The Everyday People's Entertainment Guide

A little over 10 years ago I was lying in bed with flu-like symptoms, sleeping in on a Saturday morning when the phone rang. Cory picked it up, and when the voice on the other end introduced himself I saw Cory sit up a little straighter signifying an interest in paying closer attention. I listened to Cory’s side of the conversation half-heartedly, curious about the cause of his sudden good posture but not feeling well enough to decipher it. After all, “uh-huh…okay…that sounds great…” didn’t offer very concrete clues. I waited until he hung up for the explanation.

He didn’t have to say much.

“That was Reggie McDaniel,” he said. And then I understood.

If you are a Denverite you may have heard Mr. McDaniel, a.k.a. “The Everyday People’s Entertainment Guide” give his critiques on movies as well as restaurants during his career on the news and radio here in Colorado’s capital. He even conducted an interview with my brother back in 2001 to help promote his movie and gave it rave reviews (as he should have!). One afternoon while driving in the car, we were listening to Reggie regale his listeners with succulent details about a recent restaurant visit when Cory said, “Someday I would love to go out to eat with Reggie McDaniel. Don’t you think that would be fun?” Yes I did. Cory’s birthday was coming up, so I wrote Reggie a letter, told him what my husband had said, and made my request. Reggie called the day after he received my letter to surprise my husband and invited our whole family to lunch. Sweet!

Over our meal he explained why he fulfilled our request. “I get a lot of people telling me that they want to go out to eat with me, but yours is the first letter I’ve ever received making a request for someone ELSE that they cared about.” He predicted that our relationship would last, (incidentally, I do too.  Not because I scored him lunch with a food critic, but because he gives good, good love) which I found endearing. We had a great time that day, and I have loved listening to his reviews, movies, restaurants or otherwise for all the years we’ve lived here. Reggie passed away this morning - now I’m not sure who to trust to tell me if Angelina Jolie turns a good performance or if the Rainbow Asian Grill serves up tasty frog legs. One thing I do know? Nobody rocked a purple suit with more flair, and he will be greatly missed.

Check Out My Sexy Legs

First of all, I kind of feel sorry for you right now because if this post is intriguing to you based on its title, you are about to be disappointed.  Also, if you believed for a second that I might be posting a picture of my legs you obviously don't know me.  If you did, you would know that "sexy" and "legs" are never used together in a sentence to describe me.  "Crazy" and "chick", however?  Happens all the time.  Instead, today's post is about my recent DIY project. 

In short, I wanted some large, pillar candle holders but I didn't want to spend 3 therapy sessions worth of money to do so.  A few days ago I was at Kohl's where they had pillar holders on clearance, but even on sale it would have cost me about $140 for three of them.  Booooo...Hissss....  Plus, I think I have already paid for the CEO of Kohl's to send all of his kids to college.  So then I remembered my obsession with this website, and I read a post a while back that gave me a brilliant idea.  Now instead of giving up therapy and sending more kids to college that aren't mine, I found a way to display big candles in style without breaking the bank.  Here's what you'll need to do. 

FIRST - Go to your nearest home improvement store and look in the lumber section for table legs.  (Not to be confused with "turkey" legs.  This is not the Renaissance Festival or Thanksgiving at your Grandma's.  Home improvement people.  HOME IMPROVEMENT.)  Here are the three that I picked out:

SECOND:  Turn them over.

See?  Things are taking shape already.  The biggest one cost me $19.98, the medium was $12.98, and the smallest was $9.98.

THIRD:  I bought these toppers at Michael's for 59 cents.

Glue them to the tops (technically bottoms) of your legs and let dry completely. 

FOURTH:  I broke out some stain that I had leftover from a previous project, and applied it to the legs.

FIFTH:  I sprayed a layer of clear spray paint (again, leftover from a previous project), and topped with cheap candles from Wal Mart.  Here is the finished product:

Not bad, eh?  I think they are awesome.  Here's the cost breakdown:

Legs:  $43

Toppers:  $2

Candles:  $5

Stain:  FREE

Spray paint:  FREE

GRAND TOTAL:  $48

Not to mention that my total time invested was less than 2 hours.  Except now that I mentioned that, I suppose I can't really say "not to mention".  'Cuz I just did.  Why do we say that?  Oh well, not the point.  The point is, AREN'T THESE AWESOME?!

Tasty Tidbit From Dix - 2009 Installment

This little gem from my Dad arrived in my email inbox sometime around last Christmas.  It's pretty self explanatory:

We received a delicious, dark brown, homemade, Panamanian Fruitcake from Lynn's visiting teacher who, as you may have guessed, is Panamanian. It was sitting on our pink, black, and white granite counter top where we sampled it each day a little at a time in order to minimize guilt, extend our tasting pleasure, and not overdue fruitcake intake.

The other day I stopped by, sampled a generous bite, made appropriate noises and noted that my tongue tingled at this tasty tidbit. Had I just not noticed that before? About an hour later Lynn mentioned that she discovered the remains of the fruitcake was covered with ants!!

Lessons learned:
1) Our countertop is excellent camouflage for ants.
2) Eating ants makes your tongue tingle.
3) Ants seemingly have no uncles but like fruitcake.

I'm OK but I just want to walk fast, high five everybody I see, and crawl into cracks! ~ Dad

I don't know what else to say.

Tidbits From Dix - 2010 Installment

One of the things I love about my mom is that she is savvy and she keeps up with the times.  She's not the kind who shrinks from a challenge, but rather hikes up her big girl panties, squares her shoulders and says, "I pity the fool."  Not really.  It's my DAD who says, "I pity the fool", but only when watching The A Team reruns.  (You probably think I'm kidding.) ((I'm not.))  Another thing I love about my mom is that she entered my ugly photo contest, but only on the condition that I would post a good picture of her after she won.  Bad news:  Sorry, Mom. You weren't the ugliest.  Good news:  MOM!  YOU WEREN'T THE UGLIEST!  It seems only fair that I would post a good picture of her anyway, you know, to keep myself in the will and everything.  Check it:

Don't let the corsage fool you - this lady is one cool chick.  It's my mother who keeps us all apprised of family happenings by sending multiple emails a week, sustaining a blog, and maintaining her facebook account.  Just last week I discovered an old boyfriend of my sister's on facebook, so natually I had to call her and tell her to look him up - which she did, and then called me back moments later to say, "Okay, so MOM is on his friend's list!"  Classic.

My dad's name is Dix and he, on the other hand, avoids most computer related tasks.  When my parents start their day my mom goes in the office to check email while my Dad makes breakfast.  They have a system.  It's called, "Holy crap, now that we're retired you are always here.  And I am always here.  And once upon a time we promised eternity to each other, and at the time I don't think either one of us realized how long that was, so if we're going to keep that promise you should probably start making me breakfast."  I know this because Cory has Fridays off, and at first he was like, "So...what's for lunch?"  And I was like, "Who are you?  And what have you done with that guy who leaves for the day?"  Anyway.  The point is we don't "hear" as much from my Dad.  But every once in a while he chimes in to the family email fray and writes something that cracks me up.  For example, my mom recently shot us a message to update us on the cost to replace my Dad's pacemaker (over 50K, in case you were wondering).  A few of us have responded back and forth but I woke up this morning to my Dad's annual email contribution regarding the case of the pacemaker:

I went online and found I could have had the same surgery in India for $5400 and they guaranteed world class quality of the pacemaker...and as a matter of fact...if I buy one today they will send me two for the price of one and include a vegetable chopper and two Shamwows FREE. (I'm holding out to see if they will throw in the boiled egg slicer.) ~Dad

I've already put in my bid for the extra Shamwow.  Stay tuned - the 2009 installment is coming shortly.

How To Lose A Gut In 10 Days

I got a call a few days ago from someone heading in for the same procedure I endured back in October. She had one question: “Do you have any advice?” I stammered for a moment because I realized that I hadn’t thought about it in quite some time. It’s been a good 5 or 6 months since the effects of my abdominal hysterectomy have been keenly felt and I had to think hard about what I should tell her. Mostly I just kept stammering, but now that I’ve had some time to reflect, I’ve decided to share my pearls of wisdom with the lot of you. Here goes.

* When people ask what surgery you had, be sure to specify “abdominal hysterectomy” and not just “hysterectomy”. They need to know you were sliced open, that you would rather crawl naked over broken glass than try to get up and walk, and that you are deathly afraid of sneezing.

* When I say, “just a hysterectomy” I mean no disrespect. Regular hysterectomies are people too, but abdominal ones are harder. Kind of like I’m sure it was hard for Sandra Bullock to play Leigh Anne Tuohy in The Blind Side, but I bet it’s even harder to be in your 30’s and still known best for your role in Punky Brewster.

* Percocet causes constipation. Take it anyway.

* Metamucil tastes like someone used a PedEgg on their heel, dumped their shavings into your drink and flavored it with a Vitamin C. Drink it anyway.

* Memorize this chant for your hospital stay: “This happens all the time, they’ve seen this before. This happens all the time, they’ve seen this before.” Repeat silently in your head for 4 days.

* When you find yourself back in the ER in the middle of the night due to complications, and the nurse is patting your knee, trying to comfort you while the doctor prepares to treat you and says, “Of all the ER doctors to be here right now, you got the best one to do this – he’s done this at least 9 times,” it’s okay if that doesn’t make you feel better.

* Get my Dad to make you guacamole and my mom to find you the best tapioca pudding.

* One day, when you least expect it, someone will ask you how you’re doing and you’ll be like, “What are you talking about?” and they’ll say, “Remember that one time? When a guy put a mask over your face, told you to count backward from 10, and by the time you got to 9 you were knocked out cold like Lindsay Lohan on a Friday night and then woke up with 18 staples in your stomach and hot flashes?” and you’ll be all, “Riiiiight.”

That’s all folks. I hope you took good notes, because they won’t give you this info during your consult.

Pick Up A Phone, Save A Gnome

While watching the news the other night I happened upon this story, and thought I would wet my pants. I recorded it just for your viewing enjoyment (hence the poor quality). It's not as good as "Wiener Poopie", but it's right up there.

Having Been Born Of Goodly Parents...?

Last Sunday one of my co-conspirators paid me a lovely compliment. She said I was, “such a good mother”. It was very sweet and I knew she meant it, but I also knew she wasn’t there for the debacle of ’04 (or ’05, ’06, or ’07). I knew she wasn’t there the day my toilet was flooding all over my BRAND NEW hardwood floors and I said a bad word, and then I said it over and over again as I sloshed through the river heading from my bathroom to my basement to shut off the water, and then my 2 year-old repeated The Bad Word from the top of the stairs as she stared down at my frazzled form. She wasn’t there when I told a whining 4-year-old to “Shut. Up.” and then the next day lectured to him about how “We don’t say ‘shut up’.” And she wasn’t there when we invented The Soda Game.

A couple of years ago we had a coveted bottle of soda in our refrigerator. Not your average can of sugary beverage, this was the kind you paid more for, that only came in boxes of 4 and not 12. Everyone loved it, and so everyone wanted that last bottle. Cory decided we would share it…through games of chance. He got out a small glass and some dice, poured a conservative portion of the drink into the cup and explained, “Whoever rolls the highest number gets what’s in the cup.” The winner of that round would decide the rules for the next round until we finished the bottle. Thus, The Soda Game was born. Now, we each have our own shot glasses and our repertoire has evolved from dice to other games as well. It wasn’t until shortly after that first night that it occurred to me, “Holy crap. We just taught our kids how to live in a frat house.” We’re hoping they go to a church school and stick with soda.

We played this game the other night with a 6 pack of Jones pure cane (I highly recommend the Crème Soda and the Berry Lemonade) but we had one lone, remaining bottle of Green Apple on the door. Drew had some friends over and they all wanted some, so Drew piped up, “Hey! Let’s play the soda game!” To which his friends inquired, “What’s the soda game?” Drew went over to the cupboard and reached for the high shelf, “Well to start off, you’re each going to need your own shot glass.”

Have mercy. The only Mormon kid on the block is teaching drinking games he learned FROM HIS PARENTS. Stay tuned next week when I reveal our family picture on the cover of The Ensign.

A Nice Day For A White Wedding

I love looking at wedding pictures. It doesn’t matter whose they are, unless they are not people then I’m definitely not interested. You know what else? I don’t think people getting married who are not people are interested either.  Take these two for example:

Have I mentioned that I can read animals’ minds?  I bet you didn’t know that about me - I try to keep that kind of information on the down low because I don’t want to freak people out. It’s enough that I bake bread, go to church for three hours on Sunday and tell my kids that we shouldn’t say “freakin’”. And then I turn around and say dammit. Seriously though, I know what these cats are thinking. The one on the left: “I don’t even like Harry Potter OR Charlie Chaplin.” The one on the right just found out that her betrothed requested “Stray Cat Strut” for their first dance. Looks like someone just had their first cat fight.

 
These two are quite a lovely pair.  This is a special case because not only can I read their minds, but I can ascertain their life history.  The boy dog:  Never had much luck with women.  Passed dog school by a thin margin, boasting mediocre scores in digging holes and catching frisbees - higher test results may have been possible if not for his tendency to become easily distracted by squirrels.  Completely unaware of his carelessness, but easily forgiven for smiling a lot.  Stoked to be getting married.  The girl dog:  Was teased by a chihuahua once for being chubby.  She took him down and nobody ever bothered her again, thus commencing her life of crime.  Was headed down a shady path until she was recruited by a Doberman for his dog rugby team where she found her niche and made her peace.  That's where these two met - the boy dog was her waterboy.  His proposal:  "It's a dog eat dog world and I'm wearing milk bone underwear.  Wanna get a matching pair?  For as long as we both shall live?"  She said, "What color?"  He said, "Black."  She said, "Okay."  And that's when he snuck in his request that she wear a little pink for the wedding.  I think we can see how she feels about that.  Now they're standing in their reception line; the boy dog sees the line dwindling down and is excited to start the honeymoon, and the girl just started her period.  She hasn't told him yet.  Still, something tells me these two will be quite happy together.  (Don't try to tell me you don't see it.)
 
I originally started this post intending to talk about the Clinton wedding over the weekend, now I don't really want to go into it.  I guess it's just as well - I suppose there's enough similarities to call it good.

You Should Probably See The Movie First

When it comes to movies, I’m not very deep or particularly bright. I’m all about the mind candy when it comes to films. This explains why I’ve seen “While You Were Sleeping” about 78 times yet still haven’t found the time to rent “Schindler’s List”. Also, a movie needs to ease into the plot in order for me to keep up. I need a good three handfuls of popcorn and a couple of leisurely sips of my soda before anyone starts shooting or using long words. If the opening scene is a guy chasing another guy with a gun I am lost right away. Which one is the good guy? Who do I root for? What is the conflict? Did someone forget to pay taxes? Or forget to tell his best friend that he was sleeping with his wife? Starting from the end and having to catch up feels like someone trying to tell you about the slumber party you missed out on when everybody went skinny dipping; while everyone else is blabbing about how funny it was and who jumped in first, you’re like, “Wait, what?! Whose idea was THAT? Was it dark? Was everyone sober? High on the artificial coloring in Cheetos? Was it a heated pool? Did anyone see you? Did you get in trouble?” It’s too late. You missed it.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I saw “Inception” over the weekend. Everyone is saying what a good movie it is, and they’re probably right. They’re also probably smarter than I am. I didn’t quite get it – everything happened too fast and since I’m also not the annoying kind who likes to ask a lot of questions during movies, I just sat there going, “Why is there so much fighting in this person’s subconscious? And why does Leonardo diCaprio keep spinning a dreidel? Why is that guy tying up all the floating, sleeping people? They look perfectly happy to me. Wait, didn’t that guy die? I like Ellen Page, she just doesn’t strike me as the architect of the virtual mind type. She was more believable as a knocked up teenager. When is that van going to fall in the river already? Hasn’t it been like, 18 minutes when they said they only had 2 minutes to go before they all ended up in limbo?” Before you know it they’re all on a plane drinking cocktails as if nothing happened. I was all, “Dude, he just saved your LIFE! The least you could do is say ‘hello’!” I mean, after spending 10 years with someone in a dream don’t you think you’d at LEAST offer a polite nod over your glass of champagne? Then again, maybe it wasn’t actually 10 years in the dream. I didn’t get it, remember?

Here’s a perfect example of why I was too stupid for this movie. Near the beginning, the main character says, “What’s the most resilient parasite? An idea. A single idea from the human mind can build cities. An idea can transform the world and rewrite all the rules. Which is why I have to steal it.” I think I’m supposed to arrive at the same conclusion that he does in the same amount of time by following his thought process, but by the time he gets to the “why I have to steal it” part, I’m still thinking, “Have I ever known a resilient parasite? And does a praying mantis count? Because I can sorta see how that might work.” By the time I reconcile THAT, I’m on to wondering, “If a single idea can build cities, what does that say for Iowa?” By the time I figure that out, Leonardo diCaprio is holding hands with his dead wife, trying to explain to her that she, SHE, is delusional. (He’s such a GUY!)

From Inception:
You're waiting for a train. A train that will take you far away. You can't be sure where it will take you. But it doesn't matter - because we'll be together.

I still don’t get it. And for the record, I think it DOES matter where that train is going.

From While You Were Sleeping:
Jack: “Tell me about your Dad, what was he like?”
Lucy: “He was a lot like me, brown hair, flat chest.”

See? Now THAT I understand.

The Teacher Becomes The Student

My hands are running out of fingers to count how many times another adult has complimented my daughter to me in the last few weeks. I have to say it is one of the coolest experiences of life to hear someone else say something great about your kid and I’m grateful to those who have taken the time to share their opinions with me. I’ve heard everything from, “She’s so sweet” and “My kids LOVE her”, to “She is a really hard worker”. They’re all true.

One of the things I have enjoyed watching her do over the last couple of years is hone her babysitting skills. Ever the great observer, Samantha took copious mental notes of all her babysitters and slipped them into basic categories of “cool” and “not cool”. The uncool ones watched TV and didn’t talk much or play with them while her favorites took the time to make cookies with them, play games, and some even brought bags of toys from home that were age/sex appropriate. Now when she goes babysitting she totes along her own bag of tricks containing, among other things, Pet Shops and lightsabers.

Last week when Samantha was at camp I got a phone call from one of her “regulars” asking if she was available for Saturday night. Unable to get a hold of her to ask, and knowing she wouldn’t be home until just a few hours before she would need to babysit, I wasn’t sure if she would be up for it. (Had she slept at all the last four days on that plush, inch thick sleeping pad she would have put under her sleeping bag? Had the girls in her tent caused drama? Did she get injured doing the high ropes course? Did she have to sing too many stupid camp songs?) I didn’t know, so I made the following deal: “Tell you what. I will say yes for her, but if she comes home and doesn’t feel up to it then I will be her backup,” the mom and I agreed.

After Samantha arrived home it became clear that she was NOT, indeed, in a good position to go take care of three little kids under age 5. I notified the mom that I would be driving over to do the job instead of her coming to pick up my daughter and we hung up. Two minutes later the phone rang and I answered, “Hello?”
“Uhhh…is this Samantha’s mom?”
A little boy was on the other end. A little boy who was expecting a young, fun 14-year-old to come babysit, not a has-been with crow’s feet and an aversion to Nickelodeon.
“Yes, this is Samantha’s mom.”
His breathing was a little uneven, heavy into the receiver as if laboring diligently to make sure I got the message. “Can yooouuu…weelll, I was wondering…could you bring that whip that Samantha usually brings?”
“Sure,” I promised. He seemed satisfied and then the younger sister got on the line.
“Aaaand, can you please bring the Pet Shops?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed.
The mom got on the phone and teasingly suggested, “Why don’t you just have Samantha pack you a little bag before you come.”

After hanging up I trudged upstairs to find a waning teenager on her bed, minutes from blissful slumber on a for real mattress. I explained my situation and the requests that had been made in preparation for her absence and she began to gather her things for me.
“What whip is he talking about?” I asked.
She pulled out one of Drew’s Indiana Jones whips and said, “Okay. Here’s what you do. You’ll go outside and the boy will have the whip. He will try to swing it at your legs and when he gets you, you fall down and play dead. It’s like tag, except he is always ‘IT’.”
“Got it.”
“Also, the middle child isn’t going to be nice when it’s time for bed. She will probably tell you she doesn’t like you, but don’t take it personally.”
“Okay.”
“She will also probably want you to lie down with her until she goes to sleep.”
“Right.”
“The baby is going to scream when the parents leave, but if she has her binky and her blanket she’ll be fine in a few minutes.”
“Cool.”
She patted my shoulders, looked me in the eye and said, “Good luck.” Then she fell back onto her bed.

I stood there holding Samantha’s Mary Poppins bag and wondered, for a moment, what I might be able to bribe her with to get me out of this. Too late, she was already snoring.

She is sweet.
Kids love her.
She is a hard worker.

It’s all true.

Lest Ye Think That Animal Planet Is Suitable For the Whole Family

Cory’s been out of town and Samantha is at camp this week so Drew and I have been on our own for a few days. I believe these two facts and these two facts alone are the only way to explain how we ended up watching Animal Planet one night. Truth be told, we were actually watching “Cupcake Wars” on the Food Network but as with any other show, the commercials inevitably come and one is left to choose the secondary show – the one to watch during commercials. So we started channel surfing and came across some of the following options:

Secret Life of the American Teenager (Since when is teenagers acting like sluts suitable for “ABC Family”?)
Billy The Exterminator (Do you wear leather and a studded dog collar? Are you comfortable in front of a camera? Do you ride a motorcycle and just happen to be good at vacuuming cockroaches? How would you like your own show? Welcome to the 21st century.)
Tour de France (Dear Lance: I stopped liking you after you got divorced a 2nd time and started dating a rock star. I think you are a fame whore who is also on the juice. Can’t you just go get a job at Home Depot or something and spend time with your kids?)
Countdown with Keith Olbermann (Hey Drew, wanna see what Satan looks like?) ((No offense to Satan.))

Scroll…scroll…scroll…and then, what’s this? “The Secret Life of Elephants” I said out loud. When Drew was a baby his favorite animal was an elephant. It was among one of his first words (a “no-fant”, he called it) and he carried around a plastic version that fit snug and secure in his hand at all times. So, as we paused on the title I shot him a sideways glance, shrugged a “why not?” and we selected it.

A herd of elephants was crossing a desert as a narrator detailed their moves. The male has followed her scent over hundreds of miles, finally catching up to her and the rest of the herd. But is he too late? Another male is already there - the two males face each other and begin to size each other up. (I'm curious: How, exactly, do you think two elephants size each other up? Is one thinking, “Dude, haven’t you ever heard of Weight Watchers?”, while the other one is contemplating, “Maybe if I sweep the leg….”)

What’s that? Oh. “Cupcake Wars” is back on. We follow it to another commercial before switching back to elephants and their secret lives. The fight is over. (Darn. We missed it.) The battle won, the male rests his trunk on the back of the female, a signal for her to STAY. STILL. (I think I know where this is going and I grow uncomfortable, but I wait for one more second. One second too long.) The male is done being patient [Abort! Abort!] I quickly change the channel, but not before Drew manages a, “Dude, that is messed up.”

That’s when I realized we may as well have watched “The Secret Life of the American Teenager”. Two guys fight over the same girl, the burliest guy wins, and the girl gets pregnant. Except elephants don’t have to pay child support, so I guess they’ve got that going for them.

I had a friend growing up whose Dad was passionate about his after vacation slide shows.  If I ever walked into her house and saw the screen set up in the living room and her Dad on the floor, fiddling with controls, I knew I had to walk faster to avoid being cornered.  One strategy for avoiding the dreaded slide show was to mutter something about having "female issues" while rushing to the bathroom - from there, we had access outside through a set of french doors where freedom awaited.  Well folks, today I am my friend's Dad.  Except you don't need any clever excuses to get out of it, you can just go on to your next daily blog read if you'd like and I will never know.  For those of you who wish to pop some popcorn and stay awhile, here are some photos from our recent adventures.

Yellowstone National Park

This is Drew's Daniel Boone look - he wore that hat the entire 2 days we spent in Yellowstone!

Montana a.k.a. "Big Sky Country"

Family

Thanks Again to our Fabulous Hosts who made it all possible!

~ The End ~

My Facebook Status If I Ever Gave One

Remember what a STUPID movie "City of Angels" was?  I sorta forgot.  Wish I had remembered sooner.

Reality Bites

It would be really easy for me to sit here and go through all of our photos from our trip over the last couple of weeks and post a few for your viewing pleasure. Eventually I will, but there’s something else on my mind and quite honestly, I don’t really feel like sharing it for fear that it will be judged in a way that I don’t intend. Nevertheless, there’s a nagging part of me that wonders if there aren’t a few who might benefit from knowing that sometimes Vern has bad days. Not in the, “I got a flat tire, earned a speeding ticket, gained 5 lbs and was called ‘Sir’ by the checkout lady” kind of way, but in a, “I feel like Eeyore on valium reading ‘Angela’s Ashes’” kind of way. I’m blaming my vacation. Not because it sucked, but because it was so, SO good.

Before we left I had been feeling an anxiousness to get out of my house – to see something new, do something different, be someplace where (FOR THE LOVE) something besides dishes, laundry and Disney channel were happening. And so we did. It had been planned for a while to reunite with Cory’s family, venture to Teton National Park, spend a couple of days in Yellowstone and then head to Montana for extended R&R. It was glorious! I couldn’t get enough. My SIL and her husband housed all of us in their home and they were unbelievable hosts. We launched water balloons, ate dutch oven desserts, played on the trampoline, bonded over the Wii, set off fireworks and played games. With seventeen people under the same roof on floor to floor air mattresses, I don’t recall a single tense moment or argument that broke out. We went to Jackson Hole (mountains!), Grand Teton National Park (more mountains!), Arby’s (curly fries!), and Yellowstone (don’t pet the bison!). We saw Old Faithful, watched real cowboys sing and play the banjo, ate homemade ice cream, rode bikes and roasted s’mores. Short of holding hands in a circle and singing Cumbayah, it was an All American road trip.

And then we came home. It was nice at first – familiar, comfortable. It smelled nice, looked nice, and other than the elevated temperatures due to being closed up for two weeks it felt nice. But once the laundry was done, the car was cleaned out and the kitchen was back to looking lived in, I sort of sank.
Familiar.
Comfortable.
ZZzzzz.
Everything has turned gray and flat. I don’t want to return phone calls, check my email, or get dressed. Dressed for what? So the boy across the street who’s ringing my doorbell incessantly at NINE FREAKIN’ THIRTY IN THE MORNING (has no one defined the rules of summer break to the child?) can go, “Hello Mrs. Vern. I see you took the time to apply a little mascara today.” I think not.

It’s not that I don’t have plenty to do, it’s that very few things I do fill my emotional/spiritual/intellectual reservoir; like eating a bag of marshmallows on an empty stomach.  I can’t shake the feeling that there has to be more for me, which is confusing because I have everything I need and a lot of what I want, so what the heck does “more” even look like? What is my problem? Am I just high maintenance? Ungrateful? Spoiled? Pessimistic? Impractical? How does a girl with everything she could possibly need in this life still find a way to be dissatisfied?

I told you. I should have just posted a shot of Old Faithful.
------------------------------------------------------------
P.S.  Congrats Ganelle for being the contest winner!  I'm curious though, when the internet votes you as the ugliest, do you still feel like a winner?  Oh well, nothing that Olive Garden breadsticks can't fix.

Contest Finalists

When I first started this contest I urged my friend Lorie to enter this picture:





She didn't and so I'm not going to make her eligible for the prize, but that's okay because the important thing is for all of you to see it and it just so happens that I have a copy.  In her defense, those are not her teeth, that is not her hair, and Wal Mart provided the parasol and the background.  Also, it wouldn't do her much good to win because she lives in the middle of nowhere and wouldn't be able to use a gift certificate at any of the places I offered unless she was willing to drive for a few hours.  However, she IS the cheapest person on the planet so I wouldn't put it past her to cross state lines for a Chili's taco. 

With that said, here are our finalists (read: the only people who actually submitted a picture):

First up, LYNN.  Lynn just so happens to be the woman who brought me into this world and has only once threatened to be the one to take me out of it.  She is one fantastic lady and contrary to the looks of this picture, she (as well as Bill Clinton) does not inhale.

Contestant #2:  KATIE - Katie's brother used to drive me to school in the morning.  He taught me about "burm shots" (driving the car up along the side of the dirt bank) and "E-slides" (using the emergency brake to accentuate the burm shot).  Can you imagine what Oprah would have done with that if it had caught on?  I'm thankful to be alive. 

#3:  ELISA - Elisa delurked specifically to enter this contest and I feel like that should be rewarded.  She's hoping you'll look past the mullet to see the eight cows within.

#4:  GANELLE - Ganelle gets mentioned a lot here on this blog and so perhaps you feel like you know her a little already.  You know how you listen to people on the radio and you imagine what they look like, and then you see a picture of them and they're not at all what you expected?  Well, is this what you expected?

Finally, contestant #5:  GINGER - This is what happens when you tell Ginger, "Sorry dude, but we're all out of chocolate chips."

There you have it!  Voting will take place on the sidebar - you have until midnight on Thursday!

Home

It was still light outside when we pulled into our driveway this evening around 8pm.  The neighborhood boys were still out riding their bikes when we drove up and with our windows down we heard them yell, "It's Drew!  Drew's home!!"  They followed behind us until we arrived at our driveway and Drew looked over at me, offered a quick nod and said, "Ahhh...my minions."  Last night's drive lasted four hours, today's route took a little over eleven.  We're glad to be home.  Tomorrow I'll post the finalists for our ugly photo contest but for now, I'm very much looking forward to sleeping in my own bed.

Sneak Peek

In a period of twelve hours we spent the day in Wyoming, had lunch in Montana, and spent the night in Idaho.  The end of our two week road trip is coming near, and you've only a few days left to submit your ugly picture for our contest.  I even asked the bison in Yellowstone if he wanted to participate as he looked to be in an exceedingly foul mood (think Eeyore at a bar with Simon Cowell), but he declined.  It doesn't need to be the same for you - don't delay!  In the meantime, here's a glimpse of our recent adventures.

Awesome View - Jenny Lake/Grand Teton National Park

Best New Discovery:  Mrs. Powell's Cinnamon Rolls

I don't know Mrs. Powell personally, but I am pretty sure she and I were BFF's in the pre-existence.  Not because we share the same culinary expertise, but because I'm certain I would have sucked up to her.  The fact that she serves EXTRA FROSTING with her rolls only shows as further evidence that she knew me before.  I'm hoping we can become pen pals, and by pen pals I mean I hope she writes me soon to say, "Good news, I'm opening a store in Denver."

Our Favorite Spot In Yellowstone:

I felt bad for whoever was driving this car because let's face it, their dream is probably never going to come true:

What?!  The Mammoths get their OWN?

And here's Samantha saying 'bye for now!  Remember, somewhere in the archives of your photo albums lies a picture that makes you grateful you're not famous for fear it would one day be plastered on the big screen during your interview on "Ellen".  Since you're NOT famous, what do you say we plaster it HERE?  Send your pics to me quick at: vernmaster at gmail dot com.  Ciao for now!

A Contest! With A Prize!

It feels important to me that even though I'll be road tripping it for a while that you all continue to entertain me.  Your challenge is this:  submit some of your worst photos.  They don't necessarily have to be "professional" pictures, but something that showcases the likes of a very bad hair day, unfortunate fads of the time, or perhaps sheer neglect.  I've never done a contest before because it's usually only the really cool blogs with sponsors who can give away great stuff that do it.  But I don't care about "usually", so I'm going to give it a whirl.  Your prize may not be as cool, but still.  It's Wednesday, you couldn't possibly have anything better to do.

So.  Here's the deal.

THE CONTEST:  Submit Your Best (Worst?) Ugly Photo

RULES: 

• DON'T send me anything inappropriate (you know who you are and you know what I mean)
• DO send me photos with mullets and headgear (not necessarily together, but hey, even better!)
• Email to me at:  vernmaster at gmail dot com
• Deadline:  Sunday, July 4th
• I will post the finalists and then YOU GUYS will vote for the winner

THE PRIZE:  $10 Gift card to Chili's, Starbucks, or Olive Garden and a postcard from Montana
(Dear Ganelle: I know how you love Olive Garden - may I suggest you submit the one with your ringlets and thick, green glasses from the 50's? Not that I will pay you any bias, but I want you to have a fighting chance.)

And just to show you that I'm a team player I will get y'all started.  I give you my class photo from 1st Grade:

Man I loved that dress.  And to think that only one year later Jeremy in Mrs. Johnson's class would want to sit next to me and hold my hand. 

Ready?  Don't disappoint me people, I am counting on you.  GO!

Would You Buy A Milkshake From A Llama?

A few weekend highlights:

#1: We went camping this weekend and en route through the mountains I saw a restaurant tucked in a strip mall called the “Angry Llama Diner”. Intrigued? So was I. Not enough to stop and try their food, but enough to google “llamas” just to see if I could find out what an angry llama would look like. Here’s one:

I’m not sure whose marketing idea it was to name this restaurant, but would YOU trust this dude to flip your burger or cut your fries? Me neither. I would, however, trust him to gather his friends and line up along southern California and help us secure our borders.

Here’s a happier llama:

Don’t you wonder how they got him to smile like that? It’s like he heard the Emperor was in search of a new groove and he’s waiting for his casting call. (How do I know it’s a “He”? Just a hunch.)

This llama, on the other hand, looks like a Charro wannabe with depression. Either that or her mom made her dress up for Halloween and she’s bitter that she didn’t get to be a princess. I’d be ticked off too. (How do I know it’s a “she”? Boy llamas don’t wear pink. Duh.)

#2: While filling out the paperwork for Scout Camp Drew peered over my shoulder and saw the line that read: “SEX ______”. He freaked out and gasped, “What the…?!” “Dude!” I replied. “Calm down, it’s not a yes or no question!”

#3: For Family Night tonight we decided to watch “Phineas & Ferb” and pause the show whenever we extracted a moral message. It took mere seconds before Candace launched into all of her inadequacies while comparing herself to a friend and I yelled, “Pause!” Cory hit the button on the remote and I said, “Thou shalt not covet!” Everyone nodded in agreement, and we resumed “Play”. Seconds later there was mention of a wedgie when Drew yelled, “Pause!” Cory obeyed, and Drew explained, “Never give a person a wedgie.” Unconvinced of its validity I probed, “What’s the moral message in not giving someone a wedgie?” “Because,” Drew said, “it’s just…WRONG.” Good enough.

In other news, we leave shortly for a two week road trip through Idaho, Yellowstone National Park, and Montana. Any road trip food suggestions?

The Unfit Primary President

In my defense it had been a very long day.

Wait. Let’s start at the beginning. I am not what most would consider a “kid person”. One of the things I hated most when I was younger was getting a phone call and hearing on the other line, “Hi Vern, (uh oh – it’s not one of my friends) this is Mrs. Christianson/Smith/Johnson (No. No no no. Noooo!) and I was just wondering (Hurry up! You know what’s coming! Quick, think of something that you’re doing on Saturday!) if you could babysit this Saturday? (You should call my sister. She loves babysitting and kids adore her.) We already asked Suzi and she can’t do it so we wondered if YOU were available?” (Doh.) “Uh, sure Mrs. Christianson/Smith/Johnson.” (Man, I have GOT to get myself a boyfriend!)

Luckily, I have softened quite a bit since becoming a parent. So much so that for the last several months I have been helping a friend of mine watch a couple of her daycare kids twice a week. One of them has eyelashes the length of the Nile and I tell you what, when that 3-year-old boy looks up at me and says, “My Kristy? I LOVE you!” I would give him ice cream for lunch every day if he asked for it. Nevertheless, I’m not particularly skilled in the arena of young children. I mostly want them to play by themselves, get their own snacks, and take 4 hour naps. So, you can imagine how I took it when my church asked me a few years ago if I would be the President over all the children at church (we call it “Primary”) between the ages of 18 months – 11 years. While I can’t be certain about this, it’s probably a little like asking Joran Van Der Sloot if he will babysit your kittens. However, against my better judgment I agreed to take on the challenge and commenced my tenure as President over the Primary and things were going rather well. My favorite moment was when a young girl stepped up to the pulpit to say a prayer and she said, “And please bless us that we can have treats every time.”  I know how she feels.

Several months into that gig I decided to have some friends over for a dinner party. I wanted it to be nice. I wanted the food to be really good, and I wanted to try something new. So I got online, researched a few recipes and settled on one called Almond Apricot Stuffed Pork Tenderloin. Shazam! Now. The recipe called for two tablespoons of bourbon, and as a commitment to my faith I have agreed never to drink alcohol. I read the recipe carefully and determined that the alcohol would burn off before being ingested so I determined to move forward and headed to a big liquor store down the street to purchase my ingredient. Honest to goodness, this was my first time in a liquor store. It was like sending an Amish kid to Prom. I stood there with my eyes open wide, not sure where to even begin. I didn’t want to buy some huge thing of bourbon when I only needed 2 tablespooons! Then I noticed near the checkout area that they sold small shots of different liquors. A-ha! This was the ticket. I wasn’t sure if one shot would do it, so I bought two. I threw both of them in my purse and as it turned out, one was the exact amount I ended up needing so I sort of forgot about the 2nd one that still tossed around at the bottom of my purse.

Until I was at church.

In the Primary Room.

And while rummaging around for a pen I went, “Wait, what’s this?” and pulled out my 2nd little bottle of bourbon in front of the other women that I worked with. “Oh! Wait, I can explain….”

And that’s the story about the Primary President getting caught with alcohol at church.

Can’t

One of the ways I try to be a good parent is by telling my kids from the get go that you can’t (CAN’T) be anything you want to be, even if you put your mind to it. It’s my special way of giving back to the community, to raise children with realistic expectations and a firm grasp of how the world really works. For instance, my daughter (bless her heart) took gymnastics for four years. Four years at $100/month equals about five thousand dollars, which ended up buying me a few cartwheels and some trampoline time. Gymnastics is simply not what my daughter’s body was built for. Hello, her father is 6’3” and her mother is 5’10”. While we’re at it, we should probably also rule out my children’s future as horse jockeys. My husband also wanted to marry rich – we don’t always get what we want. (Consolation prize: I have a blog that creates zero revenue but hundreds of people now know him for the stud that he is. Bonus! See honey? Money isn’t everything.)

I think it’s also important to tell my kids that they’re probably not always going to be passionate about their work. Get a job that doesn’t completely kill your spirit but still pays the bills. Want to be a circus performer? Get a degree in Accounting. You can balance budgets during the week and the tightrope on the weekends. Everybody wins.

If there’s anything I’m confident about, it’s how many things I can’t do. I can’t make the Bobby’s at Buckingham Palace smile, I can’t make Val Kilmer hot again, I can’t make Hugh love me, and hard as I try (Ooohh, how I’ve tried), I can’t turn tofu into chocolate. I will never be a beauty queen, bear another child, drive along the Pacific Coast Highway holding Cary Grant’s hand, or help David Hasselhoff get sober. Can’t. Not to mention, despite numerous requests and encouraging shouts from my new personal trainer this week, I can’t do a push-up. Only one free session left, and I can’t make her go away. I can’t wait for it to be over, and I can’t imagine how ridiculous I look to other gym-goers grunting in the corner with sweat dripping down my temples as I try to suck in my gut to complete “The Bridge”. As you can see, it’s important to share the “I Can’t” message with our children. Otherwise, can you imagine? Drew would be 32 and living in my basement, staring at a poster of Yoda moaning, “Why haven’t you come for me?” while Samantha turns cartwheels across the floor. And I can’t have that.

Can’t.

I Don't Think The Pioneer Children Sang As Much As We Think They Did

At the crisp, early dawn of 5:30 am today we dropped off our darling 14-year-old in a church parking lot. Outfitted in a purple calico print, her waist to ankle skirt shifted awkwardly around her middle and her matching bonnet extended as if to accommodate a command to “walk the plank”. From there she would board a bus to transport her and hundreds of other youth to the middle of Wyoming where they planned to set up camp and kick it old school. It is her very first Pioneer Trek.

For those unfamiliar, it is rather common among us Latter-Day Saints to pay homage to those who have gone before us by retracing some of the steps of our pioneer ancestors. Some say it is a life changing experience, others say it is hot. To be fair, I cannot weigh in with authority as it has never been my lot privilege to participate. Nevertheless, I think we all know where I would come down. (Hey, don’t judge. I’m VERY sensitive to the heat.) One thing is for sure, it is not enough to don a pair of jeans and some sunglasses for this journey. No, in order to create an authentic experience it is believed that one must also wear authentic clothing. Seems noble, doesn’t it? I don’t know, let’s ask these ladies.

First of all, I think the most awesome thing that could occur right now is if you happen to be the woman in this picture and you are reading this blog. So help me, if you are that woman, please please PLEASE send me an email and I will promptly mail you half a pound of some legit horehound candy. (Let’s be real: I think we’re all relieved there’s no ‘w’ in ‘horehound’, are we not?) (Ideally I would have posted a picture of my daughter in her outfit, but I’m in the business of trying to gain her trust and seeing as I JUST got her to divulge the name of her current crush, I’m not about to blow it by plastering close ups of her “What Not To Wear” before photo.) Second of all, I’m pretty sure that lady is NOT reading this so with fingers crossed I’d like to share what I think about this picture. The way I see it, this woman ended up modeling pioneer clothing in one of three ways. Either she is, a) a struggling model still searching for her big break, b) a friend or family member of the person who runs this website or, c) someone with a sordid past who is being blackmailed. (Either you pose in this bonnet or I’ll send THESE pictures to The “Enquirer”! [she yells through her tears] Fine! I’ll do it! But this is the LAST! TIME!) If the answer is “a”, I’d like to say…good luck with that. If the answer is “b”, well then good for you because now somebody is eternally in your debt. As for “c”, don’t be naïve. You had to know those pictures would come back to haunt you. Oh well, one thing is for sure; I don’t care how fast that chick can churn butter she’s not getting a date in the 21st century.

Something

Something I didn’t expect to hear: “…and that’s how my brother got that fungus on his butt.” 

Something embarrassing: Samantha’s friends were over. “Ice Ice Baby” came on over our speakers and I thought, (thinking = my first mistake) I should show them how well I can do ‘The Running Man’ – I bet they will see how cool I am and suddenly want to tell me stuff, and desire to have all their future gatherings at Samantha’s house because she is the one with the cool mom.  Here's an update on that: EPIC FAIL.

 

Something funny: Drew was gearing up for a presentation at school and he was a little nervous about it. I tried to pump him up and give him encouragement, after which he raised his eyebrows in mock appreciation and said, “Wow Mom. That was a really moving speech.”

 

Something…(I’m not sure what this is, but I don’t think it’s very positive): While lunching with some friends we began discussing a family while inserting all kinds of favorable adjectives. It piqued my curiosity (never a good sign) so I turned to Samantha and asked, “What kind of adjectives would you use to describe OUR family?” She looked up to the ceiling, pursed her lips and contemplated, “Uhhh…we’re…’special’.”

 

Something lame: 

• Nonfat yogurt.
• “Whole Grain” Fruity Pebbles.
• Asking, “Hey, has anyone seen my iPod?” and then finding it in my washing machine.
• Kevin Costner. (Why is he a famous actor? If I had known I could be rich for being boring I would have called him for some pointers years ago. I’m pretty sure it’s too late now.)
• Bruce Jenner marrying into the Kardashians.

Something not lame: Sonic Happy Hour. Only six more hours until two o’clock.

This is my surprised face.

I am surprised that I didn't break down and pour myself a stiff drink today. 
I am surprised that I spent about 78 hours in my car.
I am surprised that I had sushi for the first time in my life this week, and ate something called "Monkey Brain" and LOVED. IT.
I am surprised at what a sore loser I am.  (Hello Monopoly Card Game.  Hello Husband who beat me in what was supposed to be a friendly, bonding experience.  Hello Devil, who possessed my body as Cory slowly ran me out of properties/money and threw me into such a tizzy that I had to go outside and "walk it off".  Hello TWO MILES before I was calm enough to return home.  Hello.)  Honestly, what is my problem?
I am surprised that despite my being a sore loser, we will say hello to 17 years of marriage on Saturday.  Not sure what keeps him around.  (Must be my awesome rack.)
I am surprised that no matter how hard American airports try, when they put up a sign over their moving walkway like THIS:

that everyone will still stand in the middle, crowd both sides of the path and stare straight ahead as if to say, "Sign?  What sign?  I don't see any sign." while a soothing voice overhead repeats the very words, "Please walk on the left and stand to the right."  In my opinion, that voice is too soothing and that's why people don't pay attention.  We need James Earl Jones over the PA System saying, "Move It Or Lose It.  That's right cowboy, I'm talking to YOU."  Even if I wasn't a cowboy, I think I'd listen to him.

I am surprised that I saw Kate Gosselin smiling (smiling!) on a magazine cover advertising her new season on TLC.  In this case, I think "TLC" might stand for "Totally Lame Chick".
I am surprised how stupid I am sometimes.  Like how I confessed to a group of church members that I had looked up some of my old boyfriends on facebook during a lesson in which our pastor was cautioning against the dangers of social media.  Oh, and did you hear the one about the Primary President who got caught at church with a shot of whiskey in her purse?  True story.  I'll tell you about it sometime.
I am surprised that people pay more for organic fruits and vegetables. 
I am surprised that Justin Bieber is famous.
I am surprised that you are still reading this.