I'm In Kentucky

Hey y'all, the Vernmaster has flown the coop for a few days to enjoy some R&R at my sister's house in Kentucky.  I'm confident I'll have much to say when I get back, like what I did when a chick fight broke out in the airline terminal, or what I said when the lady next to me on my flight relayed an experience she had with lockjaw, and certain theories regarding the Goo Goo Dolls and Bare Naked Ladies might also be explored.  For now, I'm staring out of beautiful living room windows framed with thick, crown molding and a few doses of toile onto lush horse property.  Many of the stereotypes are true, and not all of them are bad.

Not quite all of them.

The Beast

When I was in college I drove a 1979 Suburban which became known to my friends and associates as "The Beast". (In the Winter months my friend Jon called "The Fridge" because the heater took about 20 minutes to warm up, and most of the places we went were accessible within ten minutes, so it was ALWAYS freezing.) The Beast was incredibly handy when traveling with groups, especially since I drove it before seatbelt laws were what they are today. It was particularly useful one night when my 6’7” friend felt the urge to channel his Inner Hood Ornament and posed himself on the hood of The Beast as we navigated a Taco Bell drive-thru. Awesome. Here I am with my roommates, one of which asked, “Shouldn’t there be a little bar that comes down in front?” when I was driving too fast once for her taste. (And I do mean “ONCE” because I was an excellent driver (hi Dad) who always changed the oil (remember Dad? When you called me on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays to make sure I had added oil? Well, I did. On Friday.) and never ran into curbs. Except maybe that one time. No wait, TWO times. But that was it, I swear.)



And here I am again when we decided to kidnap a house full of boys in an ongoing prank war that I had engaged in to get my future husband’s attention. And for the record, in this picture I have a necklace of sorts around my head – I would further explain, but it’s the kind of thing that was only funny once, because when you are a 21-year-old non-drinking chaste co-ed at Brigham Young University, thrills come cheap.



Also, see that guy in the blue robe? Well, his wife reads this blog, and I want her to know that one time we were at the boys’ apartment when he was wearing that robe, and he took a split, blue racquetball and put it on his nose to be funny. I tell you this so you can appreciate how far he’s come, and so you can understand why we nicknamed him “Grover”.

BUT THAT IS NOT ALL. Because, you see, the BEST part about this car is not what you see on the outside (*gasp* Even the orange stripe?!) but what is hiding on the INSIDE. For my 20th birthday my Dad gave me a musical horn for that car.
Flashback:
“A musical horn?! That is so awesome Dad! How do we put it in?”
“Let’s see, I think if we just cut out a hole in this here dashboard….”
“???”
And that’s the day I got my musical horn. After that, with the push of a button I could play songs like “Happy Birthday”, “Yellow Rose of Texas”, and I could even program the Cougar fight song. It was loud – you could hear me coming from blocks away. Had I been in a family neighborhood and not surrounded by college students I fear children would have been lined up on street corners with dollar bills waving out from their hands hoping to score a Good Humor bar. I LOVED it! It was a sad day when that car was no longer a part of my life.

BUT. My life is not over yet, and a couple of weeks ago when my friend and I were discussing our soon-to-be future of our children needing vehicles, the topic of my love affair with The Beast and my musical horn came up. “I bet they still sell stuff like that on the internet,” was all my friend had to say before we were both online, talking back and forth about what we were finding. My friend found it first. “Check this out!” she exclaimed while reading the further advertising on the website and filled me in, “It says, ‘As featured on Pimp My Ride’!” That. Was the website. For me. Ten minutes later I called Cory at work to announce, “You’re off the hook for Mother’s Day – I just bought my present.” So if you’re driving around and you hear the sudden outburst to the tune of “La Cucaracha”, or “The Star Spangled Banner”, or the deep voice of a man saying, “Hey Baby”, it’s either me or the guy from Pimp My Ride. I hope it’s me, because then you could yell out your window, “Hey! I read your blog!” and then we could pull over and go to lunch.

Taco Bell drive-thru sound okay?

And Then Tomorrow I'll Tell You What I Bought Myself

I don’t like it when mothers are referred to as “heroes”. I think one of the reasons it bugs me is because it’s never another mother who is calling you that. There’s basically only two people who call mothers heroes – men, and women who have chosen not to have children. When someone from one of those two groups uses the term “heroic” to describe the role of motherhood it feels patronizing, because I think what they’re really trying to say is, “I’m SO GLAD I’m not you.” When men say it, I don’t think they even know what it means. Of course, there are exceptions but most of the time I feel like men calling mothers heroes do so because they think it’s what they’re supposed to say, not because it’s what they actually think. On the other hand, women who have chosen not to bear children (as opposed to those who wish they could but have been unable to) drive me crazier when they try to pay homage to the role of motherhood. (Hi Oprah.) The worst thing someone like that could say to me is, “Oh, I could never do that,” because let’s face it, that’s a load of crap. Of course you could do it, you just don’t want to. Why can’t you just admit it? I remember working with a woman who had twins - it used to drive her crazy when other people would remark with the “I could never do that” line. Um, yes you could, you just haven’t HAD to! What choice does one have other than to play with the cards they have been dealt?

So, here’s what happened. I heard about a friend in need and made an unannounced visit to her home to check on her a while ago. I inquired about the well being of her family and she began to fill me in on the details of some recent stress. As we stood in her kitchen and visited for over an hour, I watched her meet numerous requests and fill various needs from her kids. At one point she was asked to help a child cut his fort out of a cardboard box; another wanted to paint, the other one wanted a cookie. I stood and watched as she fetched little bowls of water, paints, and coloring books. She cut images out of cardboard for the one, and broke sections of cookie into pieces for the other. She grabbed wipes for cleanup, refereed the sharing of paints and brushes, and made sure to acknowledge the one standing there with a finished product in hand, waiting for her to admire it when she responded appropriately with, “Wow! You did such a great job!” ALL while carrying on a conversation with me and speaking in (mostly) complete sentences. I admired from afar the work of this lovely and capable mother. I had done this job before, but I had never really observed it from this view.

And from one mother to another I dare say it was…

...heroic.

Happy Mother’s Day.

I’m In My 2nd Trimester

It’s been five weeks since I opened up about my seeming quest to rival Jabba the Hut in the category of “Most Likely To Require Two Coffins When They Die”, and the day after I wrote about my weight I hit the gym. My goal is to lose thirty pounds, which, if met, will not put me back at my wedding day weight but it will at least make me look like I’ve done something besides lick butter for the last 15 years.

I am happy to report that as of Saturday I am down eleven pounds, which means I am officially in my 2nd trimester of weight loss. Sometimes when really overweight people reach their goals they get to say things like, “I’ve lost a WHOLE PERSON!” Luckily, I don’t have that far to go so in comparison I suppose I could say I’ve lost a Chihuahua, or maybe a waffle iron; perhaps a few clock radios. Either way, I’m stoked.

Some of you are going to ask me what I’m doing – to go into detail would be the equivalent of Ferris Bueller’s teacher launching into a dissertation on the differences between white and ivory, so I will spare you. To sum up, I am eating less and moving more. I haven’t had a single soy burger and I’ve even had some chocolate cake and a spoonful of nutella. Shazam! It’s not so much about what I’m doing anyway, but what I’m learning in the process.

Most importantly, this goal of mine wasn’t solely based upon the numbers that appeared on the scale. Something was happening to me; to ME, not just my body. I was disappearing, and I was watching it happen – allowing it to happen, even. I was two different people trying to live the same life. One of Me wanted to wake up in the morning, throw open the blinds and seize the day with enthusiasm. The other Me thought that actually opening the blinds was asking way too much, and wouldn’t it just be easier to THINK about opening the blinds? With my eyes closed? From under the covers? The 2nd “Me” seemed to be winning out on most days, which was slowly but surely suffocating “Me” #1.

Until I gasped for air.

That’s really what this is about for me. I am coming up for air. I am fighting to feel alive, to be vibrant and brave and powerful. I feel it when I run to the beat of a good song, I embrace it when the days are warm enough to be outside and the sunlight bathes my soul. The two “Me’s” are striking a truce, and instead of competing for all of my attention we have linked pinky’s and agreed to work together to help create the best “Me” that there is.

I hear she likes Cher. Oh well, I’m looking forward to meeting her anyway.

It's All Greek To Me

I think there are a lot of things the Greeks got right. Architecture, baklava, coastal living and John Stamos (that’s Mr. Stamatopoulos to you) to name a few.  Oh, hi John.  I didn't see you there.  Thinking of me again, are you?  Frustrated that I won't return your calls?  Waiting for something to happen to my darling Cory so you can swoop in and take care of things?  Stand in line.

Anyway, I’m not even opposed to Greek mythology, as Narcissus and I are tight. Yogurt, however, is where my love for the Greeks makes a sharp U-turn from “You put the ‘Ooohhh’ in ‘Gyro’” to, “What did your baby just spit up and why are you feeding it to me with a spoon?”

Last week while watching “The Biggest Loser” I listened to Bob the trainer give Ashley a speech about healthy snacks, and how Greek yogurt was the next best thing to putting the pocket in pita. He served it to her with some berries, and Ashley nodded her head in agreement and said, “Mmm…it’s good!”

Ashley lied.

If I had a dog that was dying and the vet told me that the only thing that would save her was 8 ounces of Greek yogurt, I would not make her eat it. And not even because I don’t like dogs, but because I don’t HATE dogs either and I would want to prove it by saying, “THIS is COMPASSION people!”
It’s okay, Greece, you can’t have everything. Which is probably why you also got George Michael.

The Rules of Dance

Having turned 14, my daughter is officially old enough to attend the monthly church dances – I am currently waiting for her to get back from her very first one. Now, I’m not the kind of mother to fret and cry and clamor for the walls while someone drags me out screaming, “My Baby!” as she continues to grow and mature and care about, [lowers to a whisper, looks around to see if anyone is listening] BOYS. I’m actually quite thrilled for her and hope she has a really great time. However, I would like to take this opportunity to define a “really great time” just in case she’s reading.

The Rules of Dance – from your Mother Who Knows

1. If the guy you are slow dancing with is singing the song in your ear while you sway, HE IS NOT FOR YOU. This is particularly true with “Lady In Red” and anything by Chicago .
2. If the guy is super hot and polite, you can let rule #1 slide.
3. If you are standing next to a guy who asks you to look in his cup of punch, and you do, and then he says, “Oh, look. You made my ice melt”, this is a line he learned at EFY and he is only trying to make out with you. And I don’t care what Ganelle told you, making out is TOTALLY out of the question until you’re like, 30. As if.
4. Have I mentioned that you are not old enough to be making out? Or kissing at all, really? Let me be clear, I am totally fine with you having crushes on boys as long as all you do is practice your signature with his last name inserted on your notebooks. To sum up: Practicing signature using crush’s name = Cool. Making out = NOT cool.
5. You must spend at least equal time dancing as you do in the bathroom with your friends putting on more mascara. Disregarding this rule will disappoint your great-grandmother who will surely be watching from a room in heaven during the commercials of “Dancing With The Stars”. [Note: Before leaving for tonight’s dance I offered to show her some last minute dance moves to help her get her groove on. She said, “Uh...seeing as the dance tips would be coming from YOU, I think I’ll pass.” She knows how to make an old girl feel good.]
6. Don’t fight “YMCA”, just embrace it. It’s not going anywhere.
7. Remember, keep a Bible’s width apart when slow dancing! This is a lame rule when you are 14, but when you are the MOTHER of a 14-year-old you’re like, “Who made that rule? I would like to send them some flowers, chocolates and a thank you note.”
8. If there is a lull in the festivities of the night I recommend making fun of the chaperones, particularly if they are operating under the notion that waltzing is what all the cool kids are doing. Still, you might consider going out of your way to take them some punch and introducing yourself. There’s a good chance they are the parents of the hottest guy there.

What can I say? It worked for me.

Fox Mulder Is An Optimum Pooper

Some of you know him as “Mulder” from the X-Files.

For me, I prefer to recall David Duchovny (Bob) as the grieving widower trying to brush up on his rusty dating skills as he takes an interest in Minnie Driver (Grace) in “Return To Me”.

(Remember the part where he asks to hold her hand? And when he bought her a new bike? And when his heart spoke before he had time to think and he confessed how good she smelled?) This is the movie that caused me to fall in love with David Duchovny. One time I watched David play “Celebrity Millionaire” and when he got stuck on a question he used his wife as his “Phone-A-Friend”. This made me like him even more for two reasons. One, “Awww…his wife is his FRIEND!” And two, his wife didn’t know the answer to the question either and as the time ran out on the clock for her to help him she said, “Oh honey, you’re so screwed!” and then he laughed, which made me respect their relationship. Later when I found out that he was kind of a creep in real life I tried to plug my ears and go, “La! La! La!” because I wasn’t interested in my image of Bob Rueland, lover of gorillas and monogamy, being tainted.

But alas, his career kinda went in the crapper (which will make even MORE sense in a minute) and he’s one of those celebs who now has to take his money where he can get it. How else do you explain that he is now the voice for a commercial like this?



“Now I’m not just a GOOD pooper, but an OPTIMUM one.” Too funny. I'm wondering, do you think the dog would have agreed to being filmed had he known the nature for which it was going to be used?  And one more thing, do you think this stuff is effective on humans too?  I know a guy who would pay GOOD MONEY....

Even The Sexiest Man Alive Had To Have Work Done

Dear Universe:  I think you have me mixed up with somebody else.  Specifically, I think you are under the impression that I am independently wealthy and I want to set the record straight before you burden me with any more surprise expenses.  Love surprises, hate expenses.  Capiche?  Please stop crossing your wires.  What with the emergency surgery, both cars needing new tires, our property taxes quadrupling, and the $1500 car repair that was required after sliding on icy roads into a curb, I sorta thought we were done.  Then the orthodontist called and said, "Hey, remember me?  My 2009 Ferrari is on its last leg and I am in desperate need of a new one.  This time, yellow, I think.  Please bring your daughter in for her appointment so we can get the ball rolling."  And I will tell you THIS, universe, the ball is SOOOO rolling.  As in, "I know you've already paid three thousand dollars for phase ONE, Mrs. Vern, but your daughter is definitely going to need a phase TWO.  This time it's going to cost FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS.  Think you're getting ripped off?  Apparently you've never SEEN the yellow Ferrari.  Call me and I promise to give you a ride sometime.  It's the least I can do."  Are you listening to me people?  EIGHT THOUSAND DOLLARS!!!

Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't think my daughter is worth it.  It's just that I think two Caribbean cruises would be more fun.  Also, I'm a little worried that the word will get out and before you know it Pamela Anderson will be calling us for a loan to help her pay off the $500,000 of back taxes she owes in California.  (Watch your back, Pamela.  The Governator has your number.  P.S. When he calls, be sure to call him that.  He can't get enough of it.)  Worse yet, what if Bill Gates gives us a jingle hoping for financial assistance to help pay for a personality?  I mean, I know he's loaded, but that's got to cost a BUNDLE.

I understand why straight, white teeth are imperative for certain people.  Celebrities, for example, have an image to protect but they also have the bank accounts to back it up.  Us?  We are an accountant/stay at home family that lives in the Rocky Mountains.  Certainly we should be able to enjoy some of the dental freedoms that the Brits do.  Then again, I also remember what it felt like for me when I got my braces off.  For the first time in my life I was able to look in the mirror and think that whoever landed me "as long as we both shall live" was one lucky dude.  Plus, celebrity or not, don't you think it's better for ALL of us that Celine Dion had her teeth fixed?

Seriously, that first picture is like, "Sorry, the role of the 80's version of the vampire loving Bella has already been cast."  And the 2nd picture?  Even though she's wearing too much blue eye shadow I would totally trust that lady to watch my kids.  Next up, George Clooney:

BEFORE: "Newsies" reject.

AFTER:  Well helllloooo Mr. Sexiest Man Alive.

Then again, this might have more to do with the beret vs. the tux. 

This here is rapper 50 Cent.  The way I see it, at some point this guy is going to be doing the rounds as an inner city motivational speaker inspiring kids to never give up on their dreams.  And when he does, I think his "AFTER" shot makes a better statement.  Plus, it encourages all those successful rappers to spend their new found fortune on something useful instead of pointless bling with their momma's initials.

Miley Cyrus.  Sure her teeth look better, but I'm also feeling oddly grateful that in both pictures she has plucked her eyebrows.  Good job Miley, 'cuz your dad is really hairy.

Zac Efron BEFORE:  Aren't you the guy who used to drop all your books in the hallway at school after the football players gave you a wedgie?

Zac Efron AFTER:  Don't you realize that there are OTHER girls to date besides the head cheerleader?  SECOND STRING BASKETBALL PLAYERS ARE PEOPLE TOO!

So, yeah.  Samantha's getting braces.  Again.

Look On The Bright Side, I Almost Posted Something About Elvis

One of the commitments we have made as a family is to try and set aside one night a week to have what we call “Family Night”. Even though we spend every evening together under the same roof, we are often in separate rooms doing different things (homework, dishes, TV, email, Facebook, checking blogs, checking more blogs, researching musical PA systems – more info on that later! Can you say, "Happy Early Mother's Day"?) so Family Night is a way of spending some time together that’s a little more structured. Sometimes we discuss religious principles, other nights we might go out for ice cream, often we share some kind of activity (usually involving Nerf guns and point blank Nerf darts to the head), and when we’re too tired we use “Psyche” episodes to reinforce our family bond. But last Monday, we tried something a little different.

A couple of weeks ago David A. Bednar spoke to millions of people regarding our responsibility as parents to our children, and he made some recommendations for spontaneous discussions in our families. He said, “Imagine a Family [Night] in which children are invited and expected to come prepared to ask questions about what they are reading and learning….And imagine further that the children ask questions the parents are not prepared adequately to answer.” Two days later was our appointed night, so we decided to try this approach. [Translation: It was late, no one was prepared with a lesson, and this sounded easy.] “Okay guys,” I started in. “Tonight, instead of an organized lesson Dad and I have decided to open it up for questions. Fire away.” Samantha and Drew stared at each other quizzically, so I continued. “We just want you guys to know that you can come to us at any time and ask anything you want and we will do our best to answer you. We’re an open book – nothing is off limits. So, do you guys have any questions that have been on your mind?” Samantha looked up at the green hat perched on Drew’s head and said, “Okay, how come Drew’s hat is the color of boogers?” Drew laughed, pointed at Samantha’s yellow shirt and asked, “Yeah! And why is Sam’s shirt the color of URINE?” They broke out in laughter at which point Cory and I decided to just go to bed.

So, I guess the moral of the story is I hope David Bednar never comes to our house for Family Night. He would be so disappointed in us. Plus, I’m not sure I’d be comfortable giving him a nerf dart to the head.

Also, You’re Not Supposed To Drink Toilet Water

I’m not an idiot, but sometimes I play one on this blog. Case in point, this morning I broke out my blender (as I often do) to mix up a breakfast smoothie. Now. I hate my blender. Hate, hate, HATE my blender. Here’s a bright idea, Vern. If you hate your blender so much why don’t you just go buy a new one? BECAUSE. This IS a new one, and it’s not returnable (discontinued – bought the display model – “such a great deal!” – GAH!) I hate it for two reasons. One, because it is wussy. The blades are such that they were not trained to take in aggressive and hearty ingredients such as YOGURT and MILK, not to mention the sheer audacity one might have to throw in a frozen berry. No, no. Throwing in actual ingredients causes the blender to seize like a pregnant woman in the throes of morning sickness enduring the constant struggle to keep her food down; the blades spin out of control at the base, mixing one fourth of the contents into frothy oblivion while the rest of the ingredients sit on top, lurching in small waves as if to protest, “I WILL NOT YIELD!”

Secondly, my blender is so FREAKING loud that if I put it in a yelling contest with Jillian Michaels I’d be all, “What’s that Jillian? I can’t hear you! You’re going to have convey my inadequacies a little LOUDER.” And I bet she’d be like, “GAME ON!” and then I’d bleed to death from all the blood coming out of my ears and it would finally be quiet.

So, yeah. HATE my blender.

As I mixed my regular concoction this morning we launched into our regular routine, except for some reason this time I thought I could outsmart my blender. In other words, I asked myself, “Is it really necessary for the blades to be completely stopped before I shove my knife in there to help it along?” As it turns out, YES. Yes, it is. On the positive side, berries and soy milk and all their protein and nutrients has to be good for a person’s hair, no?

It’s not that I didn’t know it was a bad idea, I just thought I could handle it. Which made me realize something - it is because of people like me that companies have to write warnings on their boxing materials like, “Marbles are not for gargling” and “Juggling of the Ginsu knives may cause bodily injury”. This morning I happened upon this article about the Nation’s Wackiest Label Contest. Among the contest winners:
1. “Shin pads cannot protect any part of the body they do not cover”
2. “Recycled flush water unsafe for drinking”
3. “This product not intended for use as a dental drill”
If I could just add one more, “Despite the fact that the noise from this appliance emanates from the very depths of Purgatory and it might require several minutes of your patience to obtain something as simple as a smoothie without attracting bodily harm, do not insert sharp objects while the blade of this product is in motion. You’ll poke an eye out.” Luckily, my eyes are in tact. I do, however, have various shades of berry now gracing my sweats.

Double Digits

There’s a pretty decent age gap between my kids (4 years) and yet their birthdays are only a week apart (apparently Cory and I have a lot of fun around July) so our birthday celebrations happen all around the same time. Last week Drew hit the double digits, meaning he has survived longer than most Hollywood marriages but not long enough to know that Michael Jackson used to be black. He’s been under the surgical knife three times, made fun of his mother 3,592 times, eaten vegetables at least twice, and I’m sure I managed to get him to the zoo at least once during those years. (Unless you happen to show up on a day when the tigers haven’t had their Ritalin and are spitting mad at each other, the zoo is only fun the first time around. After that, the only thing to look forward to is the kettle corn. Seriously, how many times do I have to watch an elephant dump his load while shoving food in his mouth? I can watch that at home for FREE.) At any rate, in honor of Drew’s TENTH birthday, here is a Top 10 List of things I love about him.

10. While shopping for an Easter dress with Samantha, Drew found a shirt he wanted and asked if he could wear it out. I told him to wait until we got in the car and then he could change. “Okay,” he said, “but only as long as Samantha doesn’t make fun of me and go, ‘Oh! Look at his man boobies!’”
9. Because of this line in his last paper he wrote at school: “It was kind of weird meeting an alien and pretending a peanut butter and jelly sandwich were my parents. Oh well, live and learn!”
8. Hey Drew, remember that day when you were complaining about how hard your life was and so I Googled images of the earthquake in Haiti and made you look at pictures of all the homeless, orphaned children? And you STILL thought you had a case? Ha ha, that was a good one.
7. One time I said the word “sex” and you freaked out, plugged your ears and yelled, “Aaaahh!! Don’t use that word around me!” So I asked you what you wanted me to call it, and you said, “How about ‘snookie’?”
6. In fact, you hate that word so much that when you gave your talk at church yesterday and the scripture you quoted used the word “sects”, you changed it to “churches” because you were uncomfortable with the way that word sounded.
5. You give really good advice.
4. Like that one time you walked down the hall and said, “Whew! NEVER go into the bathroom after Dad.”
3. You think all things are worthy of a celebration. One time you came home from the Father/Son campout and said, “Mom, for my Homecoming can I have a Yogos Roller?”
2. A lot of people say you take after me. If that's true, I hate to break it to you but you’re probably not going to date much.
1. HOWEVER, there will come a time when you will understand Hershey’s to be the poor man’s chocolate, and words like “Dove”, “Cadbury” and “Lindor” will take on new meaning and change your life. Plus, you’ve inherited some killer dance moves, so it’s not all bad.

Happy Birthday to the boy who makes my life better every day.

Her Unexpected Life

When I was asked to serve as the new President of our church women’s organization a year ago, I replaced a phenomenal leader. Known for her acute organizational skills and fearless ability to “Git-Er-Done” (during a routine checkup on a woman who had severe health issues she walked in on her covered in vomit and set to work cleaning up and taking care of her) I was completely out of my element in knowing how to follow in her footsteps. I would certainly have to rely on a different skill set. Nevertheless, I wasn’t entering into this new responsibility under traditional circumstances.

Traditional circumstances would mean that she had simply served her time and it was somebody else’s turn. Traditional circumstances would allow me to spend a few hours with this former President so I could learn about immediate needs and figure out where in the world I was supposed to start. After all, I had just been put in charge of 225 women and I only knew about ten of their names.

But these were definitely not traditional circumstances. This talented, articulate, and generous woman had just been dealt a blow that would make Mike Tyson’s head spin. After 20 years of raising her family and serving the people of our community, her husband (a prior bishop in our ward) had just turned himself into the government, confessing to authorities and his family for the first time that he had been running a Ponzi scheme for the last two decades.

Let's just let that sink in for a minute, shall we?  In your wildest imagination, can you even begin to comprehend what that must have been like?  Me neither.

The moment I found out (which was at the same time I was asked to take her place) I was stripped of words.  She immediately became the very first woman I was worried about, and yet SHE was supposed to show ME what to do!

To show you the kind of person that she is, she insisted that she still come over to my home to give me all of my necessary materials and visit with me about the needs in our area. Can you imagine? Going to visit someone who was taking your place to tell them who they should be worried about when their own name is at the top of the list? Never in my life have I prayed harder to have the perfect words. Just this once, Lord. Provide me the perfect words that will give her exactly what she needs right now. The perfect words never came. She sat on my couch and listed name after name of people for me to be aware of, to watch over, to care for. I was stumped, not knowing how to respond. I had a million questions about my new responsibilities, but what could possibly be more important that what was going on with her? I desperately wanted to give her whatever it was that she needed, so I tried to follow her cues. If she wanted to act like everything was normal, I would act like everything was normal. Everything was SO not normal. At any rate, hers is not my story to tell which is why I’ve never mentioned it before. The only reason I’m comfortable referencing any of this now is because she has decided to tell her own story via this wonderful tool we all have called the internet. An excerpt:

They came.

Government representatives, approximately eight of them. Wearing dark jackets and sunglasses, flashing gold badges, they arrived at my home in dark Suburbans with tinted windows–just like in the movies. Only this time it wasn’t a movie, it was my new and unexpected life.

Another little gem:

My experience of 2009 wasn’t going to destroy me. It wasn’t going to be the only aspect to me and of my life forever. I have a story, and it isn’t only one of ponzi schemes, crime, betrayal, divorce and an unexpected life. I still get to write the book.

She’s a great writer with a fascinating story to tell. You’ll be uplifted by her faith, empowered by her resolve, and validated by her honesty. Check out her blog HERE and start at the beginning. You won’t be sorry.

How Old Do I Have To Be Before I Can Stop Posting About Star Wars?

Sometimes when you live at my house and you ask your husband what he wants for Christmas, he says, “An Obi Wan Kenobi costume”. And then sometimes the wife has to extract the husband’s birth certificate to confirm that his birth date is correct, and that he is not actually 7 years old with exceedingly fine hair. And then when she realizes that indeed, the math has been done correctly she is forced to ask, “What in the world are you going to do with a Star Wars costume?” and he might defend his position by saying, “Oh, I’ll do PLENTY with it.” Then the wife shuts up because she believes him, and it scares her a little bit.

Later when you are hanging out with your friends after December festivities they ask innocent questions such as, “So, what did you get [insert your husband’s name] for Christmas?” There are all kinds of suitable answers to this inquiry; “a BBQ”, “a table saw”, “golf clubs”, or “a sweater with crocheted llamas” to name a few. And since I didn’t want to be the one who had to answer “an Obi Wan Kenobi Star Wars costume”, I told my mother-in-law about it and SHE got it for him. It’s been sitting in its bag ever since.

Until last night.

Mr. Kenobi made its maiden voyage out of the bag and into a room full of youth ages 12-18 where Cory gathered a group of 14-year-old boys to perform a Star Wars skit for the annual Talent Show. I didn’t stay to watch, (I suppose in some circles being Obi Wan’s wife is something to brag about, it just so happens that I was not AT a Star Wars convention OR trying to impress Dwight Schrute), but Samantha came home to report that Dad’s tauntaun impersonation stole the show.

A few months ago I told Drew that it was time we decorate his room.  Up to this point he has pretty much just had a bed and a dresser that's older than I am (I KNOW!).  So one afternoon I asked him what kind of a room he would like, and he said, "Well...either an Indiana Jones room or a Star Wars room."  I cautioned, "That sounds fun, but let's keep in mind that you're almost 10-years-old and we want to be sure and pick a theme that will last you a few years."  In his infinite wisdom he reminded me, "MOM.  DAD is FORTY-TWO and HE still likes that stuff!"

*sigh*  As you can see, the boy has a point.

Odds And Ends. Probably more odds.

• Having just come off of Easter weekend there is something I need to get off my chest. I am tired of every bloody activity surrounding this event being called an “Egg-Stravaganza”. Does anyone out there feel like this is clever anymore? We need to come up with something else. 
• In other news, I asked the kids a while ago how long they thought it would take their dad to notice that I bought some new throw pillows for the couch. They made their guesses in days, I said a week. Three weeks later Cory found me in the kitchen and said, “Hey, did we get new pillows?” Man, I love that guy.
• Last week we were playing cards when Drew began studying the back of the card. “HEY!” he mused. “Are these NAKED ANGELS ON POGO STICKS?!” An absurd question. Or so I thought… 

 

• 
  
  Cory loves magic tricks, so when I saw a cool magician on “Ellen” I recorded it for him to watch later. He was so intrigued with a certain stunt that he began rewinding, then forwarding, then rewinding and forwarding again in slow motion to try and deconstruct the trick. Then he became determined to do it himself and started practicing, which is when we kicked into supportive mode and all began laughing at him. There is beauty all around when there’s love at home! Cory piped up, “You guys can laugh at me all you want,” to which Samantha replied, “We’re not laughing at you…YET. We’re just predicting how it’s going to turn out.”
• 
  
  Another night last week Drew sat at the table to work on his homework when he started to giggle. “What’s so funny?” I asked him.  “Well,” he began, “it says to write a convincing letter to your parent about why it’s a good idea to get a cockroach as a pet. [shakes head] I got nothin’.”  

How was YOUR week?

The pros and cons of your daughter turning 14

CONS:

• She borrows my stuff. 
• She is old enough to mock me. While trying to parallel park the other day I was having some issues and she said, “Sooo, I take it parallel parking isn’t your thing?” (For the record, parallel parking is TOTALLY MY THING. I was having an off moment.)
• I can’t help her with her Math.
• She doesn’t go to bed at 7:00 anymore.
• You can’t assume that an inappropriate television moment goes over their head, and then you feel responsible to change the channel. Sometimes being a good example is a pain, like when I was watching “The Office” and they said the word “sex” and Drew freaked out and I had to explain, “Drew, Pam’s pregnant and you have to have sex to get pregnant.” He nodded his head and then a light went on in his brain, and he jerked it back up and said, “Did YOU do that??!!!!” Good times.
• She still gets a kick out of the Disney Channel. As I speak she is with Cory in the Family Room watching “Phineas & Ferb”. Nails on a chalkboard, people. Cory is laughing out loud. Is there any hope for my future? Tell you what, let’s not answer that right away.
• Reality sets in and the childhood dreams begin to fade. Case in point, a few months ago she said, “I used to think archaeology would be fun, but then I watched Indiana Jones and went to Social Studies and I changed my mind.” I know how she feels. When I was 5 I took ballet from my best friend’s mom who thought I was a “natural” and I thought I would grow up to be an amazing dancer. Then I found out I would have to work out 8 hours a day, eat salad every meal without dressing and take up smoking so THAT went out the window. 

PROS:

• Free babysitting.
• Lowered expectations. People don’t really expect you to look young and vibrant when you have a teenager. A while back I was visiting with family and as I went out to the car I observed my reflection in the car window and said, “Good grief, I have MOM HAIR.” Then my brother so helpfully replied, “Well, you ARE a mom!” In the future bro, you are supposed to say, “Well, I guess if ‘Mom Hair’ means you could totally smoke Cindy Crawford in a Sports Illustrated swimsuit photo shoot then I guess you’re right.” 
• She can clean toilets. The RIGHT way.
• The “right” way being that she’s doing it and not me.
• I’m not really as lazy as I make myself sound. Then again, what do I care? Lowered expectations, remember?
• She's more of everything than I ever imagined she would be.  Happy Birthday beautiful girl.

Ganelle Gets Back Tonight - UPDATED

Dear Ganelle: I sure hope you had fun on your cruise. Now when people ask you where you got your tan you can say, “I’ve been in the Caribbean!” instead of, “You know that little booth with the cancer beds off of Main Street?” While you’ve been gone you missed a few things like THREE FREAKIN’ SNOW STORMS. I imagine that’s what Christmas feels like in Hell; at first you’re all, “How nice, I think I’ll just take it easy, have some hot chocolate and read a book.” But then on day seven you’re like, “Where’s that ice pick?! I swear I heard someone smile!” Then again, I felt bad because I thought if it was Christmas then you and your whole family were missing it! And with three young boys, how would you possibly be able to stand missing Christmas, even if it was in Hell?

SO.

I have good news and bad news.

Good news: Your house is still standing.
Bad news: It’s FREEZING in there!! Did you completely turn off the heat while you were gone? What if your pipes froze?!
Good news: We didn’t see any flooding, so I think you’re good.
Bad news: Your Diet Coke looked really lonely sitting in your fridge all by itself.
Good news: As your friend and a woman who had been fasting since 7am, I jumped in to help.

More good news: When I take pictures with my head tilted back it smooths out my double chin. Bonus!
Bad news: You left a puzzle undone.
Good news: That Cory is such a helper!

Bad news: After being cooped up in a frigid house with closed blinds for a solid week your plants were looking forlorn.

Good news: Forlorn is Drew’s specialty! Here he is giving them a little TLC.

Bad news: Your candlesticks had no candles on them. What do you think they are there for anyway?

Good news: Riiiight. Now I remember.

Bad news: The other 33 cans that we hid around your house are not as easy to find.

Good news: THIRTY-SIX FREE CANS OF DIET COKE!

Bad news: Holy crap, it’s Christmas and we didn’t bring any presents!

Good news: You had some stuff in your fridge. Situation UNDER CONTROL.

Bad news: We got on a roll.

Good news: When you get back if someone complains that you weren’t answering your phone you could be like, “Sorry, I had to unwrap it first.” And then you’ll realize that it’s just easier to say you were going to the bathroom.
Bad news: You’re no longer on vacation.

More bad news: This also means that nobody will be delivering you croissants and orange juice to your room just because you picked up the phone and told them to.

To reiterate: Gopher no longer works for you.
Good news: Look at all the pretty colors!

Yours Truly,
Vern
p.s. I told Facebook you were expecting and having a girl. Everyone’s really excited for you!

UPDATE:  The crew got in late Monday night and probably would have slept without knowing anything had happened if it hadn't been for the fact that Ganelle's husband was hungry and went to the kitchen for a quick bowl of cereal.  He announced, "Uhh...it looks like Vern's been here."  The next morning looked like Christmas in the kitchen as the boys made quick work of the unwrapping and not so quick work of the cleaning up of the unwrapping.  She has received several inquiries from family and friends asking if the rumors about her pregnancy were true - Shazam!  More points for me.  The good news is that it looks like we're still friends.  At least I think that's good news....

That's Me In The White Leotard

The other night a friend of mine asked how my health was since my surgery.  Is everything okay?  Am I totally back to normal?  After clarifying that "normal" is somewhat difficult to discern with one who has watched "Ishtar" more than once AND LOVED IT, but I said, "Yes, I believe I am as back to normal as I'm going to get."  I didn't stop there.  "Need I remind you that I will never, EVER, have another period again in my life?  Serious perks with this surgery my friend."  She may not admit it, but she was jealous.  I can't blame her.  However, I don't want all of you to feel like just because I am done menstruating for the rest of my life, (Did I mention that?  That I am free for the rest of my life?!  BECAUSE IT'S FOR LIFE) that somehow I'm no longer relatable.  I'm not like your aunt who had 19 kids (oh.  Hi Michelle Duggar) but then they left home and she forgot all about what it was like to have little ones in the house until YOU came to visit with your small children and she was like, "Don't touch that!  Oh no, not there!  Let's have your kids use this bathroom.  Do you always let little Johnny talk to you like that?"  No, no.  The memories are fresh my friends, and I remember all too well what it was like to moan and groan on the couch with a hot pad strapped around my abdomen and pop four Advil like they were m&m's.  Which is probably why I appreciated this video so much that my friend Gerry sent to me today.  We've all been there (unless you're one of the 3 men who read my blog - hi Cory.  Hi Dad.  Hi Grandpa.  Grandpa?!  Crap, they have INTERNET up there?) and so I'm confident that you will enjoy this too.  Thanks Gerry!

Quandary Outside The Caribbean

Last Friday I drove my friends, Ganelle and Ginger and their families, to the airport. No biggie, except that it was snowing that morning and it just so happened that the purpose of said trip was so my friends could start their journey to a week long cruise in the Caribbean (KU-RIBBY-UN? CARE-A-BEE-IN? I’m still not sure). Ganelle showed up in flip flops as the snowflakes fluttered outside and when I looked at her quizzically she yelled, “I REFUSE TO WEAR LOAFERS WHEN I AM GOING TO THE BEACH!!!” Whatever. I’m used to her yelling in all caps.

At any rate, it was a little annoying to wave them off at the prospect of sunny beaches and swaying palms when I had to turn around and head back into the fray of 30 degrees, but I handled it. As they got out and headed to the gate they both threw me their full sets of keys and said, “Thanks Vern! We promise to return with chocolate!” Their cars are now parked in my driveway serving as a daily reminder that their life is better than mine.

I was okay with that because the next few days proved sunny and spring-like.  But then this morning I woke up to THIS:

So let's recap.  I am HERE:

And Ganelle is here:

I'm not bitter, just emotionally challenged.  Now, for those of you who are new to my blog you may not know about my history with Ganelle. It is somewhat extensive and doesn’t usually utilize adjectives such as “sweet” and “gentle”, but to Ganelle’s detriment she is incredibly loyal so she is still around. Nevertheless, we have played our share of jokes and pranks on each other. She puts my house up for sale when I’m out of town, I make her think her car’s been stolen and wait until she’s about to call 911 before pulling her keys out of my pocket – it’s a very healthy relationship. So after waking to the mass of snow I had to shovel this morning and having to look at Ganelle’s car parked safely near the curb as I imagined a tall, dark and handsome cabana boy delivering her diet Coke poolside, I remembered something. I have all of her keys. I HAVE ALL OF HER KEYS! This is like putting a stripper in front of Tiger Woods and saying, “Don’t Touch.”

She’s overseas. She’s not checking my blog. I have all of her keys and her car is parked in my driveway. But I’m torn. Should I use this opportunity to prove just how behaved I can be and how much she can really trust me by doing nothing? Or do I make the most of this chance and pull a doozie on her? And if so, how do you define “doozie”? Because I have to say, I’ve used up all my good ideas.

Summer Is Almost Here a.k.a. "Diet Failure Awareness Day"

Confession: Last year I started a secret and private blog about my struggles with weight. I kept it secret and private for several reasons. First, I wanted the opportunity to be honest with myself, to make it impossible for me to be anything but transparent. Also, I hate talking about weight. It never feels productive because nobody really cares about anyone’s story other than their own. In other words, I don’t care how many weight watchers points are in your bread, or how many calories are in that Chipotle burrito, or whether you have found joy and salvation from HCG. I don’t care about your success story because it’s not MY success story, and that’s the only one that I have control over. Finally, because trying to be funny is my primary mode of communication and I no longer think this is a joke. I have come to recognize that I sometimes use humor to soften the blow of the truth (ya THINK?!), but that approach is not always in my best interest – getting a laugh doesn’t make the numbers on the scale go down, yet I often use that laugh to give me permission not to change. If I can’t be healthy, I can at least be funny.

Which is the biggest part of my problem. That, and the aforementioned Chipotle burrito who has become a close enough friend that I almost sent it a Christmas card. But I didn’t, because come on, that would be weird. (And then the cilantro lime rice complained.)

So why am I bringing it up now? Because it’s time. To be truthful, I am not morbidly obese or anything, but I’m tired of knowing that there's a better life for me out there that is currently hiding under several extra pounds and compounding unhealthy habits. The noose around my neck is getting tighter and despite numerous attempts, I have yet to make it stop. It's making me slow, and boring, and it makes me feel old at a time when I should be vibrant and full of life. To the average onlooker, that's exactly what I am. I can still carry on a conversation at a party, or crack jokes in a group of friends. But when I get home I turn to the cupboards for friendship, for consolation, for the comfort that I need after I've successfully duped everyone around me. Most of them would be shocked to learn that I feel this way about myself. I feel guilty that my husband has to deal with so many ups and downs with me. He deserves so much better.

And then it hits me.

So do I.

It’s time.

Kitler

There I was, innocently standing at my counter this morning trying to decide, "Is it a brown make up day or a gray make up day for these aging eyes of mine?" As I was about to declare it a Screw-It-Let's-Just-Stick-With-Mascara day, I caught a snippet from a radio DJ who was unknowingly nurturing me through my morning routine when he briefly referenced a website called "Cats That Look Like Hitler". He said it was hilarious and I was intrigued, and y'all know what happens when I get intrigued, right? I have to check it out. Well, FIRST I get a snack. THEN I have to check it out. So, despite the fact that I had lots of crap to get done today I still managed the time to gather this research for you. What can I say? I'm a giver.

EXHIBIT A


EXHIBIT B


EXHIBIT C


Hi Boy George. Sorry to break it to you but there are some striking similarities. Plus, in a way you kind of brought it on yourself. Don't worry, someone once told me I looked like their 98-year-old aunt; these things happen. What does this have to do with cats? Nothing, other than the fact that ALL the Hitler cats I looked at still had better hair than you at any given point in your career. ("Career" - *chuckle* Is that what they're calling it now?)



I sort of feel sorry for these cats because I suspect that all they were trying to do was Darrin's Dance Grooves and before you know it, they're being compared to the worst human being to ever walk the face of the earth. Still, Heil! It's kind of funny when the cats do it.



This last one is so wrong, and yet something about it is sooo...reich? (sorry - couldn't help it)

Feeling Lucky?

LUCKY CARTOON:



LUCKY SONG:




LUCKY BLOG POST: Click here.

LUCKY VIDEO: (I've posted this a hundred times, but it never gets old. Even if you've seen it before, I highly recommend you do it again. For me.)



Green's not my best color so I'm not sure I'll wear any when I go out today, which is why I will also be packing heat. Just in case anyone tries anything.

Small Talk

I've been taking a few notes lately from some recent conversations and thought I would share a few nuggets. Here goes....

***
Samantha: Mom, whatcha doin’?
Mom: Trying to fix this stupid, *&!^% thing.
Samantha: Aaaaand, how’s that workin’ for ya?
***
Samantha took a bite of cookie dough and moaned in approval, “Oh man, this is good stuff.” Drew followed suit, took a bite and then hopped off his chair, and with theatric aplomb declared, “I can WALK! I can SEE!”
***
Conversation with my sister, who believes that the concept of organization is for other people:

Sister: “Guess what I did? I bought a planner.”
Me: “What?!”
Sister: “And guess what else? I WROTE stuff in it.”
Me: “Get out.”
Sister: “And THEN? I LOOKED AT IT AGAIN.”
Me: “Well this is certainly one for the books.”
***
Cory, on the way home from our friends’ house: “When I was in their bathroom I was flipping through her Martha Stewart magazine, and there was this recipe for this lemon custard crepe thingy. We have GOT to Google that when we get home.”
Me: (…)

THE END.

Super Saturday

Sometimes, Mormon women in particular have a reputation for being crafty. I am a lot of things, (prone to disease, the last one picked for dodge ball, rejected as Kathy Lee Gifford's replacement with Regis, you get the idea) but crafty is not likely to appear on my epitaph. Still, I love to show up and make stuff. Next month I am participating in a Saturday activity where several women are getting together to do just that - make stuff. Cool stuff, cute stuff, fun stuff, you name it. One of the things we are making looks something like this:



We are also making magnetic family home evening charts, menu displays, decorative frames, and Articles of Faith books. It takes people other than me to think of stuff like this, because if it were up to me we'd probably all end up with a big vinyl lettered print that looked something like this:



So yeah, I'm pretty sure that's why I'm not in charge.

No Longer Anonymous

When I was in high school there were several stoners who asked me to marry them. “Marry me,” one asked with a doped up smile as we walked one of the many paths across campus. “Very funny,” I replied. Another one proposed to me in my yearbook. “Will you marry me?” he scribbled across the inside cover, the words laced with traces of LSD. It was all very romantic, my stoner proposals, but I never quite knew how to take them. Even though the invitations were in jest, one still confessed to me that I was the “kind of girl a guy like him would want to marry someday.” In other words, right now I’d kind of like to have fun and be irresponsible and make stupid choices, but if I ever decided to get serious about a real relationship you’re the kind of chick I’d be looking for. (P.S. chick = [chik] noun – 1. a girl who had enough fashion sense to wear blue mascara and striped leg warmers on the same day, only to feel inferior if wearing anything less than Guess jeans.) So yeah, the only people who had a thing for me in high school were the ones who hid their weed under their mattresses.

These memories have been recurring to me over the last few weeks because it seems I have moved on to the perverts. I am a big fan of leaving on the Anonymous option for comments on the blog because every once in a while my sister tries to log on, and I want her to have the freedom of speech without the commitment of a Google account. But for whatever reason I have become a magnet lately for inappropriate links to be posted as an anonymous commenter, and I refuse to be any kind of platform for skanky people to get more traffic. So, just like I turned down my stoner proposals I am shutting off my anonymous comments. Sorry Sooz- the pervs made me do it.

Pam Had Her Baby

My love affair with "The Office" has been waning this season. I’m not sure what it is, I just haven’t felt the magic of it lately and my commitment to following along religiously has slacked off. However, last week Pam had her baby and I wanted to watch it so I just caught up with the episode today. (A week later. See what I mean? Slacked. Off.) I found last week’s show to be very entertaining this time around and they won some of my love back, but I was caught off guard by two scenes. The first: Pam was yelling from behind the delivery room door, and I originally thought, “What’s with all the screaming? You’ve heard of the epidural, haven’t you Pam? Please don’t tell me you went all Dharma on me and drank a holistic tea with honey to take the edge off because I would lose all respect. Then again, it would explain the yelling.” So I rolled my eyes a little at the embellished drama emanating from my television when finally, (do I dare say things came to a head?) the scene culminated, the baby came out, smiles and sighs of relief ensued, and the cries of the newborn baby girl wafted through the airwaves and struck a chord within the depths of my menopausal soul.

The scene jumped to Jim and Pam cradling their new bundle in flannel blankets, cooing at her face, pointing out her features and smiling at each other in mutual adoration. And just like that I remembered what that felt like, and…(I cannot believe I am about to say this out loud. Just remember that I am weak, hormonal, completely delusional and prone to singing Celine Dion songs out loud) I missed it. (Why do I feel like I am 16 and I have just told all of you that I am pregnant out of wedlock?) I nervously looked around the room to make sure nobody noticed the sting in my eyes. I caught a glimpse of my daughter, hunched over a homework assignment – her mascara (her MASCARA! Lucas is dead, adults are watching cartoons, vampires are taking over the media AND MY DAUGHTER WEARS MASCARA) was a little smudged under her eyes, her shoulders stooped just enough to give way to the pressure she felt over a looming test – a far cry from the little girl with pigtails who used to attack a jar of peanut butter while I wasn’t looking and crawl in bed with me in the morning to snuggle. I shot a glance toward my son – practicing his mid air leaps wielding a pocket knife, and the sort to use affection as a bargaining chip (Hey Mom, If I give you a hug can I have a cookie?) – he looked a far cry from the boy who used to line up his toy cars in a straight line and carry multiple plastic animals in each hand. I tried to snap myself back into reality by noting, “Yes, but see that snack there that your daughter is eating? She got that BY HERSELF. WHILE YOU DID NOT GET UP. AND P.S. THAT KID IS THE REASON YOU WILL NEVER HAVE TO HIRE A BABYSITTER AGAIN. GET A GRIP ALREADY.” So I did.

The episode continued with shots of Jim and Pam not sleeping, of waking in the middle of the night to diagnose the cries, to feed the baby who wouldn’t latch on and change the diaper that was soaked through, and I went, “Ooohhhh…riiiiiight. I remember this now. See? It’s not all smurfs and butterflies.” But THEN! The baby DID latch on, and Pam got excited and the baby got excited and I heard THAT SOUND. You know the one? There’s a sound that a baby makes when she is hungry – similar to that made after one has crossed the Mojave Desert in August wearing polar fleece and eating nothing but Ritz crackers before happening upon a natural spring – she reaches the fountain of living waters (or in this case, breast milk) and indulges so enthusiastically that one struggles to decipher whether the gasps for air are due to suffocation or satisfaction. And you guys, I am telling you right now that hearing that sound, whether recorded in a Hollywood studio or not, practically unglued me. (Though it does beg the question, how does that sound get recorded? Some innocent lady sitting in the park one day whips it out to feed her crying baby, only to be approached by some TV executive who asks, “’Scuse me ma’am, would you mind if I just slipped this little microphone down there for a second? It’ll only take a minute, and I promise not to linger. It would really help me out. My boss has been BREATHING DOWN MY BACK over this, and...no really, I’m a TV producer. What, you wanna see my business card? Oh, of course, let me just grab it here...whoops! Did I just....? Sorry. My bad. Well, I guess that’s a wrap!”) Anyway, I was taken aback by my reaction to a sound that was emanating from a FICTIONAL story coming out of the television and I realized, "This must be what Patrick Dempsey feels like when there's a medical emergency and everyone looks at him like, 'Well doc? You going to do something or just stand there?' and he has to explain, 'GUYS. It's just a TV SHOW.'" But it didn't matter. I had to admit, if but for a fraction of a second, that I missed it.

Truth be told, it felt good to miss it. Because the fact of the matter is, I love my kids. Did you hear me? I LOVE MY KIDS. I would jump in front of a freight train if it meant saving their life. I have volunteered at their schools, which for me, may as well be hurling my body in front of a freight train. I would climb mountains (as long as I had really good boots), swim across oceans (providing I lose all the weight I need to look good in a bathing suit), and scale any obstacle (as long as it doesn’t involve translating for Ozzy Osbourne) to help my children. But the other hard truth is that being a mother, for me, has not filled me up in the way that I hear some women talk about. It doesn’t feed my soul, I don’t feel like it’s what I was meant to do all my life, I don’t relish most of our days, and I don’t feel like I am doing God’s work. There. I said it. That doesn’t mean I don’t recognize that what I do has value, because I surely believe it does, but that is another topic for another day.

Today, I guess what I mainly wanted to say is that sometimes I really do miss my babies. I don’t want it back, but I hope God is keeping lots of videos for me to watch after I die and go to heaven so I can remember every little good thing that happened here. And I hope He throws out the one where I yell at Drew for getting into my “good” jewelry.