Ghosties

This week is Fall Break with my kids, which means if I'm not careful Sonny Will Have More Chances than Cher, The Suite Life will cause me to jump ship, and the Wizards will claim permanent residence outside of Waverly Place in my family room.  So.  I decided that today we would make a Halloween craft.  For those of you who read the ending of books before you commit to the whole story, allow me to start with a picture of the finished product.

I Know Why The Free Bird Swings

Twenty-five years ago in a broadcasted speech by Gordon B. Hinckley he said, “There is so much of sorrow in the world. There is so much of pain. There is so much of loneliness and fear and misery. There are so many whose circumstances are desperate and who cry out in deep distress.”

I was fifteen at the time and probably thought he was talking to me because I had braces and couldn’t get Mike/Steve/Mark/Kevin to notice me. I am older now (29 days until I hit the big 4-0 – don’t procrastinate getting me my black balloons and Preparation-H gag gifts. The sooner the better – I’m getting really low on Preparation-H.) and as such have witnessed and experienced some For Real trials. Death. Violence. Betrayal. Discouragement. Stress. It’s all around me, and it feels heavy lately.

I felt the pressure mounting early this morning so I decided to exercise it out of me before I exploded.  Since the weather in Denver today had us confused with the opening scene from The Wizard of Oz, I opted for the gym instead of the outdoors. Kelly Clarkson got me going almost 8 mph to one of her latest hits – it boasts a ridiculous message, (“Being with you is so dysfunctional, I really shouldn’t miss you but I can’t let you go…”) and a chorus line that’s categorically lazy, (“My life would suck without you”) but what can I say, it makes me run faster.

I settled onto a machine that faces the wall of windows overlooking the outside. With the rhythm of my steps humming below and my iPod streaming through my consciousness, the tension started to find its way out.

I ran.

And I ran.

I felt a little like Forrest Gump.

Remember how he kept running?

Also, remember how he liked chocolates?

Forrest gets me.

Then, glancing out the window my gaze caught up with a bird attempting to take flight outside. There she was, suspended in the air and flapping her wings faster than a hummingbird on Red Bull – she seemed determined, (I bet she heard about the sale at TJ Maxx) but the winds were so fierce that she couldn’t move. Chaos reigned around her little, determined form. The unpredictable gusts pushed her up, thrust her down, and made her look like she had one too many glasses of wine but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t move forward.

Moving fast and getting nowhere.

I know how she feels.

If birds could talk I would have invited her back to my house for hot chocolate so we could swap stories. I bet she would have accepted my invitation, flown over and then upon seeing my house she probably would have been like, “Hey, I’ve been here before. I built a nest on your porch and then crapped on it all summer!”

I would have forgiven her. And then poisoned her hot chocolate.

In addition to the aforementioned Hinckley quote, he added this a few sentences later:

“May your prayers be answered. May you have peace and strength and love and gladness in your lives. I urge you to lift your heads and walk in gratitude. Spare yourselves from the indulgence of self-pity. It is always self-defeating. Subdue the negative and emphasize the positive. Count your blessings and not your problems.”

Which means I should probably take back that part about the poison.

What I Know For Sure - Volume VI

I've watched Oprah sit across from many a guest and ask them, "What do you know FOR SURE?"  Their answers are typically uninspiring but every time I've heard the question posed I've silently wondered how I would respond to the same.  The result has been a series of Top 10 lists I started a couple of years ago (archived on the sidebar) - it's been a really long time since I've had a fresh one, so here it goes:

1. We need to find a different word for “titillating”.

2. Same with “pianist”.

3. Eating healthy gives you gas. Anyone who refutes this has never had a “Fiber One” bar and 5 servings of vegetables in the same day.

4. Noting #3, our investment in that King size bed is already paying off.

5. When your spaghetti sauce unknowingly explodes in a box that sits in the basement for another four weeks it gets moldy and ruins everything else in the box, including your plastic wrap.

6. Trying to get mold out of a roll of plastic wrap is about as productive as trying to scrape all the butter off of a piece of baklava.

7. There’s a scene from “The Office” where Jim is sitting at his station when he suddenly thunks his head face down on his desk. The camera moves to Pam where she explains that sometimes Jim “dies of boredom” and in those instances it is her job to revive him. Now that they're finally together, I think it's time to see Jim & Pam utilize this tactic on a road trip along I-80.

8. It’s embarrassing when your kid farts in front of your home teacher during his spiritual message.

9. It’s also really funny.

10. I’ve never met a woman who can legitimately pull off the phrase, “You go girl!”

Why carve my own when there’s Google?

In case you didn’t know, I’m not the fun parent.  I don’t carve pumpkins, color easter eggs, make homemade valentines or whip up batches of Christmas divinity in a poinsettia embroidered apron.  So, you can imagine my delight when Cory and Drew came home from grocery shopping the other night with a small pumpkin.  Drew announced with enthusiasm, “Now we can make our OWN homemade pumpkin pie!”  I looked at Cory as if to say, “You couldn’t show him where the canned pumpkin was?”  But he totally misunderstood me and thought I said, “Excuse me while I check my fantasy football scores.” 

The pumpkin is resting on our counter where I’m confident it will stay until someone goes, “What’s that smell?” and I’ll sigh and put on my best fake disappointed face and say, “Don’t worry kids, Costco was made for parents like me.”  We’ll throw the spoiled pumpkin in the trash and I’ll drive to Costco to buy the eight dollar pumpkin pie, except when I get to the checkout line the cashier will probably say, “That will be five hundred and thirty-three dollars, please” because I didn’t anticipate such a screamin’ deal on corn.

Some of you might worry that Drew will be disappointed.  It’s okay, he’s used to it.  And if he’s really sad I’ll just show him this picture.

Rise and shout, the Cougars are out!

Every year our church puts on a carnival for our members in this area, and each year it's a pretty big hit, particularly for our younger contingent. Sno-Cones, cotton candy, hot dogs, and corn are always on the menu, and the cake walk, face painting, and whatever bouncy castle jumping thing they happen to come up with are typically included in the festivities. Our church is 100% supported by the members; we have no paid clergy, and hence we have no paid or qualified individuals to man the said face painting booth other than 15-year-old girls and their leaders (such as my big bad self.) But every year we show up with our year supply of craft paints complete with paint brushes seemingly qualified for cleaning tile grout and attempt to grant the wishes of the young children in attendance.

"Can you do a cheetah?" my first client of approximately 4-years-old asked. I hesitated because my specialty is not so much cheetahs but more like squares, stars, or perhaps items in the circle family. His grandmother sensed my uncertainty and jumped in with a suggestion of colored stripes down the sides of his cheeks the color of a Colorado Sports team. Thank you Grandma! I did manage to transform one little boy into a Ninja Turtle, but not before running out of green.

Further back in the line was a middle aged woman who I assumed was in company with one of the several youngsters who hovered nearby, and she kept lurking near the box of paints making comments about "the right color of blue". After putting the finishing touches on a little girl's rainbow, this woman found her way to the front of the line. I looked for the child who was waiting with her when she asked, "Do you think you could do 'BYU' on one side and then 'Go Cougars' on the other?" I realized she was requesting for herself, and so I replied, "Oh, sure." "Well, I was looking at your colors and you don't seem to have the right color of blue. [she picked up a bottle in front of me] This one's too light, I mean BYU has more of a royal blue to navy color. Do you think you could make it darker?" Why of course, lady. Nevermind the small children in line. I began mixing in purple and black, and finally came up with a stunning shade of gray at which point she confessed to being content with the original blue. I got to work.

"So, you're doing the block letters, right?" she clarified.
"Yes ma'am."
[pause...pause...paint over middle-aged hairy mole in the 90 degree heat...pause...]
"And are you going to outline it in white?"
"Yes ma'am."
[pause...]
"It's going to be a big game tonight!"
"Uh-huh." Lady, even if BYU is your alma mater, don't you think you're a little too old for this?
I began to paint "Go Cougars" as she struck up a conversation with another party-goer. As if it wasn't hard enough over a hairy mole in the sweaty heat, now she's moving her mouth???

I really should mention that this woman was not rude or unappreciative, I really don't believe she was trying to be difficult, but is it just me or do you think that a longing for a face paint job should dissipate somewhere between 7th grade and high school graduation?

Tidbits From Dix: The Lamb & The Lion Series

In our extended family we currently have 3 nephews serving full time missions for our church in various parts of the world.  Given the beauty of technology, we are able to follow their experiences through weekly emails that are forwarded to us from their parents.  One nephew in Mexico recently recounted a phone call from one of his leaders who warned him to run for cover if he saw a helicopter hovering overhead.  Why?  "There was an accident with one of the circus cars and they are looking for a LION" on the loose.  My nephew and his companion ran for cover and survived without incident.  In response, my Dad drafted and sent the following:

I do not think the Missionary Handbook has a section on dealing with escaped lions so I will pass on some old wives tales about how to best deal with roaming big cats when confronted:


1) Roll over and play dead. (I am personally skeptical of this approach. That sounds to me like something a lion wrote just to save him a lot of effort.)
2) Look very content and purr in an EXTREMELY LOUD manner.
3) Do not act territorrial! (Of course this is my space but you are welcome to it.)
4) Act very territorial! (Of course this is my space but you are welcome to it.)
5) Try to look bigger! Have your companion climb up and stand on your shoulders. (You may use 'rock, paper, scissors' to determine who stands on whom.)
6) Look like a tree...(and if the lion uses you as one of his markers for his territory, don't drop your leaves.)
7) Pretend you are a veterinary dentist and show special interest in his teeth. ("You know you really should floss".)
8) Introduce yourself as 'Simba' and hum Lion King songs.
9) Try to interest the animal in the joys of vegetarianism.

~Love, Grandpa

He cracks himself up.

How Do You Like Me NOW?

When I was pregnant with Drew, like, REALLY pregnant and nearing the end, I had pretty much run out of things to wear.  One Sunday as I quickly eliminated one option after another, I finally ran across a pink number that I hadn't previously resorted to.  A stunt double for the county fair's canopy that draped over the pig exhibit, it was classed up with mother of pearl buttons and a label of "100% silk".  It wasn't pretty, but feeling frustrated and out of time, I exited the closet and asked Cory, "How does this look?"

His eyes darted left and right, no doubt in search of a machete to thrust his body upon to create a distraction, but finally met my gaze and shrugged.  "Seriously," I said, "tell me the truth.  I can take it."  "Well..." he stammered, "I mean...it looks BIG I guess."  I threw him out of the room and started to cry.  Poor guy never stood a chance. 

See, I didn't really want his opinion, I actually just wanted him to tell me I looked great, even if it was a lie.

Which brings me to my new blog header.  I would ask you what you think of it, but I don't really want to know.  All I really want to hear is, "Wow, I love that!  Who did it for you?"  And I would say, "Aly did!" and you'd ask, "How can I get me some of that?" and I'd say, "GO HERE."  Aly makes more food than she does blog headers, which is why I like her so much. It's one thing to be able to put fonts, colors and shapes together, but when you can also whip up a Peanut Butter Brownie Pie?  It's called, Are You Sure We Weren't Separated At Birth?

Sometimes

Sometimes I can’t sleep.

Sometimes when I can’t sleep I go online and read blogs.

Sometimes I read something that gets me really fired up, which, incidentally, enhances the initial No Sleeping Problem. One thing leads to another and before you know it you’re signing up for something, typing in your credit card number and checking the box which says you agree to the Terms and Conditions (which for all you know says that you will never again use the words “bodily fluids” in mixed company but you’ll never know, because you never actually READ the Terms and Conditions) and agree to pay the $1 to find out exactly which pedophiles live in your neighborhood.

Sometimes this happens and when it does, the red flag at the credit card company goes up because it’s not used to seeing Vern charge things on her Visa at two o’clock in the morning. Wal Mart at 3pm? Safeway bakery at 6am? (That’s when the donuts are freshest!) Children’s Place 15 minutes before any baby shower? These are all patterns of behavior that my credit card company is accustomed to tracking. But the 2am thing to spy on all the creepsters in my neighborhood really threw it off its game and as a result, it declined my card.

Declined. DENIED. DO NOT PASS “GO”. DO NOT COLLECT $200.

It was just what I needed to feel resigned to going back to bed.

The next morning I woke up to my phone ringing at 7am.

It was Cory.

My life companion.

The one who learned the hard way that when a woman asks you how she looks wearing a pink tent when she is 19 months pregnant you never, EVER tell her the truth.

The one who crunches numbers for a living and checks our Visa statements online every day.

That guy.

He was calling from work. “Hi Honey. Hey, I was just looking at our bank statement - do you know anything about a one dollar charge to a DATING AND ESCORT SERVICE?”

I was awake now.

Someone had tried to mess with me.

Sometimes when you try to be a good guy and go in search of the bad guys, the bad guys try to weasel their way in and give you the finger. Guess what, bad guys? You lose. Even though it showed up on our statement, my credit card company flagged the transaction and sought our permission before allowing it to go through because it seemed suspicious. It wasn’t consistent with my history and as a result, the access to my integrity was vehemently denied.

Which just goes to show you.

Sometimes, the good guys win.

Fascists, Michael Bolton & Inflatable Bananas

It’s been an eventful few days.  Thursday I was recruited by a former military man to teach English in Korea.  I met him while getting frozen yogurt.  One minute he was recommending I get the “Blueberry Tart” and before I knew it he had accused me of being a Christian fascist and threatened to blow himself up if Sarah Palin ever became President.  I was like, “Buddy, I’m just here for the blood orange and vanilla wafer swirl with coconut.”  He was like, “It’s a weeknight and you’re wearing a skirt, don’t screw with me,” to which I exhaled a huge sigh of relief because, FINALLY.  We were on the same page.

Friday we went to Chili’s.  I ate nachos.  Nachos rule.

Saturday morning I listened to this guy say, “There is more to life than increasing its speed.”  We decided there was no time like the present to take that advice to heart, so we spent a glorious afternoon on the lake with some friends who have a boat.  We’ve decided we are very interested in making more friends with boats and are currently accepting applications.  Requirements:  You tow it to the lake, fill it with gas, supply it with ice cold drinks and haul our kids around on an inflatable banana and WE will bring the licorice.  Pretty much an ideal scenario for you.  (Did I mention that we share the licorice?)

The Word on the street is that Michael Bolton was golfing in our neighborhood today.  I’m not sure why he was here, but I’m also not sure how he ever got engaged to Nicollette Sheridan so I guess it’s par for the course.  (Ha!  Oh, COME ON.  Lighten up.)

What do you think, should I take the Korea job?

I'm Not The Embassy Suites

I was listening to a radio discussion last week and their theory about how good looking people have it easier. They argued that they receive more jobs, get higher pay, and weasel their way out of more traffic tickets. (I wouldn’t know.) I’m not saying they’re wrong, but I also think that Pretty comes with consequences.

The thought hit me recently while I was watching Undercover Boss. The premise of this show is that a company big shot goes undercover at his own business to see how well things are really going. He poses as an entry level employee to work side by side with his own staff – all the while the staff is thinking they are being filmed for a documentary. The Top Dog wants to know, are policies running efficiently? Do we employ punks or quality people? Is morale good or bad? (Thus ruling out carnivals completely.) The most recent episode was about a hotel chain. While staying at one of his own establishments, The Boss grew disappointed that he was not provided with free coffee but was instead expected to pay for it at the front desk. (What a ripoff!) (I know how he feels. I’ve paid money, like REAL American dollars, to eat at Casa Bonita.)

What I realized while watching is that I think hotels are kind of like people – many will base their expectations on appearance. For example, I understand that when I go to a Motel 6 I want to keep the black light packed away. Kind of like Sean Penn – we say we want to know what he’s thinking, but deep down we know better.

My Afternoon Abroad

Cruising Craigslist - It's not the name of a band, but something I like to do when I feel like fantasizing about knowing how to do stuff.  I don't know anything about restoring old furniture, but looking through Craigslist makes me wish I did.  It also makes me dream of Ford F-150's and flatbeds, because it would make it so much easier for me to haul the furniture that I don't know how to refinish back to my house where I don't have a place to put it.  You know what else would be nice?  Free Chipotle on Fridays. 

So, lately I've been browsing more seriously in search of a refinishing project and one of the listings took me to a small town an hour away.  Unfortunately, it was for naught.  (Unless the $1 hot fudge sundae from McDonald's equates success, but seeing as there's one just down the street from me I'm thinking more along the lines of: FAIL.)  Having driven so far I wasn't ready to turn right around and go home, so I decided to browse a nearby boutique.  It wasn't that much fun looking at $20 lip balms and leopard print aprons, but I turned the corner and found some homemade trinkets that made my heart sing.  I even went the extra mile and wrote down some of the quotes I found so I could share them with you here.  First up, a refrigerator magnet that said:

"Between my therapist and my personal trainer, I have no "ME" time."

 Printed on a napkin:

"My reality check bounced."

and:

"I used to be driven but I pulled over."

On a couple of greeting cards:

"I'm so far behind I think I'm first."

 and,

"I'm pushing middle age.  That's enough exercise for me."

As for that last one, I don't recall giving anyone permission to read my thoughts and publish them.  Too hard to prove in court?

If I Were Lord Voldemort

It's been a while since I've heard any Potter chatter, but now that there's a movie coming out in November people are starting to talk.  In regards to this upcoming event I've decided to resurrect one of my posts from the now defunct Light Refreshments Served, not because I'm too lazy to write something new, but because I spent a buttload of time today writing something new when my computer Crashed.  And I mean, CRASHED.  Like, I might cry about how much information it ate, but I'm waiting for Cory to come home and tell me just how bad it is.  But guess what?  Cory is inspired, because two weeks ago he made me buy a new computer because he "just didn't have a good feeling" about that laptop and felt its days were numbered.  I thought he was being silly and a little frivolous with some of our disposable income, but now I will kiss him squarely on the lips when he gets home on account of his being so awesome.  He installed the new computer over the weekend, and the laptop bit the dust around 2 this afternoon.  And now for He Who Must Not Be Named... 

 ***

I haven’t read any of the Harry Potter books.  I’m not apologizing, just stating a fact.  However, the rest of my family is very into it and so everyone was excited about the newest release.  I didn’t want to be left out or serve as the party pooper, so I tried to get up to speed before going to the latest movie so I could at least follow what was happening.  And by "get up to speed" I mean I went on Wikipedia.  After seven very enlightening paragraphs, I hopped in the car with the family secure in my knowledge that Dumbledore was a good guy, Voldemort was a bad guy, and Harry was the guy with the glasses.

A critical element of the story line comes to light in this 6^th movie (and book) regarding horcruxes.  For those of you like me who have stayed away from the Harry Potter frenzy, let me briefly explain to both of you that a horcrux is a place where a dark wizard hides a part of his soul for the purpose of attaining immortality.  As long as the horcrux stays intact, so does the person’s soul.  At this point in the series, it is learned that this is precisely what Lord Voldemort has done, and now they just have to figure out what/where all of his horcruxes are so they can destroy them, and thus destroy HIM. 

Which got me thinking, if I were Lord Voldemort, where would I hide the pieces of my soul?  (psst:  I copied this idea from my friend Rachel.  You can read HER version here.)

Unlike Tom Riddle, my diary would not be a likely choice.  For starters, I have too many diaries, and I have too many lame diaries.   They contain startling details to the most ridiculous stages of my life, and I am certain that they are the first place people will be looking after I die for juicy information.  It’s where I document 5 years of Tuesday nights and use several exclamation points to emphasize how much I love “Remington Steele”, and where I drone on for months about a guy I refer to as “Mr. No Name” who I stalked but didn’t know what his name was until I finally asked him to dance at a party.  He said I was a good dancer and I thought he was serious and I planned our wedding to the tune of Madonna’s “Crazy For You” under the colored lights of the gym.  Surprisingly, it never went anywhere; a recurring theme through all seven volumes of my journals.  Like I said, “JUICY”.

Another place I would never use as a horcrux – my DVD’s of “The Office”.  Too obvious.  My computer?  Another dead giveaway.  The Costco size bag of chocolate chips – can you imagine?  Harry Potter would be all, “It’s like she’s not even trying.”  If I really had to be honest though, here’s what I think I would use.

MY CHAP STICK –  Some people need meth, I need chap stick.  Only a few people who are close to me know how much I rely on the stuff and I have several stashes – one in my car, one in the kitchen, another in my bathroom drawer, and a final one in my purse.  For the record, I think I would pick the one in my bathroom drawer to store the horcrux, because I don’t care what your magical powers are you do NOT want to go rummaging around in there.  For as long as I can remember I have used Cherry Chap Stick, because it gives my lips a slightly glossy, pink tint and doesn’t require the stronger commitment of lipstick.  That was before I met my mistress, “Vanilla Mint” and we fell in love.  Except then I couldn’t find it anymore, and for months I had to revert to the cherry until Cory came home from work one day and said he had a present for me.  Could it be diamonds?   A laundry fairy?  Chipotle?  He handed me a paper sack and I opened it up to reveal FOUR PACKAGES of Vanilla Mint chap stick!  *Sigh* My hero.

THE TREADMILL  - Hellloooo, who’s going to think to look there?

A JOJO’S SHAVE ICE - I had one of these when Cory and I went to Kauai a few years ago, and as soon as I took a bite I knew we were meant to be together. 

THE AIR CONDITIONING VENT – I wouldn’t necessarily choose this, it’s just that I know myself enough to know that part of my soul belongs to air conditioning whether I’m a dark wizard or a stay at home mom.  It’s who I am.

Finally, if I really want to keep myself alive I think I’d hide one in Drew’s socks.  It’s basic common sense – Drew can’t ever find them, I can’t ever find them, and if I’m that desperate to live forever I think it’s my best shot.

Bits 'N Pieces

This morning as I logged on to my email I saw the following headline on the Comcast homepage: “Full Figured Halloween Costumes”. Some might argue that this is not societal progress, and that trashy pirates and gothic vampires should reserve their rights to a size 4. I think they are overlooking the encouraging opportunity that this opens up for plus sized parrots.
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I still haven’t figured out who rigged my accounts for the wheelchair and hearing aids people, but I did come across this quote from Mark Twain: “Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” My guess is Mark Twain never dealt with incontinence.
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Question: When someone sends you an email with a photo attachment of them getting a tattoo of your company logo, does that mean you’ve made it or that you just have a really tacky clientele?
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You know you’re a “has been” when you get booked for the county fair and there’s no cover charge. Hope you had fun in Denver Billy Idol!
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Calling And Election Unsure

Fact: I am a church going Latter-Day-Saint. I’m not supposed to drink, smoke, swear, have coffee, fornicate, or listen to raunchy music, especially not backwards.

Fact: I don’t drink, smoke, have coffee, or fornicate. Sometimes I listen to Lady Gaga, and I often throw in a “damn” or “hell” for good measure in some conversations. On very rare occasions I have referred to someone as a jack***, but that’s only because my friend’s ex-husband really is one, and calling him a “jerk” wasn’t satisfying enough. Oh, and remember that part about skinny dipping? I’ve done that a couple of times too.

You may recall that a little over a year ago I was asked to serve as the President over our Women’s organization at church. (Key operative word there is “asked” – that’s how it works in my church. With all leadership positions, whether it be a teacher, a pianist, or presidency member of some sort, we are asked to serve and we choose whether to accept or not.) I accepted the responsibility, and instantly inherited a stewardship over approximately 100 women. Along with my two counselors it is my job to make sure that the temporal and spiritual needs of these women are being met.

My quandary is this: As their leader I am expected to serve as an example. It seems reasonable enough, to count on people in certain positions to act a certain way – to “practice what they preach”. However, sometimes I struggle between the boundary of being myself and being a good example. The two should probably not conflict, but hi. Have we met? Here’s where things go fuzzy for me.

If American Idol Was High School

I think American Idol has jumped the shark, but unfortunately people are still talking about it. Simon’s gone! Ellen’s leaving! JLo’s coming! Will Steven Tyler sign or are the risks too high that he will inhale contestants with his massive, vocal orifice when offering criticism? Still, the reports aren’t going away and I’m starting to feel like I’m in high school all over again.

Simon Cowell is like the Principal. He thinks he’s the smartest one there and that he’s better than everyone else but with visions of greener grass, he is switching teams and moving to another high school to do the same exact thing. Some feel betrayed, others are relieved, and everyone else doesn’t really care. (For the record, I am “everyone else”.)

Ryan Seacrest: he’s the cute guy from Choir who straddles the popular/unpopular line – popular with all the girls in the choir because all the other guys in the group are lame enough to make Ryan look like the hottest thing since Nutella became available at Costco.  UNpopular because, come on, it’s just Choir. Also? The boys like him too. I think it’s the blazers.

Paula Abdul: the head cheerleader – dumped by the football captain two days before Homecoming on account of being so short it really made slow dancing uncomfortable.  Plus, she wore too much eyeliner and people were starting to talk.  Other cheerleaders shunned her, forcing her to quit the team and start looking to the Chess Club for guys to date.

Kara Dioguardi: the new girl at school - not really that hot, but intriguing because nobody knows that in 2nd grade she had a mole the size of Wisconsin on her upper lip, or that in middle school she flunked PE -  she tries to be a friend to Paula and offers supportive feedback such as, “Paula, don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m beautiful and taller than three foot nothing. You take everything so personally.” She’s essentially the new head cheerleader, but no one really cares because, remember? The football captain is suddenly available!

Randy Jackson: The dawg who name drops all the people he made famous. Nobody really knows who he is, or what he’s done, or why he’s on the panel to begin with until he says things like, “I signed Mariah Carey”. Which makes Randy the high school yearbook editor. He still dates the common folk, but at the end of the day he can sprawl out on his couch, lace his hands behind his head and smile knowing that the pictures he took of the Prom Queen at lunch that day were going to show up on page 18 of the yearbook and HE HAD EVERYTHING TO DO WITH THAT.

Ellen: Your band has decided to invite some friends over on Saturday to hear you play a free concert out of your parents’ garage. You know that your closest friends will be there, but you’re hoping to draw a bigger crowd so you advertise, “Concert AND Comedian!” But the two don’t really go together, and at the end of the day you realize you should have just promised free hash instead.

Jennifer Lopez: Voted Homecoming Queen ten years ago, hoping to return and have everyone remember her from her glory days.  (i.e. Before "Bennifer", and waaayy before "Gigli".)  Unfortunately, no one has any reason to care what she thinks anymore.  We're not fooled by the rocks that she’s got, we know she’s just Jenny from the block.

One major problem facing American Idol is that there's no clearly defined role of the Football Quarterback.  Has no one considered Chris Pine?  Hugh Jackman?  Eric Dane? Javier Bodem? James Marsden?  Do you get me?  Who am I leaving out?

Lucy

I met 19-year-old Lucy* about a month ago. Sunday she was standing next to her mother, holding on securely to her arm when I looked her in the eye, said hello, and told her how pretty she looked. She glanced off to the side and moaned something undecipherable, as her mother patted her hand and said, “Okay, Lucy.” The mother turned to me as if trying to explain, “Whatever she says, I just say ‘okay’!” Some might argue that Lucy’s not really saying anything, that she doesn’t understand me, and that there’s no point in trying to communicate with her. Perhaps they’re right.

But what if they’re not?

Lucy, you see, has Down’s Syndrome. I only know a few things about this birth defect. I know that some people with Down’s are highly communicative, some are aggressive, and others are very affectionate. I know that many are both. I know that Lucy is neither. And I know that had my niece been required to endure this life here on earth, she would be over 4 years old now and living, however so, with this same defect.

Soon after my sister delivered our darling Clara Grace, stillborn in 2006, I was unable to look at anyone with Down’s Syndrome without growing immediately emotional and introspective. I observed them in airports, grocery stores, and schools and asked myself all kinds of questions as I watched. Would Clara have done that? Would Clara have looked like that? Would she be that beautiful? That vocal? As demonstrative? Would she love me? And more importantly, would she know that I love her?

We didn’t get to find out, which is why I look Lucy in the eye. Whether she understands me or not, sometimes I feel like she is my chance.

My chance to hug.
My chance to love.
My chance to learn.

I say her name deliberately. Several hours after the funeral for my niece I watched my sister and brother-in-law open cards of condolences, and my sister commented on something I will never forget. “My favorites are the ones where people say her name,” she said, further explaining how valid and real it made her feel to have others acknowledge it.

I’ve only known Lucy for a month, and I don’t know if she understands me.

But what if she does?

I want her to know that I see her.

And that she’s beautiful.

*name changed

I've Got Skiiiiills, They're Multiplying

My mom has mad skills.  When I am in my 70's and someone asks me, "Hey, what did you do this weekend?" I hope to talk about how my maid scrubbed my floors while I was at the movies.  A few months ago I asked my mom that question and she was stoked because she had just, "finished building the retaining wall"!  Or was it a deck?  I can't remember.  The point is, I am lazy and my mom isn't.  For example, I just bought nine trees for my yard, paid someone else to deliver them, and then paid another someone else to plant them.  If it had been my mom at the nursery, selecting trees and plotting the strategy for getting them home she would have grabbed a shovel and pointed to some rope and said, "Give me that!"  That's why when anyone says, "Oh, you're just like your mom," I dig in my heels and say, "Don't talk about her like that." 

But sometimes not even I can argue with the similarities.  For one, we draw the same.  Remember when I told you about my lame boss and how he said, "Guys, we're really under the hourglass," so I made fun of him and drew this picture and posted them all over the office?

And then remember yesterday's post where I made fun of the "Sit And Be Fit" lady on television?  For starters, my mom could so take her out.  But for finishers, I got an email today from my mom who said she found a cure for her back pain that was better than acupuncture, drugs, and suicidal fantasies.  However, as she tried to describe the process to us her description fell short, and she had to draw a picture.  GET THIS...

This Might Be A Long 2 Months

In two months and fourteen days I will have completed my 4th decade of life. In case this math is too complicated, I am almost 40 years old. Don’t you think I’m taking it really well? It’s probably because I know in my heart of hearts that I don’t look a day older than 39 ½. Plus, the beauty of old age is that I get to watch teenagers recycle the fashion from my prime while thinking it was their idea first. I like feeling smarter than them, with or without the big belt hanging off my hip.

The other bonus is that I’m inching closer and closer to being able to do the Sit And Be Fit Workout and declaring that a success. Unfortunately, I’m still young enough for people to expect that marathons are possible, so when I get to the point that being able to move my thumbs in and out is an impressive feat I’m prepared to celebrate that. Plus, someone needs to keep an eye on that lady – I’m not sure I trust her, but I figure it’s not my business yet. But the point is, I’m CLOSER to that being my business, and I can’t wait to corner that lady and find out once and for all what her secret is – I think we all know it’s not the nude pantyhose.

The down side to aging, however, other than the increasing viability of needing bladder repair surgery, is that somebody is trying to mess with me. At 9:30 this morning the “Scooter Store” showed up on my caller ID.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Hello,” the other end replied. “Is Vern there?”
“This is she.”
“Hi. I’m calling in response to your inquiry about motorized wheelchairs?”
“As if! I haven’t used one of those since they stole my ovaries and I couldn’t walk but desperately needed some milk from the Super Wal Mart!”
“Sorry ma’am, it says here you tried to call. I won’t be bothering you again.”

I went down to check my email, where I came upon a message from a guy named Tommy. The subject line read: “Your Path To Better Hearing”. What the crap? Delete. Thirty minutes later I got a phone call from Tommy.
“Hi. Is Vern there?”
“This is she.”
“This is Tommy from the better hearing store. I see you’ve downloaded our free information guide on the internet. I called to answer your questions about our hearing aid?”
I thought it would be funny if I yelled, “What?! Speak up! I CAN’T HEAR YOU.” But instead I started to chuckle. “Here’s the thing Tommy, someone is screwing with me. I’m sorry you had to get involved.”
We hung up with a promise that he would delete my information from all files.

So far I’ve asked three people who have vehemently denied any involvement, and I believe them, but this is no coincidence. I’ve only got one more call to try and weed out the instigator before I’m out of ideas – in other words, if you are the chick who put your bust measurements into the online calculator only to have it respond, “If these measurements are correct, you don’t need a bra”, (true story) then expect a phone call. If you are a crazy stalker desperate to be part of my fascinating life and this is your twisted way of trying to work your way in, you are overestimating my cool factor. And your check is in the mail. Other than that, I don’t know who’s toying with my head but whoever you are, be nice. I’m steps away from raising my arms over my head while sitting in a chair and calling it “exertion”.

Tidbits From Dix - 1991 Installment

The year is 1991, and a young, 20-year-old white boy (in the form of my younger brother) was preparing to serve a mission for his church in Ecuador.  While training at the Missionary Training Center (MTC) in Provo, Utah, he stated in a letter home that he was craving homemade peach pie.  My Dad drafted a response, requested that my mom help him type it, and sent it off to my brother.  At a time when computer networking was not what it is today, my mom would make copies of all these letters and mail them to the rest of us.  Lucky for you, I saved them!  I think this will help answer two questions: 1) What do you think Vern's parents are like? and, 2) What do you think peach pie with horseradish would taste like?  (I never said they were questions you would ask.)  Here is my Dad's letter:

PEACH PIE ALA DIX

Regarding the peach pie request, I think we have a plan that will work.  We will send you, in separate packages, the following:

(a) 1# of dried peaches

(b) 2 flour tortillas

(c) 1/2 cup sugar

(d) 2' of aluminum foil

(e) 2 TBSP  dried horse radish

(f) A stapler

DIRECTIONS:

1.  Put the dried peaches in water.  (If you have no container in which to put them, you might string them together -- using your sewing kit -- and wear them lei fashion -- in the shower for 2 hours).  (If the peaches are not sufficiently softened by that time, wrap a wet towel around your neck, being careful to keep the peaches next to your body with the towel on top, and do jumping jacks for 45 minutes.  The combination of body heat, body exudate, and towel moisture will--hypothetically--soften any peach to a chewable consistency.) (Note:  significant literature on this procedure is lacking.)

2.  Place the peaches on one of the tortillas

3.  Take another shower and dry off with the same towel so that the towel is drooling wet

4.  Spread the towel on the floor and empty the sugar onto the towel

5.  Roll the towel up and then, with your companion twisting one direction and you twisting the opposite direction, squeeze the sugared towel water on to the peaches--gently. (Editors note:  It is all I can do to type this!  I mean, how does he think up all this stuff?  What goes on in that mind, anyway??? ~mom)

6.  Place the other tortilla on top of the gently sweetened peaches and staple the edges of the two tortillas together--gently.

7.  The aluminum foil may be used in either of the following ways to bake the pie.

(a) Separate the foil into 2 equal pieces and wrap 1/2 the pie in each piece.  Place each wrapped piece securely under each arm and sleep for 24 hours lying on your back without moving.  This method is referred to as "cool fusion" in academic circles.  (There is considerable debate as to whether this is a physical or chemical reaction.)  Remove the pies after 24 hours.

(b)  Place the pie outside on a steel table in full sunlight.  Have your companion bend his body into the shape of a perfect parabola and carefully fold the foil against this parabolic shape. (Caution:  Beware of noses and navels or you may get raw spots in your pie.) (Editors note:  This is really gross and offensive. ~mom)  Orient your companion so that the suns' rays strike the parabolic foil and are focused on the pie.  Have your companion stand on one leg and gently rotate him so that the rays are spread evenly over the whole surface of the pie.*  Cooking time is approximately 30 minutes and voila--Most Thoroughly Cooked Peach Pie.  Be sure and remove the staples before eating.

8.  I was kidding about the dried horse radish.

* There is a sound track for this particular procedure, it is called "My Turn on Earth".

Q & A

Question: So, Vern, what did you do on Labor Day?
Vern: I’m so glad you asked. I watched Camp Rock, shopped the clearance rack at Target, and ran interference between a can of Sprite and my daughter’s barf bowl.

Q: Camp Rock eh? And how did you feel about the Jonas Brothers after that?
V: Well, I guess everyone has to make a living.

Q: You do realize that they make more money than you. Like, a LOT more.
V: Yes, but do they have a blog with 12 readers? I DON’T THINK SO.

Q: You seem like you’re really good at multi-tasking. Was it hard making toast for Samantha and keeping up with the plot of Camp Rock at the same time?
V: It’s definitely not for the faint of heart, but I used to write notes to my friends during English class so I have a lot of experience.

Q: Wow, you really know how to party. Any advice for us inexperienced types in the future?
V: I find that a good pint of “Berry Voluntary” is helpful for getting anyone through a boring holiday. Plus, I highly encourage you to send your spouse golfing while you contemplate the slow and painful deaths of Disney prodigies. No sense in everyone being miserable.

Q: Good advice indeed. Thanks for spending some time with us, Vern.
V: Anytime.

Wondering...

Do you think people who still go to Blockbuster to rent movies also still listen to music on their walkman?

Results Are In

So, the good news is that I’m not going to die of skin cancer yet. And no, it hasn’t escaped me that this isn’t necessarily good news for everyone, but I don’t really care what Cory thinks. Just kidding. I am sure that if anything ever happened to me he would cry all the way to match.com. JUST KIDDING! Sheesh, people. Calm down. The point is, when I left my dermatologist’s office the other day with part of my chest in their Petri dish the doctor said they would call me with the results in about a week, and that he was pretty sure he would be seeing me again to excise the mole (not to be confused with “exercising” a mole, which, from what I hear, is no picnic). But the office called me this afternoon and reported, “Good news, your results are back and it looks like it was just scar tissue. We don’t need to take any further action at this time.”

So, I guess the moral of the story is, buy your drugs online from Ecuador. Not only did it cure my ailment, but I’d like to think that somewhere in South America a man is on his way home from work, fanning his crisp, new bills and smiling over a good day of internet sales; soon he’ll burst through the front door and grab his wife in a hug, swing her around and say, “Honey, guess what?! We don’t have to eat the dog for dinner!” And it’s nice to know I was a part of that.

Weekend Quotes And TMI

• “Clay Aiken and Chaka Khan can’t both be wrong.” ~ Phineas & Ferb
•  “It’s kinda sad to come home and find your Dad watching Clone Wars by himself in the dark.” ~ Samantha 
• During her first week of school Samantha was asked to share something about herself in a class. As she relayed her experience, she said, “Yeah, lots of kids were saying boring things like, ‘I like ice cream’ but I wanted to say something cool, so I told them about how I am a descendant of Pocahontas.” Apparently Drew didn’t know this, so he perked up and said, “We are?! So THAT’S where I get my awesome hunting skills.” 

As a follow up to the last quote, I told the kids how I had the same dilemma at Book Club this week. We had several new people in attendance, so they asked us to go around the room and share our name and something about ourselves. “I kinda wanted to share something funny,” I explained to my kids, “so I told them how I went skinny dipping in the Mediterranean once.” Drew looked at me quizzically, “What’s skinny dipping?” (See, I thought they knew this already. Had I known, I probably wouldn’t have brought it up. Oh well, too late now!)

I considered my options for how to explain.

“Sometimes, when a person has had too much hummus…”

“When a man and a woman are married and they love each other…”

“Peer pressure can be a funny thing…”

Oh, forget it, just cut to the chase. “Skinny dipping is when you go swimming naked,” I blurted out. Eyes the size of quarters doesn’t even begin to describe it. Try plates, Pamela Anderson’s implants, or UFO’s. That’s how big their eyes got, and then Samantha said, “Yeah, you should have just said you liked ice cream.”

For 25 Bucks (Part II)

Unlike the other moles which were taken care of by my new magic potion of Ecuadorian proportions, this one never really went away. So I buckled and made an appointment with the dermatologist, and decided that while I was at it I would go ahead and have them do my annual full body mole check. (Almost as exciting as it sounds - think “Whack-A-Mole” for nerds, and replace the hitting with a magnifying glass.)

The office assistant at the counter checked me in, “It looks like your co-pay will be $25.” I handed over my credit card and tried to ignore the fact that I was about to get naked and let a guy look me over with a magnifying glass and I was paying HIM! I could just see all the hookers in Denver, standing in a corner watching me, shaking their heads and mumbling, “*Tsk*Tsk* What a rookie.” I took a seat, then somewhere between the 3-year-old blond girl head butting the couch next to me and page 293 of InStyle magazine’s interview with Anne Hathaway, the nurse called me in. As we entered the room she took a seat across from me, let out a sigh and began firing her questions, “So, have you ever had any blistering sunburns?”

The next fifteen minutes consisted of a microscopic violation, a picture taken of my back (Say, “cheese”! Not you, silly. YOU.), a needle to my face to remove a small cyst, a shot to my chest to numb the area (so let me get this straight, you’re going to prick me with the sting of death (“little poke” my *%@!), and force me to clench my fists until my palms bleed SO THAT IT WON’T HURT?), followed by a biopsy and a promise not to post my photos on the internet.

All for twenty-five bucks.

It’s not that I’m not grateful to have the insurance that allows me to only pay $25 for an office visit, it’s just that as I lay there with a strange man checking me out with his specs, saying things like, “This mole is misbehaving,” and me responding, “Then put it in time out,” I couldn’t help but think that I would rather buy 4 Chipotle burritos with that money. I could buy lunch for FOUR DAYS! Heck, for twenty-five bucks I could pay to get my bike fixed, ride around the reservoir, and still afford 7 slurpees. I could download 20 iTunes songs, visit a state park and rent a paddle boat, or buy chocolate and a David Sedaris book at Borders. At the very least, surely I could hire a maid to come clean a toilet, wipe a window or two, and bribe her with a diet Coke to stay and watch a movie with me to make it appear that I have friends. Sure, the white collar and black dress might give her away, but what about all those other maids who would be like, “You got paid to do WHAT?” And she’d be like, “I know!” and then they would be lining up all the way down the block, which could greatly enhance my image. But that is not the point. The point is, it would only cost me twenty-five bucks.

Instead, the only thing I have to show for it is a Cetaphil sample, a couple of packets of polysporin and a few bandaids. Oh yeah, and a shirt from Costco. $24.99. What’s fair is fair.

For 25 Bucks (Part I)

My boob hurts.

Too much too soon?

Let me back up.

Once upon a time there was a poor, white girl who grew up near the beach. One day when she was innocently rocking her Op bathing suit that faded from black to pink with silhouette palm trees, she forgot that it had been approximately 17 hours since she applied sunscreen. She got blisters, so  her mom applied calamine lotion, but her shoulders were so hot that it cooked the lotion right into her skin, making it look like Barstow in August. She wanted to die, her mom felt bad, and the girl grew up getting cozy with dermatologists who now ask her every time she has to go in if she sustained many sunburns as a child. That’s when she formally introduces herself, “Hi. Most people call me Vern, but you can call me your Next Mortgage Payment if you prefer.”

I’ve had many rogue, cancerous moles removed from my body since that day, but none of the really scary variety. I’m getting pretty skilled at spotting them – a few months ago I saw something forming on my face that looked suspicious, but before making an appointment with the doctor I remembered an ointment that my mom told me about that was rumored to be highly effective and less invasive. I asked my mom for the name of it, searched for it on the internet, and promptly bought a small container of it for $25 online. A week later Cory called home from work, “Uh, honey? I’m just looking at our Visa statement. Did you buy something from…Ecuador?” Yes. Yes I did. It’s not FDA approved, it’s black, and you rub it on your skin to take the cancer away. I put it on my face and within 10 days my issue was gone and healing.

I was so thrilled with this new and easy discovery, that I knew just what to do when another mole appeared on my chest a few weeks later. I rubbed on the ointment, and the immediate burn signaled that I was already attacking the cancerous cells. Victory! Except 10 days later it was still huge, and burning, and gross. So I thought, “Let’s get this over with and apply a second coat.” Here’s how that turned out. Imagine, if you will, that Jack Bauer tried to cut your heart out with a sharp melon baller, then instead of sewing you up he just poured cayenne pepper and lemon juice into the open wound to cauterize it. And then he lit a match and threw it inside and held it shut with his bare hands, just for good measure.

I think it felt something like that. (to be continued…)