depot paint samples for HOURS ON END without little hands groping from the cart for all the colors of the rainbow. I’d be considering the right shade of taupe, flashing samples under natural AND fluorescent lighting to be sure I had the right look for the right room and when the little one in the cart would grow impatient I’d toss some goldfish their way for good measure. It’s okay that I’m not wiping faces, fetching snacks or tossing aside my “nantucket buff” or “Chestertown linen” paint chips to address a potty training emergency, but there’s a flip side. A flip side that reveals that instead of craving ADULT conversation in the midst of kid chaos I’m at a point in my life where I will settle for ANY conversation just to break the silence.

There’s an easier way to say this, I was just hoping to make it sound more fascinating and less like a tired country song. Bottom line: I think I’ve been lonely, and I’ve been bored out of my mind. There, I said it. I’ve been bored. B-O-R-E-D. Which is not to say I haven’t been busy, but busy is just doing everything on your list. Happy is being able to do it with fun people, and right now that means Samantha and Drew. I’ve missed them the last 9 months - I didn’t even realize how much until they got out of school, I got off the computer and we all put on our swimsuits. I’m going to milk it for all it’s worth so when you see that I’m not posting, it’s probably because we just woke up. Soon we’ll be eating mangoes in our underwear, watching “Psych” on Netflix and testing every new frozen yogurt establishment so we can declare a winner by August.

H-A-P-P-Y.

My Not Bummer Summer

2011-06-10T18:03:00.000-06:00

The universe seems to be sending me messages of hope lately. I'm not exactly sure what I'm hoping for - lawns that mow themselves, flowers that bite bunnies back, or a journal study on how the consumption of pie adds years to your life wouldn't be so bad, but I'm still waiting on that. Still, the world is leaving me clues.

Clue #1: There is a new movie out called "Judy Moody And The Not Bummer Summer". If you think that sounds stupid wait until you read the plot summary: "...third grader Judy Moody is planning the most super-duper summer vacation ever with best friends Rocky and Amy. Except that it turns out Rocky is going to circus camp to learn to tame lions, and Amy is headed off to Borneo with her mom to save a lost tribe while Judy stays home with her pesky little brother Stink...." First of all, I have a few words for Judy Moody; honey, stay close to Rocky. Boys who go to circus camp have a hard time hanging on to their friends. Also, if you secretly have a crush on him let me save you some time - he's playing for the other team. Secondly, is Amy's mom Susan Sarandon? Finally, were you in the delivery room when your brother "Stink" was born? And if so, what did he do to deserve THAT? Anyway, the point is there might be hope for my screenplay after all.

Clue #2: Andrew Weiner. Because you can't make that stuff up, and no matter what happens to me his self inflicted humiliation will always, always be worse. I had a friend throughout college whose last name was "Virgin". (true) He recently twittered a picture of himself wearing acid wash jeans and a Members Only jacket. (not true) Come to find out that wasn't the worst of it - the latest photo to leak was of him in his bedroom wearing a Klingon mask and working out to a Richard Simmons video. (also not true)

Clue #3: I lost 4 pounds this week on Weight Watchers. It's not enough to motivate me into a bikini but it'll do. So far what I like about Weight Watchers is that I'm losing weight and still eating ice cream. What I don't like is when we have to clap for people and give stickers when somebody accomplishes something. It's called getting a "Bravo", and it's very awkward. It is brought on by events such as walking your dog instead of eating a cookie. I think it's supposed to motivate you, but all it does is convince me even more that I never want a dog, but would very much enjoy a cookie. Something WW tries to promote is healthier eating so you can have MORE of it. But what I like is knowing I can have what I want and then just wait to eat again until lunch. Specifically, if given the option between a full fat yogurt with cream on the top or two NON-fat yogurts that taste like baby spit up splashed with honey, I choose option A. Every time.

Clue #4: Uhhhh...I guess it's just three clues.

If He Were In Charge Of The World

2011-06-06T22:40:00.000-06:00

Mama's feeling kind of sick today. Not the nighttime-sniffling-sneezing-coughing-aching-stuffy head-fever kind of sick, but the kind that still manages to flip my stomach into small, achy knots and my heart to crawl into the fetal position. My head is telling me to knock it off but my heart is having a hard time listening. Sometimes it's the opposite and my heart is the voice of reason while my head gets all freaked out. I think it would be nice if the two could just get along every once in a while - is that too much to ask? In the meantime I have to work out the dissonance, as no signs of cooperation seem to be present at the moment.

My head knows I'm just being a baby. It's only the last day of elementary school not the freakin' Apocalypse. But see, it's not just the last day of elementary school this year, it's the last day of elementary school at my house...FOREVER. As it turns out, forever is actually a really long time. Even Vannah White is eventually going to get arthritis and be unable to turn those letters and when she does, I will STILL not have a kid in elementary school. At some point Days of Our Lives will go off the air leaving single women in their 80's with nothing more to do but stay prompt at their weekly hair appointments and keep their cats alive and even then, I will still not have any children in elementary school. As sure as Justin Bieber will soon grace the Enquirer as a menace to society I am officially done with grades K-5.

I don't mind that Drew is getting older. (lies) I don't mind that he is getting taller and smarter and going to puberty class. (lies lies lies) More than anything I'm just not ready for the world to take my boy away. It's like preparing to send an Amish 3-year-old onto the set of Toddlers and Tiaras. Why? How? And why again?

As he emptied out his backpack today and seemed to be unloading our nation's tax code on the counter, I found this poem he had written among the wreckage:

If I were in charge of the world,

I'd cancel homework,

School on Tuesdays and Fridays,

Mean teachers, and also

Miley Cyrus.

If I were in charge of the world

There'd be donuts two times bigger,

An island made of cheese,

And pizza places who sell bigger pizzas.

If I were in charge of the world,

You wouldn't have vegetables,

You wouldn't have cigarettes,

You wouldn't have gas powered cars.

Or "Don't forget to brush."

You wouldn't even have dirty teeth.

If I were in charge of the world,

Ice cream would be a vegetable.

All PG movies would be "G".

And a person who didn't brush

And sometimes forgets to empty the dishwasher

Would still be allowed to be

In charge of the world.

I don't want him to grow up but I have to hand it to him; bigger donuts? No Miley? An island made of cheese? It's definitely intriguing.

Senior Pictures

2011-06-03T09:07:00.000-06:00

There seems to be a lot of graduation chitter chatter in my social circle lately that has caused me to reflect. I remember when I was a senior in high school and I thought the whole world revolved around me. We were top dog at that point, everyone fussing around us wondering what we were going to do next as if there were any way to top such scintillating memories such as barely getting asked to Prom and learning to drive from a guy who looked like a cross between Neil Diamond and a porn star. I couldn't figure out what everyone was so excited about but it still went a little to my head. I'm not anxious to illustrate how bad it got but suffice it to say that one night I went to the movies with my friends and when I saw there was a senior discount, I thought they were talking about ME. True story. See how smart I was by the time I graduated?

The graduation / senior chatter continued the other day when I heard some radio personalities talking about senior portraits and a website that is dedicated to the worst ones of all time. You know I had to look them up, right? And you know I have to post some here so you could see them too, right? Naturally.
Pictures: courtesy of collegehumor.com and ebaumsworld.com
Captions containing post high school predictions: courtesy of Moi.

Pedro got a little cocky after he was voted President. He did, however, make all of their dreams come true:

Once Tristan's audition for Clash of the Titans went awry he passed his time waiting tables at Chili's:

In a couple more years he'll be singing backup for Menudo:

Jeffrey Dahmer? Is that you?

Hang Hunan became a regular contributor to the Fans of Pokemon website and holds weekly anime rallies in his basement:

Ring In His Nose's mother promised him this wouldn't end up in the yearbook. It did. We're pretty sure he went back to the reservation after that.

Rick never made it to the NFL. He still attends the high school football games.

Ronnie is now 42. He has never had a girlfriend but he has seen "Sixteen Candles" so he's halfway there. He's hoping to find his soul mate at the next Comic-Con convention.

Eric drowned in the Caribbean. He forgot to shut his mouth and take off the tux. His parents were devastated.

Batman Ran For His Grandpa

2011-06-01T16:51:00.001-06:00

As I've mentioned before, running is hard. What I forgot to mention is that running in Boulder is not the same thing as running the same loop, day after day through my neighborhood. Boulder, see, has a tendency to bring out the crazies and ups the entertainment factor by a mile (or SIX POINT TWO MILES as the case may be). Don't get me wrong, running still sucks, but there's something about an Elvis impersonator singing "I'm All Shook Up" along the sidelines that encourages one to press on.

Monday was the day - our family set the alarm for 5am, caught the bus at 6am, pulled over on the freeway 1/2 hour later so a woman who took her pre-race hydrating routine very seriously could relieve a little pressure on her bladder, then arrived about an hour later at the starting line. After a little stretching and a potty break we joined our heat and headed off. Yay us! That was the last time I saw my family until we reached the finish. Samantha ran ahead, Drew and Cory stayed together, and I pulled up the rear. I had to, so I could take pictures of Elvis - while he was asking me to love him tender I asked him to "say cheese!"

Since the race is run through a community the streets have to shut down for several hours. In other words, if you happen to live along the track you'd better not make plans before 2pm. The homeowners are all very supportive - I passed up three offers for free beer, had jumbo marshmallows thrown my way, and welcomed the squirting of water guns aimed my direction. I passed on the invitation to indulge a slip-n-slide run in another's front yard, but stopped to take a picture of this kiddie pool that several runners took advantage of:

Have I mentioned that some people run in costume? I tried to get Cory to wear his Obi Wan Kenobi getup but he declined. I think he regretted it once he saw the 7 college boys in gold sequined leotards, but by then it was too late. Since the race is run on Memorial Day many people run in honor of someone they love, many of whom served in the military. They wear an extra bib on their back with that person's name - I kept a steady pace behind Bat Man:

As I got a little more awesome and went to pass him (which, hellooo, passing a superhero? let's have a little moment of silence for THAT, alrighty?) I noticed what it said on his bib:

Then I kinda felt sorry for Bat Man. Since I wanted to remain supportive I did a fist pump as I passed him and said, "Go Grandpa!" Then two things crossed my mind: 1) Does this poor kid think I'm patronizing him and calling him a Grandpa? and, 2) Hey, you're Bat Man, couldn't you have saved him? Oh well, I guess I'll never know. In the meantime, when is the last time you saw belly dancers? 'Cuz they make an appearance at about mile 3:

It's quite an experience, the Bolder Boulder. I highly recommend it, but that's probably just because it's over. The kids want to do it again next year - I'm not making any promises, but you never know. I might get a hankerin' for some bad Elvis impressions.

The Video I Plan On Watching Into The Night

2011-05-27T16:56:00.000-06:00

You guys, on a scale of one to Oceanology! this is Charlie Bit My Finger and Double Rainbow All The Way! combined. Watch this, and you'll be forever changed. Anita, I could kiss you on the mouth for bringing this to my attention!

Video Courtesy of KSL.com

Where Awesome Is Relative

2011-05-27T08:43:00.001-06:00

Some recent self esteem boosters:

I got a call from a friend whose daughter was working on a school project about fame. Her voice was excited, “Vern! I found your celebrity twin! Have you ever seen Ugly Betty?”

My kids are better than I am, and I’m not just saying that disparagingly. They are smarter, they work harder, and they’re more goal-oriented. Hard as I try to preach mediocrity as a purer law, they’re not buying it. I’m happy for them, actually, until something happens and I point out how they are making me look bad and Samantha says, “Well Mom, maybe you’d better step up your game,” then I just feel like an idiot.

A couple of weeks ago I stood in the entryway of a woman’s home who had just lost her husband. We were waiting for her to finish a phone call in the other room as I gripped flowers and a casserole with one hand and thrust the other in my pocket. What the…? My fingers came in contact with something squishy and as I pulled my hand out it was covered in chocolate, the product of a hoarded Reese’s chocolate Easter egg long since forgotten. What’s a girl to do? Oh well, nothing says “I’m sorry for your loss” like licking chocolate off my fingers as a grieving woman rounds the corner.

For Mother's Day I got a little box full of written messages from Drew that he had made in his Sunday School class. One slip of paper encouraged him to finish the sentence, "My favorite memory about my mom's childhood is_________" to which he wrote, "when she went hip hop dancing in a bar."

Samantha is very proud of the fact that she takes after her Dad in most things. From her eye color to her even temperament she is cut from her father’s mold. The other night as we were getting ready to take a run around the lake we started discussing shoes. “So Mom,” Samantha asked, “do you have neutral or support shoes?” I answered, “neutral” and then she moved on to Cory who reported, “support”. “Well,” she said, “just one more thing I take after Dad on.” I casually asked, “Samantha, did you get anything from me?” She replied, “Yeah, you know how you get really excited about doing something and then you never really finish it? I think I get that from you.” *cough*cough* And then who do you suppose came in last on our 5 mile run? Hey, AT LEAST I FINISHED.

I guess it could be worse, I could be a yodeling ventriloquist in the Miss America pageant:

Done. But Not Really.

2011-05-25T08:32:00.000-06:00

I apologize in advance to those of you who may not speak my religious language, but those of you who do who have been following me for the last couple of years might be interested to know that I was released from my calling as Relief Society President on Sunday. Many have asked me how it feels, if it is bittersweet – the reality and perhaps the irony is that the biggest thing I feel…is RELIEF.

It turns out that shouldering the burden of 100 women is rather intimidating and sometimes difficult because, have you heard? Life is hard. For EVERYBODY. At first I wondered if I would be able to care about that many people; we had just barely moved at the time and most of these people were complete strangers to me. Could I actually love and serve virtual strangers in a meaningful way? Well, a funny thing happens when God asks you to do something and you say yes, because it was impossible not to.

I feared the “big” stuff the most. Funerals, divorces, hospital stays, abuse – I encountered all of it. But more than that I learned that behind every door, was something. Every mother wants a good life for her kids, every woman wants to be seen for who she is, every wife wants her home to be a safe haven; we all want the same things but the curve balls sometimes hit below the belt and we get thrown. The trial is knowing we can’t always fix it, the blessing is being able to surround each other when things go wrong, and the hope is that God keeps his promises. In spite of all of it, the one thing I witnessed over and over again is that Heavenly Father loves His children. He “will not leave you comfortless”, He knows how to “succor his people", and we keep moving because of the promise of the joy. That's how Jesus got through it: "Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross...." (Hebrews 12:2)

This calling blessed my life. I met wonderful women, observed countless acts of kindness, saw miracles happen in people's lives, and prayed mightily for miracles in others' lives. But in the end, no matter who we are or what we are asked to do it's not ultimately about us, it's about HIM. How HE loved, how HE served, how HE sacrificed, and that everything good we do honors that, and honors Him.

And that was my biggest lesson.

Show Me A Sign Part II

2011-05-20T18:24:00.001-06:00

(continued from yesterday…)

I was a little surprised when Cory talked about the Rapture happening on May 21st. I hadn’t heard anything about it, likely due to the fact that I watch Oprah instead of the news and blog instead of reading the newspaper. I was alarmed to learn that one gentleman invested his entire life savings of $140,000 into promoting the end of the world through billboards because let’s face it, come tomorrow morning when his neighbors’ dog is still barking, his fridge is still full of moldy cheese and the new season of The Bachelorette is still set to air he’s going to be like, “Crap. I should have bought that investment property in Florida.” Then after Cory brought it up we passed THIS sign along the freeway. It's like it was listening to us! Weird.

Then again, what if he’s right? What if Jesus really is on His way? I think he might have a few questions for me and since I don’t want to go to hell I’d like to set a few things straight and issue a few apologies, just to be sure.

For starters I’d like to address my childhood friend, Diana: I am sorry I ditched you in 7th grade and became friends with the cool kids on the soccer team. I am a big fat jerk and will always treasure my memories of Mouse Trap and 52 pick up in your bedroom closet that had beads for a door. Also, tell your mom I’m sorry for digging that hole with you and peeing on the oak tree in your backyard. Just because it was your idea didn’t make it right. (Still. YOUR idea.)

Kevin: I spent eight years of my life with a mad crush on you, eight more years grateful that you never acted on it, and every year since feeling thankful you made peace with your demons and that you’re still alive. One time I faked an illness to leave a dance where your presence made me so nervous I decided to go home and Maria was so mad at me! That’s okay, Maria was always mad at me.

Speaking of Maria: You were my first friend to see my potential, the first (and only) one to force me to play Barbies, the first person whose phone number I gave out as my own when a boy I didn’t like asked for it (sorry), and the first person to let me use your dorm room phone so I could talk to my first boyfriend. Remember, the one who liked Physics more than me? Thanks for being there when Physics won.

Jill: Good news! The END is NEAR!

Mom: Imagine that I have boxed up all of my journals from my adolescence and set them on your porch with a big fat note that says “I’M SO SORRY.” Would that suffice?

Cory: The only time I’ve lied to you is when I secretly stashed money to surprise you with a trip to Hawaii - I think God will understand. I’m also kinda hoping that after the big quake tomorrow Denver will look a little more like those waterfalls in Kauai. Fingers crossed!

Samantha: I ate the rest of the ice cream. Not apologizing, just telling the truth. I think that’s what Jesus would want.

Drew: If you make it to heaven tomorrow and I am thrust down to hell, do come visit will you? And bring me some Cold Stone?

Ganelle: I’ll save you a seat.

Show Me A Sign

2011-05-19T09:47:00.000-06:00

Driving down the road in Missouri last weekend Cory and I saw several signs along the way. There we were, exploring Robin Hood Lane and talking about how nice it must be to live where real live trees grow when suddenly we passed a blur of red, white and blue in someone's field. It was so random I turned around and went back to get a picture:

I guess if you live on 50 acres and have room to put something like that, in a field next to a wood pile along a road that only 3 people a day drive on seems as logical a place as any...? What I really want to know is if anyone has ever watched Glenn Beck because of seeing this sign, because if this stuff really works I've got some scrap wood in my garage and I'll get crackin' on my "Hugh Jackman For PTO President" billboard. I would totally volunteer at my kid's school then.

This van was covered with hopeful and uplifiting messages:

I don't even know who this guy is "talking" to. How do I know he's a guy? Because I worked in a Congressman's office for a summer and we got regular mail from a crazed constituent who had this exact handwriting. I'm pretty sure it's him.

Hey! Look at this cute couple!

We kept driving (our destination was 3 hours from the airport so we did a lot of that) and as we searched for topics to fill the time Cory said, "Hey, did you know the world is ending on May 21st?" (to be continued...)

Breakfast

2011-05-19T08:40:00.000-06:00

I guess I didn't "allow for expansion"

Our Waitress Was An "Angel"

2011-05-16T22:07:00.000-06:00

Thanks to awesome in-laws, the Mister and I had a rare opportunity to go away together this weekend. A co-worker of Cory’s was getting married in Missouri and his company offered to pay for me to accompany him. Good news: free trip with the Mister! Bad news: in Missouri! It’s best to focus on the positive.

Some highlights:

Did you know that Cory is 6’3” and walks 76 mph? This comes in really handy when you have to walk 3 miles to get to your airline terminal. In the rain. Which reminds me, doesn’t Kate Middleton have to walk a few paces behind Prince William when they are in public? Which is to say, Cory treats me like a princess.

I met my first TSA employee that I didn’t hate. Here’s a hint for getting on my good side: when I walk up to you and hand you my boarding pass and ID and you greet me with, “Hey gorgeous!” I will likely find it easier to raise my arms and let you feel me up while checking for switchblades.

Our flight was delayed 3 hours so we decided to grab dinner in the airport. Our waitress’ name was “Angel”; she had feathers in her hair and called me “hon” numerous times. She was delightful but I’m always suspicious of women who call me “hon”. You can work at TSA and call me “gorgeous” all you want, but somehow a woman calling me hon screams, “I’m a chain smoker with very few friends, if I bring you 7 refills will you please like me?”

There are certain advantages to attending a wedding in a town with a population of 267. Not only does the whole town show up, but one woman broke out her best hairpiece for the occasion even though it didn’t match her natural hair. It looked like a squirrel that got stuck in a bad perm and nobody even cared. Another gentleman got out his Sunday best in the form of jeans and an American flag shirt and graced the 3rd row. Nobody blinked, probably because everyone was too moved listening to Randy Travis over the speakers while we waited for the bride.

Driving down the road I saw a sign for the “Big Rock Church and Cemetery”. Does anyone else see that as a conflict of interest? He is risen! You are dead! Let’s pray.

The “Hookers Bar & Grill” also caught my eye. There’s a lot of fishermen in Missouri. Can you imagine if Hookers and Hooters got together and joined forces? Whooboy. I don’t think I’d be comfortable ordering hot wings from a place like that. (“I said a side of “ranch” not “wench!”)

Cory swallowed a toothpick at the wedding buffet. We were afraid he might puncture a lung during the digestive phase but he’s made it two days now so we’re thinking he’s out of the woods. (As to whether the “woods” are out of him…we can neither confirm nor deny.)

All in all, a weekend with Cory, no matter where we go is still my favorite.

455

2011-05-10T20:47:00.000-06:00

Remember the good ol’ days when people would ask, “Are you a blogger?” and you’d be like, “Is it necessary to resort to name-calling?” I didn’t even know what it was until a neighbor enlightened me, and from then on I’ve been hooked. My neighbor is what I would refer to as a blogging pioneer, kind of how Survivor is to reality TV – she’s been at it since before the Olsen twins started wearing eyeliner.

I’ve only been at this since the beginning of 2007, but today marks my 455^th post here on Rabbit In The Headlights. Now, some of you (all of you?) are wondering what is so special about the number 455. Why not highlight #400? Or wait until I reach 500? Well, probably for the same reason Paul Reiser started one of his books on page 145. Which is no reason really, other than I feel like it. Besides, I think you would be surprised how significant number 455 really is. For example, did you know that there’s a 17-year-old kid who dead lifted 455 pounds of weights and then posted it on YouTube? Or that Oldsmobile once made a car called a 455 Rocket? And did you know that the book Altar of Bones is 455 pages long? You think that’s just coincidence?! Whatever, you probably still think Elvis is dead.

At any rate, a lot of people write stuff on their blogs to commemorate landmark posts but I’m not going to do that. I will not be writing down 455 things I’ve learned, 455 things I’ve done, or 455 topics I’ve addressed. I will not be asking you to leave 455 comments or tell me 455 things you like about me (not even possible for the Creator Himself on His best day), but I just wanted you to know – I think this is a big deal. It’s a big deal because other than marriage and self loathing I haven’t committed to ANYthing for this long. I think it’s a sign of great things to come.

I have a really good feeling about the number 824….

I Cracked My Tooth On A Raisin

2011-05-06T10:15:00.000-06:00

Life is amping up over here at Casa de Vern. There's so much to talk about! I haven't even told you about my very first Weight Watchers meeting last week, how I spent the weekend in Utah to see my brother-in-law get baptized (SO. COOL.), that I cracked a huge chunk off my back molar while eating trail mix and had to get a crown at the dentist (and how disappointed I was to learn that being crowned doesn't even involve a tiara or bowing of any kind), or how I saw an Ikea for the first time. I haven't had time to mention my conversation with a dead moose, Drew trying to make Cory cry (epic fail), having 220 unread posts in my Google Reader, or how standing in line at the BYU Creamery for my double scoop of Raspberry Cream Cheese and German Chocolate Cake ice cream felt like waiting for the pearly gates to open. (Spoiler alert: They did open, and I did see angels. The thing about angels is they don't have to wear white. Sometimes they were blue aprons with hot fudge stains, and that's okay by me.)

I'm not sure if I'll ever get to any of these topics but in the meantime, I'm guest posting over here today at The Peanut Gallery Speaks. Go ahead, click on the link and then have yourself a beautiful weekend.

Or As The Italians Say, "Cenerentola"

2011-05-04T18:41:00.001-06:00

My decision to accompany my son on his field trip to the opera this week was based on two main factors; one, since this is his final year of elementary school this would probably be my last opportunity to chaperone a field trip. To dwell excessively on this reality tends to trigger overeating so I will leave it at that. Secondly, I have never been to an opera. I’ve had my picture taken on a camel, dodged cars on a busy road led by a crazy Greek, danced with friends in a gay bar, and fallen asleep in a Physical Science class during a scintillating dissertation on the composition of tomatoes, but I have never been to an opera. Good news: I can scratch that off my list now. More good news! Now I never have to go again.

We saw Cinderella. I thought this would prove helpful - I already knew this story so it would make it easier to follow along in Italian. Also on my side was my experience with Spanish, which parallels Italian so if someone were to drop a, “si!” or a, “no!” I would totally know what they were saying and have a leg up on everyone else. (Did I just say I’m trying to get “a leg up” on a mezzanine full of elementary schoolers? Not to worry, getting a life is on my list of things to do after seeing an opera so I can get to that next.) As it was, however, a gentleman came on stage to make some clarifications before the show began.

“In this particular interpretation, there will not be a stepmother, but a stepfather.”

Whatever, I can roll with that.

“And instead of a fairy godmother there will be a dude in a grey suit with no personality who doesn’t even sing ‘Bippidy-Boppidy-Boo’.” (Or something like that.)

No fairy godmother? What’s next, no glass slipper?

“And instead of a glass slipper the Prince will have to find Cinderella by trying to match a bracelet.”

This was getting out of hand.

The emcee further explained that at the time this opera was written it was considered scandalous for a woman to show her ankles, so they used a bracelet. Right then and there I vowed that if I ever mastered time travel my first order of business would be taking Lady Gaga to the opera in Italy in 1817. Just for kicks.

Alas, I did not love this experience. It’s not that the singers weren’t talented, it’s just that their chests were heaving with so much exertion that I kept waiting for a lung to fly out of someone’s mouth and hit me in the face and I had a hard time getting excited about that. Adding to my disappointment, Cinderella and the Prince never even indulged in a reasonable kiss – they just stood there holding hands across from each other and belted out words like “bellisima” and “amore” while spit flew everywhere. Is that any way to tell your soul mate you love them? Like the Italians say, “No!” (Now I’m just showing off.)

At any rate, I concluded that the opera and I were not meant to be together. It’s okay if you don’t agree with me, but if you DO disagree I suspect you also have more books than the library of congress, wear tweed on the weekends and smoke a lot of cigars. Am I wrong? No matter, at least I’ve crossed it off my list. But if I ever have to choose a do-over, I’m picking the photo op on the camel – hands down.

Since I'm Not Friends With All Of You On Facebook...

2011-04-28T12:49:00.001-06:00

What my friend wrote as her facebook status this morning:

"I can actually say something COOL today in that I just re-queened one of my beehives! It's such a fascinating hobby."

My response:

"You fit Ricky Martin into a BEEHIVE?!"

The Signs Of Addiction

2011-04-27T10:07:00.000-06:00

The first game I downloaded onto my iPhone when I got it a few months ago was Boggle. Why do I love Boggle so much? Because I kick BUTT at that game. Unless I am playing my friend Kettie, whose Boggle powers exceed that of Superman’s x-ray vision, then I suck at it; which is why I never play her anymore. Pick your battles, I say.

Not only am I good at Boggle, but it has opened my eyes to the joy of waiting. Waiting for your daughter to come out of the school after track practice, waiting for your son to get off the bus, waiting for the DMV to look up “efficient” in the dictionary and understand what it means, no kidding I have TIME for this now because when the ladies at the DMV desk are fighting over who gets to take their smoke break and who has to help the next customer I’m sitting patiently, tapping the letters on my iPhone and going, “I just got an eleven point word!”

I have rejected accusations from my children that I’m addicted. Cory and I will sit on the couch and pass the game back and forth as the kids walk by and say, “You guys are so addicted to that stupid game,” and I’m thinking, “This isn’t addiction this is a marriage enhancement exercise. Your Dad has lost 9 out of the last 10 games and he hasn’t even popped a blood vessel yet. Take notes kids, ~~I am better than your Dad at something!~~ we are in LOVE!”

Then again, the kids might be right. The other night I had to go use the bathroom and I knew I would be there a while. I had two choices: sit and stare at the wall OR, take my trusty iPhone into the bathroom with me and pass the time gleefully tapping up a high score. I chose the latter. The game lets out a little *ding!* every time you land a legitimate word, so there I was, minding my own business; tap-tap-tap-ding! tap-tap-tap-tap-ding! when all of the sudden Drew walked past the bathroom and heard me. I noticed his feet pause outside the door and he stopped and inquired incredulously, “Mom? Are you playing BOGGLE in there?!” “Uh….” Busted.

I still say I’m not addicted but I did learn a valuable lesson: always silence your phone before playing a game in the bathroom.

A Little Girl With Great Big Plans

2011-04-19T12:55:00.004-06:00

I think I was smoking crack when I decided to sign my family up for the Bolder Boulder 10K. The problem is, before you can run 6.2 miles, you have to be able to run ONE mile. And then two, and then three and four and five, and even though it doesn't sound like a lot it kind of is. I didn't realize it either until I tried to walk up a flight of stairs and talk on the phone at the same time without sounding like I was hauling 80 pounds of granite on my back - when the person on the other end asks if you're trying to blow the little pig's house down, that's your first clue that maybe you've bitten off more than you can chew.

Today when I was running I was thinking about two things: One, how much I hated running and two, that there was half of a leftover burrito waiting for me at home when I was done. Which just goes to show you, motivation is personal.

Since we are doing this as a family Drew and I get up at 6 am a couple of mornings a week to get the running in before he has to go to school. This kills me, and one day last week as we walked out of the gym I was thinking how our next family goal should be who can eat the most ice cream bars at Disneyland when Drew looked over at me and said, "Well, we're getting better!" I wanted to hug him and smooch him on the cheek and take him to Disneyland right that moment. But he just turned 11, and although he still allows the side hug before boarding the morning bus, I don't want to push my luck.

Saturday, however, I was doing my run alone, had about a mile to go, and wanted to sit down on the side of the road and call Jimmy John's to deliver me a sandwich. I had already stopped four times to catch my breath, and even though I was approaching a downhill grade I simply didn't feel like I had anything left to give when guess what happened? You guys, Mindy saved my life. Not this Mindy,

(Mindy Cohn from "The Facts of Life")

Or THIS Mindy:

(From the sitcom "Mork & Mindy")

No, I'm talking about this Mindy. I'm sure you've heard of her before. She's a singer, which I love. She just cut her hair super short, which I love. She also reads my blog, which I LOVE love. But most importantly on Saturday, when my feet wanted to stop and my heart wanted to rest and my stomach wanted some cereal, her voice began streaming through my iPod and just like that, my feet, heart and stomach said they could keep going.

"I'm gonna walk a hundred miles" (talk about an overachiever)

"I'm gonna whistle all the while" (she's obviously never seen me exercise)

"If that's what it takes to make me smile" (it's not, but okay)

"I'm gonna walk a hundred miles" (or jog for one, as the case may be)

The lyrics make me feel like I'm 8 years old again, back when my friend's mom taught me ballet and she thought I had great potential. It was before I turned 40 and tried to run a mile for each of those decades without stopping to breathe, pee, or order pizza. Mindy makes me feel like maybe I actually CAN run right up that hill..."and maybe I'm just a little girl, a little girl with great big plans."

The al-Qaeda In My Mind

2011-04-15T19:38:00.000-06:00

Often when I go several days in a row without writing, there is actually quite a lot going on in my head. It’s a warzone in there sometimes people. More than an angel whispering happy thoughts in one ear and a devil enticing evil in the other, it’s a virtual ground zero on some days. Thoughts careen into my frontal lobe without warning and invite my spirit to wake up, because something monumental is happening. But before I can write everything down, calm the chaos, and make sense of it all, the walls are already burning. The foundation rattles, the sides give way, and although a few good thoughts escape, many collapse and become buried in the rubble of a life that doesn’t always make sense to me.

The truth is sometimes painful.

Facades cut even deeper.

Too heavy.

Too stupid.

Too annoying.

Too unfair.

Too much.

Too…

…much.

Running Is Hard

2011-04-08T09:38:00.000-06:00

I have a dream.

Not the one where gas is free, lawns mow themselves and Chipotle delivers with complimentary guac, but the one where my whole family runs the Bolder Boulder 10K race together. It’s a big deal in these parts, tens of thousands of people run this race each year. I’ve done it twice, Cory did it once, and every time one of us has left early in the morning to join their heat on the starting line I have secretly fantasized that one day my whole family would get up and do it together.

But see, it’s not really my thing to accomplish goals, it’s mostly my thing to have them. Just ask the diet books on my shelf, the unfinished hutch in my garage, or the archives of unprinted pictures on my hard drive.

Nevertheless, the rest of my family is entirely well versed with the concept of setting and completing goals, reinforcing my status as The Weak Link. When I told the family that I wanted to do this, I knew how it was going to go – Samantha, who already runs up to 7 or 8 miles after school for track practice, would simply show up, kick all of our trash and have time to read War and Peace by the time the rest of us meet her at the finish line. Cory would prepare not at all and run with Drew at whatever pace worked for the both of them. I would spend months getting into shape by downloading a training regimen from the internet, taping it to the wall and crossing off the workouts as I accomplished them. By the time the race came around I would be rearing to go, and hopefully make at least as good a time as I did when I ran it four years ago.

Here’s how it’s gone instead.

My goal in January: stop eating sugar – lose 30 pounds – train every day

My goal in February: eat sugar only on weekends – lose 20 pounds – run three times a week

My goal in March: eat sugar only on weekends. or weekdays. – listen, the scales aren't always right – go for a run if the sun is shining, the wind isn’t blowing, and Jimmer isn’t playing (sort of excluding all of March)

It is now April, and with the race in 8 weeks it’s really time to fish or cut bait. Tinkle or get off the potty. Be part of the problem or part of the solution. See the opportunity as a challenge or the challenge as an opportunity. (Tony Robbins I've been listening!)

I’ve decided it’s time to quit.

Time

To quit making excuses

To quit whining

To quit expecting a chromosomal defect to blame

To quit pushing the “snooze” button

To quit hoping for a magic pill

To quit waking up in the morning, fully expecting to fail

It’s time to show up in my own life.

Monday was harsh, but I did it. Tuesday and Wednesday I followed through, and today is better than Monday. It may not be much but for now…

…for now I’m running with it.

Sometimes I'm Awesome

2011-04-07T22:26:00.001-06:00

I have a system when I need to go somewhere. I get in my car, put on my seatbelt, turn on my Lower Lights CD (have I mentioned how much I love them? LOVE THEM), back out and leave. It's not a complicated system, so it usually works.

I'll tell you what's NOT part of my system and that is hearing a funky noise while cruising down the street, pulling over only to discover that a missing part from the Titanic is sticking out of my left rear tire, deciding to leave it there and try to make it to the tire store for repair without getting a flat, having that plan fail with a dramatic *POP!* and a hiss, then while dealing with the massive disappointment that the sound was not in fact coming from a frosty can of A&W, pulling off to a side street to change my tire in sparkly flats and freshly coiffed hair. A discouraging scene indeed.

If you think I was intimidated though, think again. I am woman, hear me roar!

Apparently I'm also a woman who needs Botox and a clearer definition of "freshly coiffed hair". Anyway, here I am preparing to put the donut on - it's hard to do that and take a picture of yourself with your iPhone at the same time. Cute necklace though, don't you think?

While jacking up the car I got a little distracted by my cute shoes too.

It's a dirty job, but I bet if this is the worst thing Mike Rowe ever had to do he'd be stoked.

Not to worry, look what I keep in my door compartment! What? I drive a Honda Odyssey, what else would you expect me to put there?

All in all a pretty eventful morning. Four different people stopped and offered help but I declined - one told me I was "better than his wife" (If I had a nickel...) and another clapped for me. Nobody asked for an autograph, but I figure it's only a matter of time.

Wherein I Overshadow My Addiction To Chocolate With A Story About Irresponsibility

2011-04-05T09:31:00.000-06:00

I’m not a big believer in buying books because one, I don’t read much, two, if you buy a book then you have to find somewhere to put it when you’re done and I don't want the clutter, and three, it's too expensive and libraries are free! This particularly speaks to my sensibilities. Unfortunately what doesn’t speak to my sensibilities is the concept of the world not revolving around me and the idea of having a DUE DATE on a book.

You know when you’re looking for a specific book and you go to the library’s system to see if it’s available? And the library only has three copies of the most popular book since Edward put the “V” in vampire and they are all checked out? As you peruse the list to see when the books are due to return, hoping they will come back sometime before the suspicious mole on your right arm lands you in hospice with an IV drip, you notice that one of the copies was due back before Adam roamed the earth. And you think to yourself, what kind of numskull hasn’t found the time in the last three U.S. presidents to return that book? Well, that “numskull” might live somewhere in the Denver metro area near my house. Fine. IN my house. She has poor taste in music, had 17 Dove chocolates before 9am today and desperately needs her roots done. Anything else?

I didn’t know I was in trouble with the library until I got a notice in the mail the other day. FROM COLLECTIONS. What the…? As far as I knew I didn’t even have any items checked out from the library. When I called to work things out I had two questions: What were the charges for? And why was I just hearing about it now? It is customary to get some kind of notice when books are late, a notice I had come to depend on rather than the notion of personal responsibility, but had never received. As it turned out, notices HAD been sent. To the house we lived in TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO. In the meantime we had racked up SIXTY THREE DOLLARS in late fees and replacement costs, and the collections agency was on our case. Knowing these charges were negotiable, I sucked up big time to the lady on the phone. I was so nice you would have thought I was trying to negotiate for a life saving kidney, and it worked. She knocked off over half of the dues and I was left to pay her $25.

It’s been a good lesson for me because now I know, I can’t afford the library either.

What's The Buzz?

2011-04-01T10:46:00.001-06:00

Internet, meet Cory. Also known as Cooper, Studly, Are You Asleep Already, and Will You Please Take Out The Trash. He is my favorite.

He is my favorite because when I am getting a headache he will massage my shoulders to help it go away even though he hates it. He is my favorite because even though he likes Qdoba better, he will go to Chipotle instead because he knows I prefer it. He does our taxes, pays our bills, and still treats Opening Day at Coors Field with the nostalgia of a kid. (He's going today at 2:00pm)

Nevertheless, even our favorites have their challenges, and I'm not just talking about having to come home to me every day. As of late it has centered more upon the frailty of his follicles, and their inability to produce. In other words, when the photographer of your family portrait asks, "Hey, do you mind if we photoshop in a little extra hair?" it's time to reevaluate. So this week Cory/Cooper/Studly took the plunge - no more bed head, bye bye blow dryers, hasta la vista shampoo - we buzzed his head. Samantha took a crack at it first.

And now for the finished product:

Yep, he is still my favorite.

Overheard

2011-03-27T16:04:00.001-06:00

Samantha's birthday is coming up, and she has asked for two things. 1) An awesome pillow and, 2) a bow and arrow. While hanging out in the kitchen just now her dad was curious about her bow and arrow request. "What in the world do you want a bow and arrow for?" Without missing a beat she replied, "This coming from the guy who asked for an Obi Wan Kenobi costume for Christmas? Really?"

I love her more and more every year.

My Celebrity Handcart Company

2011-03-22T13:18:00.001-06:00

A friend of mine told me that when she gets bored at church she sometimes looks around, sizes people up, and tries to decide who she would want in her handcart company if she ever had to be a pioneer. I thought it was a genius idea if I ever got bored at church, but since I am far more evolved than my spiritually destitute friend it hasn’t been necessary. However, sometimes I get bored thinking about going to church and that’s when I let my mind wander to this game, except I expanded the parameters and made a list of who I would want in my handcart company if I had to choose from celebrities. You know me, I always like to take things a step further. So, here you go.

TOP 10 LIST

MY CELEBRITY HANDCART COMPANY

Chuck Norris – Duh.

Milli Vanilli – Making the trek across the plains means there will be rain, followed by mud, and then people will start to get cranky and just when we’re tempted to point fingers and blame each other Milli Vanilli will start singing “Blame It On The Rain”, which is kind of catchy and will put us all in a better mood. Except, wait. Maybe we should just bring a copy of “their” CD.

George Clooney – Cliché? Maybe, but what if polygamy comes back? Do we want all our kids to be ugly?

MacGyver – Need to borrow some corn from your Indian neighbors but they don’t understand your hand gestures? Don’t fret, MacGyver knows Cherokee! Got a bonnet that’s not keeping enough sun from your eyes? He’ll weave some thread from the silkworm and stitch on a palm frond. Where does he get the palm frond in the middle of Wyoming? Silly rabbit, with a magnifying glass and a cow pie. Don’t you know anything?

Brian Regan – Ultimately, stick pulling is going to lose its flair and we’re going to need a back up plan. Not to mention we’re going to need an opener on Family Talent Night.

Keira Knightly – I think if she told me to fetch some water it wouldn’t bother me because I’d be like, “Cool accent!” and I think all the other pioneer women would be the same way. We would get so much done! “Hey, grab that chicken by the talons and cut off it’s head.” We’d run and get the chicken and come back giggling, going, “Say it again! Say it again!”

Justin Bieber – On a bad day when all the young girls are PMS'ing and have their pantaloons in a twist, you could just be like, “Look! It’s Justin Bieber!”

Hugh Jackman – FOR HIS SWEET SPIRIT.

Dr. Phil – Because eventually one of the handcarts is going to break down and MacGyver will be all, “Anyone got a safety pin?” and Norris will be like, “Just shoot it!” Then, “No! I just need a safety pin!” followed by, “Where’s my rifle?”

“Safety pin!”

“Rifle!”

They'll go back and forth, and we’ll need Dr. Phil to be there to say, “I don’t care how flat you make a pancake it’s got two sides.” He will hear them both out, MacGyver will fix the handcart and then Norris will go get our dinner. Everybody wins.

Paula Deen – Not only would she make us awesome scrambled eggs but I think she would be the sort to help me toilet paper Dr. Phil’s tent in the middle of the night. He’ll think that’s so funny, then Paula and I will become Dr. Phil’s favorites. This will come in super handy when I have to make the appointment to see him for my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder when this is all over.

So, what about you? Who’s in your handcart company?

Cheap Art

2011-03-17T09:34:00.001-06:00

Things You'll Never Hear A Southerner Say: "Duct tape won't fix that!" ~ Jeff Foxworthy

I've had a piece of artwork hanging in my entryway for a long time that I am no longer in love with. It gets a lot of light in the afternoon so it was faded and frankly, I was bored with it. So I took it out, covered it with a piece of fabric I bought at (I'm afraid to admit it) Wal Mart, and using a highly civilized and technical process called Use As Much Duct Tape As It Takes, it now looks like this:

Cory thinks it's lame, but he's trying to be supportive. I think it looks even more awesome than the $4.67 I spent on it. Whose side are you on?

I Meant Well

2011-03-15T09:10:00.001-06:00

One of my favorite things about the beginning of a school year is the ream of forms a parent is given to fill out about their child. Name, address, phone number, those are the easy ones. The two that always manage to trip me up are the Medical Release and the Media Waiver.

When it comes to the Medical Release, we all know that it asks you to sign the dotted line and give the school permission to make medical decisions for your child should you become unavailable. Most of the time what this means is, listen, if you’re in TJ Maxx and you turned your ringer off and your kid needs a Tylenol, can we give him one? I say, sure! But if it means, “Someone put a double espresso in your daughter’s Capri Sun and she took off running and the last time we saw her she was on I-25 headed north, do you mind if we hit her with a tranquilizer dart?” I’d say, “Send an ice cream truck to the freeway instead and I promise she’ll stop.” Less invasive and 100% effective. Only a mother knows these things.

The Media Waiver is another one that gets me. Basically what they ask is for permission to publish your child’s picture wherever and whenever they want to. At first I think these forms are mostly to protect children whose identities need to remain elusive. I imagine abusive parents whose rights have been revoked only to peruse the elementary school websites looking for their child and say, “There he is! On the monkey bars! I KNEW it.” And proceed to kidnap him from school at recess. So for the last ten years of my children’s education I have always given permission for their pictures to be used and waited year after year to see their sparkly countenances grace the cover of a school district brochure. Or something. But last year as I prepared to sign the waiver and it asked to use my child’s picture on the internet I decided, “You know what? I’m going to say ‘No.’ You never know when some creep might zero in on my kid and try to hunt them down.” So I checked the box that said, “No thanks” which appropriately translates to, “I’m one of those parents.”

Last week Drew came home from school and began going over his day. “We had a cool assembly. A meteorologist came from the news channel and talked about weather. He was really funny, and our school is going to be on the news. Except I had to stand in the hall while they were filming because you signed some paper….”

Doh!

Another Reason Not To Invite Us To Dinner

2011-03-11T09:53:00.000-07:00

Samantha to Drew: “If there was a dragon that breathed burps, you would fit right in.”

Drew: [Belched super loud and long]

Samantha: [Pointing at Drew and looking at me.] “See what I mean?”

Drew: [clawing his hands in the air] “Rawr!”

Hi Dad. You Might Want To Skip This One.

2011-03-07T14:56:00.000-07:00

A very nice couple invited us to dinner last night in their brand new home. Since it was, quite literally, a brand new home and the hostess had denied offers for us to contribute to the meal I thought it would be nice to take some kind of token housewarming…I don’t know…thing. As I rummaged around the house I remembered that I had some plain, leftover bundt cakes in my freezer that were undecorated, and wouldn’t it be nice to make a tasty buttercream frosting, decorate the cakes and bestow them upon our hostess at our arrival? Why yes, I thought so too.

I pulled out the cakes to thaw and began mixing my frosting – some cinnamon here, a little almond extract there, and a drip of vanilla to round everything out and I was good to go. Samantha gussied up a bit of cardboard, we set the cakes side by side and I began to frost. Five minutes later I looked quizzically at my little creation and tilted my head. What the tilt of my head was trying to say here was, “Um, Vern? I know you think you’re all awesome and domestic and everything, but your cakes here LOOK LIKE BREASTS.”

Turns out my head tilt was totally right, so I tried to fix it. Maybe if I sprinkle a little bit of cinnamon and sugar on top it will help. Know what happens when you sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on white buttercream? The cinnamon sort of absorbs into the frosting creating a nice, appetizing shade of areola.

But I was not yet defeated! With a fresh bouquet of flowers on my kitchen table I attempted a Big Fat Greek Wedding approach to the bundt, but the damage had already been done and I couldn't seem to see past what appeared to be a lovely pair of Woodstock Boobs.

To be sure I wasn’t overreacting I held up my little creation to Cory and said, “Honey, do you see anything wrong with this dessert?” As he came over to inspect my work he suggested, “Uhh…can you scrape off the nipples?” That’s it! This was not suitable for company.

We arrived at dinner empty handed.

But I supposed that’s better than boobs on a plate.

This Hurts Me More Than It Hurts You

2011-03-04T15:09:00.000-07:00

Back when they took my ovaries out and I began menopause along with a hormone therapy replacement regimen, I was warned about several side effects. Dry mouth, night sweats, reduced sex drive, increased fantasies of assisted living facilities with Bingo every weekend, etc. It sounded like just another Friday night to me, so I wasn’t too concerned. The problem is they never once, EVER warned me about the possibility of unexpectedly bursting into tears during a Parent Teacher Conference.

But that’s exactly what happened.

Yesterday was chock full of excitement – aside from the normal tantalizing exercises of bathing and rummaging for the good cold cereal, I attended back to back conferences at different schools with both of my children’s teachers. Drew’s began uneventfully with talk of test scores, classroom participation, upcoming projects and then a Ra-Ra lecture to Drew from his teacher about how much she believed in him, that his work habits were great and that she had ZERO concerns about his ability to transfer to middle school. I mumbled under my breath, “Mama might have to go to therapy over it but YOU will be just fine.” I was just trying to be lighthearted, but then the teacher looked at me and asked, “Well, what concerns do you have about him going to middle school?” Without warning the likes of Mount Everest erupted in my esophagus and I felt my eyes begin to burn. I looked away and said, “Oh nothing, I know he’ll be fine.” But as I looked back she was still staring at me, and something about the eye contact felt like an open invitation to “Go ahead Drew’s mom, tell me aaaaaall about your crazy”, and I lost it. “Is he your first?” she asked. “No!” I claimed, “he’s my LAST!”

It takes a special gift to turn a normal meeting into a counseling session, and just when I thought I had run out of gifts….

I’m just not ready. I don’t feel old enough to not have anyone in elementary school anymore – for crying out loud, my mom at my age had just had a baby. I’m not ready to throw a perfectly nice, innocent, wonderful boy into an ocean of filthy language, hormonal behavior and shady influence. It doesn’t matter to me that I believe he can handle it, I don’t want him to have to see it. Boys are different than girls, and I’m not ready to watch adolescence take hold of him and give him acne and armpit hair and prevent him from giving his mom a side hug before climbing onto the bus. I’M NOT READY!

Is anyone else seeing a pattern here? I’ve managed to humiliate my kids and myself in less than a week and I guarantee somewhere along the way my husband has hung his head in shame. For matters of convenience and to further my denial, I’m blaming the hormone pills.

Roam If You Want To, Roam Around The World

2011-03-02T23:56:00.001-07:00

It’s time for Spring sports at our high school and my daughter has decided to run track. Yesterday as I drove to run a quick errand, I spotted her trotting against traffic on the sidewalk with her team and I’m telling you, I wanted to pull over. “Are you thirsty? You seem hot. Why aren’t you wearing shorts in this warm weather? Are you still self conscious about that mole on your leg? I was self conscious about being so white, DON’T BE LIKE YOUR MOM! Oh, that’s right, you are SO not like your mom. What a relief! I was (past tense?) such a piece of work. You’re doing great, honey! Keep up the pace, but be careful and don’t get separated from the group! I’m so proud of you.” It all went through my head. Instead I just waved and smiled, and watched her narrow, determined form disappear in my rear view mirror. There are so many truths in this moment. She’s happy. She’s working hard. She’s setting goals and resolving to get the best out of her high school experience. She’s thriving.

Her mama, however. Her mama is grateful, proud, and excited for her. But still, mama wants to pull over. Here’s when the hardest but more important truth hits: It’s not my job to pull over, it’s my job to let her run.

Monday, I needed to stop by the school to write a check to the Athletic Department (another part of my job, just sit down and write checks. All day long. The checks never tire of this exercise.) As it turned out, when I arrived at the school it appeared to be lunch time because kids were everywhere. Girls giggled and texted in one corner, boys unengaged with headphones in their ears occupied another corner, and as I neared the Athletic office there was a young couple occupied in a heated but hushed exchange on Whatever It Is That Hormonal Teenage Couples Talk About. I walked past, entered the office to pay our dues and then walked out. I began to text Samantha to let her know that all the paperwork was in order for her to attend practice after school. “But wait,” my head said to me. Just like that. Sadly, my head doesn’t always have the best instincts. “But WAIT! She’s probably right there in the lunch room, I bet I can find her.” I peered through the window and looked around; some random kid waved and smiled at me as if to say, “I pity the fool on the other end of THAT search”. I waved back, and then just beyond him I discovered the red sweatshirt I was looking for.

I KNOW. Poor Samantha.

I had found her, and I was on my way to her table.

It suddenly felt like I was in slow motion – mom walks slowly, meets gaze of daughter, daughter tries to hide humiliation but she’s not well taught, mom walks past kid in the carpool who smiles as if to say, “You drive me to school once a month, so this is probably what I’m supposed to do, but DUDE. SO GLAD you’re not here for ME.” Students all around turn their heads to see who the unlucky candidate for The Mom Visit is, and as I reach Samantha’s table she looks up because she has no other choice. Her smile is forced, “Heeeey, MOM.” And just like that, I feel like Patricia Heaton in a scene from The Middle. “Hi honey!” I said. I explained that her dues were paid up and she was all set to go to practice after school. “That’s…great! NOW CAN YOU PLEASE GO SO I CAN HAVE TIME TO HEAL BEFORE MY SENIOR PROM?”

I felt like an idiot walking out of the school. Not, “Dang it, I forgot my keys” kind of an idiot, more like, “The cutest boy in school just called me for my best friend’s phone number” kind. It’s not like I expected her to run to me and give me a bear hug, but I thought I was at least cool enough to say “hi” to without looking like I’d rather cut off my head and shove it into a vat of lemon juice.

But alas, mama’s still learning. It’s not easy to let you run by yourself baby girl, but I’m catching on. I may not pull over to the side of the road as you finish your last mile, but one thing is for sure – I can’t wait to see where those shoes take you. And when you get there, I'll be waiting. Probably in the front row, waving madly and wearing a bad sweater, but I'll be there.

Maybe Tomorrow

2011-03-01T20:39:00.000-07:00

So much to talk about, so little time. Sunday I made an amazing discovery while watching the Oscars during the commercials of Undercover Boss. You guys, did YOU know that Zachary Levi sang for real? Like it's not enough to be able to channel Tae Kwon Do in a pinch. Chuck jumped the shark over a year ago but now that I know the dude can sing I am recommitting.

Monday was a big day - I went to pick up my hormone pills from the pharmacy and you wouldn't think this to be eventful, but then you obviously don't know my pharmacist because she's a friend of mine, and when I opened my container to pop the pill that helps prevent me from swimming in sweat in my sleep I discovered JELLY BEANS in my bottle mixed in with my real medicine. People, THAT is a good pharmacist.

Then today I went running at 6am with my son and after getting him off to school proceeded to make six casseroles. [cue applause] That's a real number folks. I'm not bragging, just stating facts. Now I'm tired, and while I'd love to expand on the story about how I mortified my daughter at school or wax poetically about how using Dissolv-It on your hair may remove the tree sap incurred on a morning run in with a pine tree, but indeed burns one's scalp, I'll have to save it for another day. If you're dying for something entertaining to read, head on over for a visit to my buddy Kacy. She's been dissecting this season's episodes of The Bachelor and if you have ever seen this show, you will wet your pants reading her synopsis. I haven't even been watching but I am still entertained by her wicked sarcasm and profound wit. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200, just go read this! Now!