The Truth About Life

There’s a commercial that runs rampant in my neck of the woods for a store called Kay Jewelers.  It’s a picturesque scene – husband and wife are staring into each other’s eyes over some filet mignon and chocolate mousse.  Hubby is all shiny in his pressed white shirt under his suit, and the wife is all decked out in her basic black dress that hugs and forgives in all the right places.  Their table is adorned with a simple rose in a vase as the scene behind them glistens in ambient light.  Then, from across the table the husband stretches out his arm and un-cups his hand to reveal a small, velvet box and hands it across to his wife.  He is smiling as if he’s courtside at an NBA game with hot wings in his lap rather than parked at a pricey restaurant with $20 wedge salads.  His wife responds by arching her eyebrows in gross anticipation, then gently takes the box and flips open the top only to reveal some emblem of diamonds.  Either shaped in a heart to signify their undying love, or perhaps in a circular round symbolic of a never-ending commitment to one another, the woman conveys her approval with a knowing look.  He nods proudly at his own move then smiles to himself as if to say, “I am so getting action later.”  Finally, in culmination of this perfect moment they lean across the small table to share a kiss, and then the commercial jingle pipes in, “Every kiss begins with ‘Kay’.” 

It makes me want to strangle a puppy.

And then it makes me want diamonds for my anniversary.  Which is today.

Twenty years, baby.  Or as Rent would say, ten million five-hundred twelve thousand minutes.  It’s been two whole decades since my sister did my hair, I gave myself a manicure with a polish I think they now label, “Grandma’s Powder Room”, and San Diego ordered a downpour that forced our garden reception indoors.  Twenty years is kind of a long time and I dare say I have learned a lot.

I learned that I share an anniversary with Mariah Carey and her ex-husband, Tommy Mottola.  I learned that getting married to further your career is a recipe for a divorce.  I learned that I am better at marriage than Mariah Carey. 

I have learned that New Year’s Eve will always be overrated, and that kissing under bright lights and mayhem at midnight is just as good as kissing under a fluorescent light in the kitchen at 9pm when you’re kissing the right person.

I have learned that not all husbands cry like babies when they see their babies being born.  Sometimes they hold your hand while watching the Masters and rooting for Phil Mickelson, but it’s ok.  Because 16 years later he’s going to take that baby out on a daddy/daughter date and make her feel like a million bucks and she won’t remember that he didn’t cry when she was born.

I’ve learned that jumping off waterfalls, exploring Israel, zip-lining through a grove of aspens and swimming with dolphins can be a lot of fun with your eternal partner.  And I’ve also learned that even though it’s fun it has nothing to do with love. 

No, love is when I was overweight for 10 years and he never EVER mentioned it.  Love is when I broke down crying in the bathroom, overwhelmed at the thought of being a first time parent and he held me and promised me we would figure it out together.  Love is getting in the bed first to warm up my side while I’m taking off my makeup.  Trumping all, I would say that Cory’s greatest gift to me in twenty years of marriage has been loving me when I’m not being lovable.  He’s really brave. 

The truth about life, and in this case the truth about married life, is that the perfect moments are usually messy.  For me, they haven’t been born in bistros over wine and diamonds.  He’s not wearing a tux, I’m not wearing a satin gown, and we’re not standing on top of the Eiffel Tower renewing our vows.  We’re usually at home.  He’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with the sprinklers, I’m trying to figure out how many chocolate chips I can fit in my mouth.  We’re often dealing with homework – he sits patiently aside a child and helps with math.  I make cookies while they study for Finals and teach them about the dangers of emotional eating.  We’re a team!

The truth is, not all kisses begin with Kay.  And even if they did, I’m confident that it wouldn’t be as satisfying as the commercial makes it seem.  Someday they will make a commercial where the wife is sitting on the couch and her husband comes downstairs wearing a fedora and a skull shirt and asks, “What do you think?”  Their 17-year-old daughter scoffs and says, “Wow.  I can’t un-see that.”  We’ll laugh as the husband retorts, “I kinda like it.  I’m wearing it anyway.”  His wife then takes him to a graduation party and jokes about her new boyfriend, Bruno Mars.  I’m not sure what the commercial would be for exactly, but my family would be the stars.  In the meantime, forget the diamonds.  

Just give me 20 more years. 

One Day More

Someone once told me that there is a difference between giving a PRESENT and giving a GIFT.  A present, they said, was something YOU wanted the other person to have whereas a gift was simply something the other person wanted.  I believe this distinction applies in regard to the choice Cory made about what to give me for Christmas last year.  I received three envelopes on our snowy, Christmas morning – one marked “February”, another marked “May”, and the final one was labeled “September”.  Hoping for the best (airfare to a warm beach!) but preparing for the worst (coupons for a date night to watch all of Star Wars on DVD) I lifted the top of February’s envelope and pulled out the folded papers.  I was delighted to find something completely unexpected, as a pair of tickets to Broadway’s Jekyll & Hyde was revealed.  Now, even more curious about May’s envelope I opened that one up and found two passes to the ever popular Les Miserables.  Amazing!  Finally, I landed on September which produced a final set of tickets to the musical rendition of Sister Act.  In a matter of seconds I went from having nothing to do in 2013 to having a year’s worth of musical theater to look forward to.

Present or gift?  I swear on the grave of my grandmother these tickets were positively, absolutely, unequivocally a GIFT.  For starters, aside from a short middle school stint with a trombone Cory’s musical appreciation pretty much started with Van Halen and ended with Guns ‘N’ Roses.  Throw in a little Kenny G we both tolerated on our honeymoon and you’ve got Cory’s musical background.  My next clue:  Early in our relationship when I attempted to explain my love affair with Les Miserables his response was, “The key word there is ‘LAME’.”  And as for that time he was kicked out of the 4^th grade choir – I think he still harbors a little resentment.  In short, musicals are not Cory’s thing in the way that jockeying is not Shaq’s thing.

Jekyll & Hyde in February was rough.  Maybe it was the bone chilling walk from the parking garage to the theater that set a poor tone, or maybe it was because the main character of the show starts out nice until he drinks a potion and then he kills everyone and it ends with him committing suicide that it was kind of a downer, but we didn’t love it. 

In preparation for Les Miserables we bought the movie and I told Cory how important it was that we watch it before we saw the live version so he could follow the story.  I just didn’t think he would do it with Drew while Samantha and I were gone and I couldn’t tell him which parts to fast forward.  Samantha and I arrived home mid-movie; we heard the music as we came in from the garage, turned the corner from down the hall and spotted Drew and Cory sitting on the couch.  Cory paused the show as he saw us appear and yelled, “What’s up with the Anne Hathaway character dying?  Didn’t she get an academy award for that part?  How can she get an award when she’s only in half the movie?” At which point Drew raised his voice, “What?!  This is only half over?!”  Groaning, he threw his head back against the couch and slapped the palm of his hand against his eyes. 

Meanwhile, I put on my pajamas and sat down with them to watch the rest.  I made them rewind “Do You Hear The People Sing” and proclaimed that this was the first time our surround sound had ever been put to good use.  They objected vehemently, something about Lord of the Rings Indiana Jones Harry Potter Crappity Crap and I had to shush them as Jean Valjean dragged Marius through the sewers to try and save his life. 

“Is he dead?”

“If he dies I’m turning it off.”

“Is that poo they’re walking through?”

“Who’s that guy stealing the teeth?”

“How long are those tunnels?”

“Why do they have to sing ALL the lines?”

“SHHHH!!”

Finally, Javert comes face to face with his demons once and for all in the film and as he bellows his struggle in song my tone deaf accountant spoke up once more and said, “Russell Crowe is terrible,” and for the first time in 38 minutes I wanted to kiss my husband on the lips.  I agreed whole heartedly but he didn’t stop there.  “I mean like, Pierce Brosnan in Mama Mia terrible.”  Again, I concurred.  Then, “Who would you rather hear sing, Russell Crowe or Pierce Brosnan?” 

“SHHH!”

When it was finally over Drew appeared violated, Cory looked mortified and while steeping in bewilderment he asked, "Wait, so then who won the war?"  I hung my head in defeat and told him that if he hated it so much I could find someone else to go with me on Friday.

“Wait, what?  Friday?!”  Drew said.  “But that’s when Fast & The Furious 6  is coming out!”  Cory made plans with Drew on Saturday and kept his date with me on Friday.  I rather enjoyed it – I think he would have rather shoved bamboo splinters up his fingernails and soaked them in lime juice, but he got through it.  After all, he had F&F 6 to look forward to the next day.

September’s show should be good; we’re looking forward to it.  As for Christmas in December, I can’t wait to see what he gets me this year.  Except this time it might be best if he got me a present.

Proof I'm Not A Robot

I'm kind of in a bad mood today and we are snowed in, so I find myself stewing about all the things that are irritating me.  It's the kind of day where I'm torn between counting my blessings that we have heat and a roof over our head as the blizzard rages outside or yelling at the refrigerator because it still insists on being a side-by-side.  Cory is currently stranded in Missouri due to flight cancellations on account of the weather, so the only thing sparing us from utter ruin right now are the 6 episodes of Duck Dynasty currently stored on our DVR and a box of girl scout cookies.  Hmm...I'm actually feeling better already.

But before I get too crazy seeing silver linings and stuff I feel compelled to air my grievances about word verifications these days.  Is it just me or are they getting increasingly complicated?  I understand the whole "prove you're not a robot" concept, but proving you're not a robot is one thing; it's quite another to eat a can of Alpha-Bet soup only to poop it out and ask me to decipher the letters.  Is it that critical to prove myself?  'Cuz if it is, I think I have a few other strategies.

Take RoboCop for example.  

I am nothing like him.  For one thing, he has probably seen the movie.  In addition, he was a "HE", and I am a "SHE".  What, you want me to prove I'm a woman?  Fine, once 20 years ago Cory told me I had that "outdoor smell" when I was giving him a hug and I have never forgotten it.  Boom.

Next, R2D2 is probably one of the most well known robots that has influenced many generations.

But guess what?  I AM NOT HIM.  I've never had a flashlight for an eyeball and haven't walked like that since my hysterectomy.  I've also never spoken in bleeps so I can understand if you get R2 confused with Jersey Shore, but not me.  Also, this robot is really popular and I...have a really sweet spirit.  Let's just say nobody has ever tried to turn my physique into a camping chair...  

OR A SLUTTY TANK TOP...

OR A COOKIE JAR.  Although, genius.

It hardly seems  fair to discuss R2D2 without mentioning his indispensable sidekick, C3PO.  

This is a trick example though, because everyone knows C3PO wasn't a robot he was a DROID.  Geez man, don't you know anything?  Proof that I am DEFINITELY not a robot but possibly a droid:

Finally, WALL-E.

Listen, just because people fall asleep while watching me too doesn't mean WALL*E and I share the same DNA.  Obviously, because robots don't have DNA and I do.  *I* DO!  There it is boys and girls, I am not a robot.

Perhaps I should have led with the DNA argument.

Be Mine

Around 10am this morning I noticed the lonely brown paper sack sitting in the fridge.  It was someone’s forgotten lunch, so I texted my daughter to ask if it was hers.  It was.  Her lunch break was only 45 minutes away so she asked if I would drop it off.  I was headed  out anyway so I said, “of course.”  I took it out, folded over the top and stapled it shut.  Catching a glimpse of the pink highlighter nearby I picked it up, popped off the lid and spontaneously filled in a pink heart on the front of the bag above her name.  Several minutes later it was waiting for her at the school’s front office.

I’m familiar with this routine – getting the call, “I forgot my (homework, folder, flute, Xanax, just kidding, Advil, not just kidding, underwear, still not kidding, running shoes etc.)” so I grab the item, jump in the car and make my way to the school.  Sometimes this exasperates me, other times I’m happy to help.  It usually depends on whether I’ve showered yet.  I’ve shown up in various forms of impressiveness/shame at that front office but today was extra special.  I was on my way to help my friend do some painting so I had not showered, was wearing paint stained overalls (overalls!) (with paint ALL over them) (they're going to make a comeback I just know it), had no make up on, and then, because it was cold I threw on a fleece jacket OVER my OVERalls just to help me get that female lumberjack who needs lap band surgery feel.

Rare form guys, RARE FORM.

Later tonight we decided to run through the drive thru at Chick-fil-A before dropping Drew off at basketball practice and on the way home, the girl who forgot her lunch just started talking.  And talking and talking.  She prattled on about school, boys, friends, teachers….  At one point she paused for emphasis before adding, “Mom, I LOVE ENGLISH.  I mean, when have I EVER loved English?”  Her teacher is someone that she adores, who went so far as to cheer for my Samantha when she spotted her after school running drills with the track team today.  I love teachers who root for their kids, especially when “their” kids are mine. 

The car ride monologue eventually transitioned to the kitchen as we arrived home.  I set to work unloading the dishwasher and just listened as Samantha analyzed her high school life and I marveled at her awareness and ability to dissect the psychology of it all.  That girl is paying attention to the world around her – she knows what she wants, and she knows what she doesn’t want.  She gets it when people are being manipulative, and her senses warn her when someone is being inauthentic. 

I’m just listening. 

I squirted some detergent on the dishrag and started to move it in circles around the counter as she talked about some of the decisions she is making and why she’s making them.  This whole time I thought she was just cruising along but no, she’s making conscious choices - freaking awesome conscious choices.  As I stood there and relished this seemingly out of body, glorious moment she suddenly stopped, looked up at the clock and gasped, “Oh!  I have to go!”  I checked the clock also and confirmed, “Yes, you do.  Drive safe, have fun.  I love you!” I called out as she grabbed the keys and headed for the door.  Seconds later the door reopened and she re-emerged from around the corner.  “Can I just give you a hug?” she asked as she came toward me.  “Of course, baby girl,” I answered as she threw her arms around me and told me she loved me.  I kissed her head and reminded her, “You know you never have to ask.”

After hugging her tight I released her from my grip; she started back toward the door and turned around before shutting it behind her and explained, “You know, when I went to pick up my lunch from the office today the security guard saw the heart you drew on the bag.  He commented about it then told me I should go home and give you a hug and I thought to myself, ‘Yep, I definitely should.’  Anyway, ‘bye Mom.”  And with that she was gone.

I stood motionless and stared at the freshly closed door, soaked in the lingering presence of that child who is mine and my eyes began to sting.

I’m so glad she’s mine.

The Cape And Drape

Back when I had all my “parts” I had the luxury of letting my annual violations lapse.  I know we’re supposed to get them every year but I’m also supposed to aerate my lawn every fall, make a vision board and swear off saturated fats.  There are only so many hours in the day people, and the Property Brothers isn’t just going to watch itself.  But then my epic hospital stay happened and I emerged without parts.  I also emerged with the notion that I was heretofore released from all future GYN visits.  Nothin’ to see here folks, go force someone else to sing “Moon River” while staring at the ceiling.  It was the silver lining around everything I had been through.  

Until I needed a refill on my prescription.  A year into my recovery with no apparent side effects from my hormone replacement therapy, I called in my refill to the Pharmacist who called back to tell me I was not eligible for renewal until I had a visit with my doctor.  I couldn’t understand what could be gained from this, seeing as I had nothing left to check.  I imagined the following scenario:

Dr:  Hey Vern, how’s that uterus?

Vern:  Well, see this 8 inch scar?  You put that there when you took it out.

Dr:  Oh, right!  That’s healing up nicely.  I did an awesome job.  

Vern:  Yep.  Hey, how did you spend that $30K?  Nice college fund for the wee lass, I hope.

Dr:  *chuckle* Silly Vern.

Vern:  No really, how’s the new car?

Dr:  She sure is a sweet ride but I’m due for a little extra window tinting.

Vern:  So THAT’S why I’m here!

The point is, now I have to go back every year whether I like it or not because I NEED THOSE PILLS.  Without those pills I could refill all the reservoirs with my night sweats and take down al Qaeda with my mood swings.  So against my will I made my appt. and went last week.  Even after 20 years this experience still sucks, but I like how they try to ease you in gently by telling you to first step on the scale and then go pee in a cup.  I want to say, “I thought this was the doctor’s office, not a sorority hazing ritual.”  While we’re on the topic, could someone please explain to me how we are able to grow babies in a Petri dish but we haven’t figured out a better system for collecting urine samples?  Like that little basket of wet wipes next to the Dixie cups is supposed to make me feel any better.  All that does is make me pine for BBQ ribs and fried chicken.  First I’m demoralized, then I’m inconvenienced, and now I’m STARVING.  

The nurse escorts me to the exam room where she casually tells me to undress and then gestures to the pink tissue paper on the table and adds, “And there’s your cape and drape, pink for the top and white for the bottom.”  Her tone is so deceitful, like a Nazi saying, “Oh here, go on into this lovely SHOWER!  You’ve worked so hard today, go relax and get nice and clean.”  It's a conspiracy, I tell you.  And now I'm to the part where I wonder, just how much time do I have before the good Doctor knocks on the door and comes in?  I have this fear that one day I won’t change my clothes fast enough and he’ll walk in on me, and I’ll be standing there in all my glory and 7^th grade PE will all come rushing back to me.  Then again, what am I hiding?  I’m wearing half a tablecloth with armholes the size of manhole covers forcryingoutloud.   

Having said all that, I’m really looking forward to getting that postcard in the mail telling me that my tests came out normal.  I can say, “No Duh,” my doctor gets his tinted windows, and the world gets the version of me that doesn’t require a pickaxe to relieve stress.

Everybody wins.

'88 = Not That Great

Are you gonna make me say it?  Alright, I hated high school.  I don't expect you to care, I just expect you to listen to me talk about it ad nauseam.  Apparently.  To sum up, I guess I grew up thinking I was special and the only thing middle/high school taught me was that I was, in fact, invisible.  Blah blah blah, crocodile tears, puppies die, cheese goes bad, and Channing Tatum won't always look like that.  I spent over a decade of my life living happily before high school and 25 blissful years since its anticlimactic finish, so what I can't figure out is why on earth these people are so excited about the prospect of getting back together to reminisce over "old" times; as if a half rate buffet at the Radisson is the ideal spot for that.  (Gee Vern, bitter much?)  Hey, you would be bitter too if you waited for four years to get acknowledged in the yearbook and this was the picture that made the cut:

Nerds' Wives Rule Too. - OR - Nerds' Wives Rule Too!

I don't know if you know this, but selling off hundreds of cards to pay for a family vacation is a lot of work.  Sure, Cory gets major kudos for being willing to part with his beloved collection, but I should also get points for doing the ground work.  In essence, I am turning into the ebay master.  The Ebay Master!  (Do you see the difference there?  First I said I was the ebay master.  Period.  Then I said I was the Ebay Master!  Exclamation point.  Doesn't the 2nd one sound better?  Like we're ALL having fun now.  You'll see in paragraph 3 how this is relevant.)  I have my own cubicle and everything.  I'm waiting for my cape, but in the meantime I'm making do with sweats and fuzzy slippers.  Just you watch, it will be all the rage at Halloween.

We've narrowed it down to a routine - Cory researches the value of the card, then I list it, keep tabs on the auction, and ship it to the highest bidder.  See how I just made it sound like Cory does one thing and I do three?  Don't be deceived, because you may recall that he is a CPA so when I say that he, "researches the value of the card" it means that he looks up the reseller purchase price, compares it to the market value, calculates the difference and formulates it all into a spreadsheet.  This, he can do.  It's Valentine's Day that he struggles with.  Speaking of Valentine's Day I gave Cory his gift a little early last week when I commented on one of the auctions.  "Did you see that Nether Void is up to $84?" I asked him when he walked in the door.  Then, shocked by my own words I steadied myself, looked up at him and said, "Have you ever been more attracted to me?"  I imagine it would be similar to Cory nudging me awake after a nap and saying, "Would you like some chocolate molten lava cake with vanilla bean gelato and caramel sauce?" followed by, "Are you always this pretty?"  This is why imagination is so important, kids.  

Nevertheless, I will admit there was a bit of an adjustment period because I am using Cory's already established ebay account, so I'm kind of trying to pretend I'm him.  Not only that, but I have to pretend that I speak this other language that includes words like "Tolarian Academy", "Earthcraft" and "Mox Opal" (just to name a few).  I'm trying to sound legit but let's be real here people, I am a stay at home mom who watches excess amounts of HGTV, appreciates the comeback of the color gray and understands that to love Pinterest is to love burlap.  I don't know how to communicate with boys who don't capitalize their sentences or use punctuation.  After a few encounters I asked Cory his opinion while responding to a query.  I wanted to sound friendly and accommodating, so I answered this guy's question and ended it with an exclamation point.  "Does this sound like something you would say?" Cory peered over my shoulder as I sat at the computer and the following conversation ensued.

"What's with the exclamation point?"
"It's supposed to make me seem nice."
"You're making me sound like a GIRL."
"So you just want me to end it with a period?  That seems so...cold."
[Cory shakes his head.] 
"I mean, really," I defended.  "This is a good card!  He should be excited about it!"
"You're lame."
Ok fine, Cory didn't say I was lame.  Not with his words anyway, but his body language was screaming, "You are a lame spice, lame nugget, lame-a-licious lamehead." 

Robots Periods it is.

Nerds Rule

I was born the 5th of seven children, so when I hopped in a car and left my home of 18 years to go to college my mom was like, "Peace out" and waved at me from the driveway until we were out of sight.  I pretty much love(d) that about my mom, because it allowed me to move forward and go live my life without feeling guilt that it was somehow causing her unhappiness.  How could it?  She was probably too busy throwing a party that the last of the estrogen producing spawn had left the building.  Besides, she had a retaining wall to build and whole wheat chocolate chip cookie bars to make.

I would like to say I learned from her, but I would also like to say I can do a pull-up.  You can't have everything.   And this is where it gets touchy, because I only have two children and one daughter; one daughter who just wrapped up 1st semester finals of her junior year in high school which means she only has a little over a year in this house and it is only causing me shortness of breath and "HOLY CRAP WE'VE NEVER TAKEN HER TO THE GRAND CANYON!" moments about 7 times a day.  It's not like I haven't known this, it's just that it's practically HERE!  I've got about 16 months to have her read Reviving Ophelia, get her those self defense classes, teach her how to budget and show her how to identify irregular moles and that's all before I've even attempted to teach her the art of a good buttercream.  That's a lot of pressure.

The other day I was thinking I would like to do some type of major family trip before she leaves our nest, so I started to casually browse the internet for possibilities.  As I narrowed down what I wanted to do, I looked at all my options - Fall Break in October, Winter Break in December, Spring Break of next year - none of them worked out.  I spent two weeks searching what to do and suddenly realized that if we were going to be able to make this happen it would have to be this summer.  This summer!  It wasn't as much time as I had hoped to have in order to save money so we could, you know, pay for it and stuff.

That's where Cory comes in because as I've mentioned before, Cory kinda has a unique hobby.  It's the kind of thing where he can sell off some of his stuff and make a profit (not that kind of stuff!) except this time, instead of using it to pay for a set of golf clubs he's willing to part with enough of his cards that we should be able to pay for the whole trip.  I gotta hand it to him, I've never had a hobby this lucrative.  I mean, I'm sure that the hundreds of dollars of unused scrapbooking crap in my basement is someone's treasure.  I don't know who that someone is but I bet they have a cow themed kitchen and still think gingham is all the rage.  In the meantime, Cory is the winner.  The one stipulation is that we can't tease him anymore and from now on we will have to refer to this summer extravaganza as The Trip That Magic Bought.  It seems kinda hard right now but as soon as I'm sitting on a beach drinking a pina colada and watching the kids frolic in the waves, it will slide right off my tongue.  The Trip That Magic Bought.

Nerds Rule.

If It Wasn't For 2012

It's a good thing that I established low expectations for New Year's Eve a long time ago.  I could try and make it sound like Cory and I are really fun by telling you we're going dancing tonight, and it wouldn't be a complete lie, but the truth is we get to have to chaperone a teenage dance.  If I was a good person I might find some sort of positive spin to put on this, but the way I see it I'm like the guy at the Carnival who has to clean the port-a-potties; you're not really there to have fun, you just have to make sure everyone else is taken care of.  Having said that, I think if I play my cards right I still might end up taking a hot guy home with me.

Say what you will about 2012, some of you might have wished the end of the world to happen as predicted by some on May 21st.  And then October 21st.  No wait, DECEMBER 21st.  As for me, there were a few days I wouldn't like to repeat but for the most part, I will shut the door on 2012 without slamming it and saying, "I HATE YOU!" and stomping away to my room.  After all, if it wasn't for 2012 I never would have seen my daughter turn 16 and start driving and dating.  I never would have seen my son grow 7 inches and win his first basketball game in 3 years.  (Seven inches!  THREE.  YEARS.)  They are the reason I don't have a career making four figures.

If it wasn't for 2012 I never would have learned about Smashburger, seen my brother on National Television, or run into an Anime Convention with Cory on our date night:

If it wasn't for 2012 I never would have gone to Vail and ziplining with my friends:

I wouldn't have seen two nephews get married, danced Gangnam Style in my brother's backyard dance floor or learned these important tips at the Salt Lake City Airport:

I never would have discovered A&E's Duck Dynasty.  This thought actually causes me to panic and have shortness of breath.

If it wasn't for 2012 I wouldn't have been in the middle of nowhere for Thanksgiving when Cory was awakened with a pain that seemed to be competing for a "How Do You Like Me NOW?" award and had to drive him to a hospital an hour away to get him help.  The doctor wouldn't have given him morphine, and he wouldn't have passed a kidney stone, and he wouldn't have been advised not to show it off to me.  (On a pain scale, the kidney stone is often compared to a woman giving birth.  It's not much to look at, and hard to believe such a small thing caused such immense pain, but I will say this - ever since it joined our family it has never asked to borrow money or left its shoes in the hallway.)  Oh, and Cory never would have caught this fish.

If not for 2012 Cory never would have bought a new car only to hit a deer three weeks later, and I never would have walked into my bathroom to discover my shower shattered to bits.

I never would have discovered this sidewalk sign,

or been able to write these notes to my kids' school when they were late.  (Yes, yes I did.)  October 19th was a rough day.

Most importantly, I wouldn't have been able to spend another 365 days with these people. 
  

 Happy 2013 everyone!  May your kidneys be free from stones, your roadways void of wildlife, your sidewalks lined with bacon, and may the magic of Duck Dynasty fill your homes with joy in the coming year.   

xoxo - the Vern Family

I Can't Even Roll My R's

One of the concepts I've been taught throughout my life is if you want to exercise your faith, even if you don’t feel like you HAVE faith, you can simply start by WANTING to have faith.  Then, letting that desire work in you will eventually lead you to where you want to be.  That’s kinda how I feel about blogging right now.  I don’t feel like I have it in me to do it, but I WANT to do it.  So here I sit, trying to let that desire work in me to see if I can come up with anything to write.  My fingers feel rusty, my brain feels devoid of wit, wisdom, charm, or anything else that would invite you to sit and stay a while. 

Did you catch that joke I just made?  I just wrote that my brain was devoid of “charm” as if they were once well acquainted.  Charm is a word I guarantee will never appear on my epitaph.  The day I wax charming is the day Prince William passes gas at family dinner.  I don’t know why but I always think of the Royal Family when it comes to gas.  Did you know that the average person passes gas at least 14 times a day?  That’s a lot you guys, and while the Royal Family is anything but average they are still human.  So maybe for them it’s just 7 times a day.  Still.  Where do they go?  What do they do?  Are there aides who pack travel size Febreze in their pockets JUSTINCASE?  This is what I think about at night when I can’t sleep.  HOW DOES THE QUEEN LET ONE?!

Did you see how quickly I transitioned from “charming” to “royal (gas) pains?”  It’s a gift, people.  Moving on.  (How do you think this is going so far?)

Here’s something else.  A few months ago I was asked to accept a new responsibility in my church community and because I am so nice need something to counteract all the times I drop minor cuss words, I said “yes”.  If you speak Mormon I am a counselor in the Stake YW.  If you don’t speak Mormon it means I go to a lot of meetings, nod my head in support when the teenagers suggest pumpkin bowling for an activity, and periodically raise my hand to say, “How about instead of taking 500 youth to Wyoming to reenact the Pioneer trek to Salt Lake City we just make some foil dinners and watch Brokeback Mountain?  Wasn’t that a nice family western?”  I’m a very integral part of the process.

As part of this job I’m also responsible for occasionally speaking to other congregations.  Recently, for example, I had an assignment to speak in a Spanish Ward.  In other words, no speaky the English during their meeting.  In cases like this they would normally provide a translator for guest speakers such as myself.  That didn’t appeal to me, because it seemed like that would be too distracting for everyone involved.  So, I thought (first mistake), “Hey, I took Spanish in college twenty years ago, I’ll just speak in SPANISH!”

Here was the problem with that.  Nowhere in my talk did I need to tell them I was going to the library (la biblioteca!), or that I needed to buy some lettuce (lechuga!) and milk, or that the bathroom was “over there” (¡El baño está allá!).  And despite the fact that I know a good empanada, make Mexican hot chocolate all the time and have seen all 4 seasons of Ugly Betty, I realized that I was not, in fact, qualified to speak for 20 minutes about Jesus in Spanish. 

ENTER:  My nephew’s new, cute wife.  We had just come home from celebrating their wedding nuptials in Utah – she had just received permission to leave her native Mexico for America to marry my nephew.  She didn’t speak English, but she DID speak Spanish and my nephew spoke both.  They rescued me using their gifts of translation, and I delivered my talk as planned in Spanish.  For all I know I announced that I was pregnant and told them all they were going to @#!*% if they didn’t start worshiping false idols but I haven’t heard.  It’s probably best.

Well, this was fun.  Was it good for you too?  If not, try WANTING it to be good.  You gotta start somewhere.

Off The Wagon

Sometimes after a hard day, even a good Mormon girl could use a nice, tall pint.  Hello lover:

What?  It was a small spoon, I had to improvise.

MSNB...SEE?!

One of my gifts is that I can read people's minds.  People's minds that I've never even met before, and that's how I know you're thinking, "If I could just figure out a way to make this election last a little longer we might actually make it to see the demise of those Suite Life twins...."  Enjoy the journey folks, 'cuz we have two more excruciating weeks to go.  But wait!  Don't go yet, this isn't a political post.  This post is actually about Shrek, and news anchors, and women in real life who look like men in animated life.  Intriguing, yes?

As Cory and I sat and listened to the final Presidential Debate last night, the first thing I wanted to do was wash it all down with some brownies.  Because let's face it, nothing goes better with Syria, Iran and gas prices like a 9x13 pan of chocolate.  But then I remembered my promise to Samantha - I told her I would spend this week before her State Cross Country Competition not eating sugar with her so she could be nice and purged of impurities before she attempts to run 3.1 miles faster than I can walk to the mailbox.  And since I couldn't wash down my emotions and frustrations with a Ghiradelli mix from Costco I was forced to use other coping skills, like laughing at others' expense.  That's how it happened, as Cory and I flipped around to different channels to watch the After The Debate critiques (kind of like "After The Final Rose" episodes of The Bachelor where the happy couple reunites only to break up 3 weeks later) and we saw this woman interviewing various camps for their opinions.  Cory looked at her and said, "Is it just me or does she look like Prince Charming from Shrek?"  I immediately began to chuckle because you guys, it wasn't just him.

I give you EXHIBIT A:

Better With Age

There we were, sitting across from each other in a booth at Chipotle trying to quickly chow down some lunch as we hurried to Samantha's Cross Country meet.  Cory was dousing his burrito with hot sauce and I was inhaling my diet Coke, rambling on about some inconsequential information for sure.  Suddenly I realized that Cory had paused and was now staring at me so I looked up, met his gaze and said, "What?"  He just smiled at me and responded, "You know, I think you get prettier the older you get." 

(....)

I kept waiting for him to follow it up with something bad like, "Did you hear that Netflix is going out of business?" or, "I saw on the news that Pottery Barn has been acquired by JCPenney."  But nope - he just went back to eating his burrito.  And just like that he made up for all the times he has farted on me in his sleep.

Cory's declaration, however, was a bit of a revelation because I was like, "WAIT.  I thought I peaked in the 1st grade."

Actually, no.  It was 7th grade, the year my brother's friend sat down next to me at my nephew's baby blessing and introduced himself by asking, "Sooo...are you Mitch's little brother?"

Or maybe I was getting that confused with the golden years in high school when my self esteem really began to take shape:

Then again, there was that time I dressed up as a rap star for a Primary activity:

 (it's a scan of scan folks, deal with it)

But Jill looked way worse than I did, so at least I had that going for me.  Not that dressing like a Jamaican at a political rally doesn't have its place:

Certainly, we can't overlook how stunning I can be when someone takes a picture of me yelling at them in the dark:

I think when Cory told me I was getting prettier all the time he was forgetting that my friends and I had this photo taken at Wal Mart once:  (can you spot me?)

 (Teeth - courtesy of the $1 section.  Wigs - courtesy of our costume stash.  Boas - well, Wal Mart provided those.)

Or perhaps he was reflecting on this doozie taken after Drew was born and he wanted to express how far I've come.  You guys, I don't even know what to say about this except "you're welcome", "I'm sorry", and "this hurts me more than it hurts you."

Things That Make Me Uncomfortable

1.  The words “fluids” and “shmear”

2.  Men shopping in Victoria’s Secret.  Seriously, what are you doing here?  When I am being fitted for a bra I should not be able to hear a man’s voice within at least 11 miles.  Are you there by yourself?  CREEPER.  Are you there with your wife?  Ew.  Are you there with your girlfriend?  Come on, there’s a Sports Authority across the street go make yourself useful.  

3.  Being fitted for a bra.  Strangely, not as violating as the airport security pat down but still.  Having a stranger come in my dressing room to check out my girls in the mirror is about as natural to me as asking my Gynecologist to gently scratch my back.  

4.  In my defense, I was enjoying the brilliant evening air during one of our last 80 degree days before the Fall weather rolls in.  And while it did make me uncomfortable it turns out that gnats do not actually taste that bad.

5.  Glancing out my bedroom window and seeing that my husband and son who were supposed to be long gone to play Basketball were pulled over just down the street, walking slow laps around the car.  It was dark so I couldn’t see what was happening – I threw on some sweats and headed out the back door to find out if my boys were ok.  Halfway down the stretch I spotted the injured deer in the middle of the road.  After that I spotted the injured bumper of our brand new 3 month old vehicle that is so important to Cory that he almost ordered it a birth certificate.  We are all a little sick about it, but at least the deer limped off in one piece.

6.  Pictures of women and their bare pregnant bellies.  And cupping your hands in the shape of a heart over it doesn't make it any less weird.  In fact, MORE weird.

7.  When my kids asked, "So Mom, what's been one of your lowest parenting moments?"

8.  Stores that charge $50 for a burlap throw pillow.  First of all, scratchy.  Second of all, $2.99/yd at a fabric store.  Which means some shmuck out there is making BANK for stamping the Eiffel Tower on your home decor.  Hey, I wonder where I can get an Eiffel Tower stamp?

9.  When I'm running and I say to myself, "I have to go to the bathroom" and myself answers, "you're 2 miles from home or 5 inches from that bush...."

10.    People who are too nice.  They're hiding something. Like the lady filling my tacos at Chipotle yesterday - calling me "Dear" the first time was fine, but by the 5th "Sure thing dear" I was all, "ARE YOU POISONING MY SALSA?"

Top 10 Things You Shouldn't Say To A Depressed Person

      10.  “You’re going to need more flaxseed.”

9.  “No ma’am, I didn’t stack 7 invisible bricks on the scale before you got on.”

8.  “Season 3 of Downton Abbey doesn’t start until January.”

7.  “Do you usually wear tie dye to Wal Mart or is this a special occasion?”

6.  “You should try these soy based potato chips. If you swallow really fast you can hardly tell that they are cardboard’s distant cousin.”

5.  “Sorry lady but you’ve got the wrong DMV.”

4.  “When I say ‘try again tomorrow’ what I really mean is ‘that’s my day off’.”

3.  “We’re all out of chocolate chips.”

2.  “If I squint really hard and turn off the lights I can’t even tell that your age spots mimic the galaxy.”

1.  “Hey, wanna watch Sophie’s Choice again?”

I’ll See Your Mole Removal And Raise You A Bladder Infection And 6 Trips to the DMV

At first I stopped blogging because I was having too much fun. Now I’m not blogging because I’m not having any fun at all. Which would you NOT like to hear about first? I’ve made several attempts to sit down and break my non-blogging streak but I haven’t been able to muster anything that rings true to my normal tone here, so I kept walking away from the computer. At this point, however, I’ve decided that even though I’m not capable of posting something pretty and all wrapped up in a bow, perhaps there is value for someone out there to hear my truth. And the truth is I have spent the better part of the last few months having a fabulous time with my family, both immediate and extended. I’m very blessed that way and I don’t take it for granted. But the other half of that truth is that I have spent the better part of the last three weeks alone in my home on the perpetual verge of tears, staring at blank walls and willing them to speak just to break the silence. If silence was deafening, I could mentor Helen Keller.

 

I think I’m depressed. There, I said it. I don’t like it, but I also don’t like election years and that doesn’t seem to be going away either. While I’m at it, I don’t like doctors cutting out my cancerous moles (I had 2), bladder infections (I had 1) or botched trips to the DMV (I had 6. As in, more than 5, less than 7, SIX. The 5^th time they turned me away I may have yelled to those congregated near the door as I left, “It’s Hell, this place. HELL!” And I pushed my way out the door like I really meant it. Which I did.).

 

Depression is very confusing. For me, much of it gets lost in all the possibilities of what “could” help.

I could get a job.

I could volunteer more.

I could serve other people instead of wallowing in self pity.

I could write more.

I could orchestrate unforgettable meals.

I could make stuff. Yummy stuff. Cute stuff.

I could organize photos! Write my family history! Clean my basement! Alphabetize my spices! Crawl naked over broken glass!

 

And I guess I could. But all the “could’s” in the world don’t appear to help, they only remind me that I’m doing it wrong. It’s confusing to know how fortunate I am (and I really do know) and still feel like I could burst into tears at any given moment, like a birthday card that opens up to say “With Deepest Sympathy”. It doesn’t make any sense, so it must be my fault, right? Probably not. Maybe? I guess that’s what I mean – confusing. How can one feel like grey stucco on a rainy day when the sun is shining, there’s enough money to pay the bills and all around you are people who want to make it better? I don’t know.

 

I’ll tell you what I do know; lighting candles and taking a hot bath while listening to French jazz music was a terrible idea. It did, however, instill a sudden urge to wear a beret, eat croissants and take up oil painting so it wasn’t a total loss. To be clear, I’m still talking about depression and not date night. For reals people, this is SERIOUS.

 

Complicating matters are the people that love you and want to help. It doesn’t sound like that should complicate things, and I’m not ungrateful for the support. But it’s difficult to talk to loved ones about a topic that is so tired, especially when there’s nothing they can do about it. It would almost be easier if I were shot, as that path of action is clear – get me to the ER, find a doctor that looks like Patrick Dempsey and save my life. There are no Patrick Dempsey’s in depression, only boxes of Zoloft, hopeful bottles of Vitamin D and loved ones shrugging their shoulders, waiting for the fun version of you to emerge again. (And for the record, my life doesn’t need to be saved. I’m okay, just not quite right.)

 

I know it will get better – experience has shown me I will find my footing and look back on this moment and feel like it happened to someone else; I’ll feel silly for even bringing it up. In no time I’ll be gleaning life lessons from Phineas & Ferb and waxing poetic about Hugh Jackman’s upcoming performance in Les Miserables on the big screen. But for now…

…it’s not pretty.

It’s not wrapped in a bow.

That’s just the truth.