Perspective

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

I really wanted her to PR.

I fed her a carb filled dinner the night before.

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

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

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

Teenagers. 


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

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

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

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

Grateful she could run at all.

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

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

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


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


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

This one is kind of funny:

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

Family Dinner

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



We don't have a lot of friends.

Highs & Lows

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AND ANOTHER THING.

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

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

How To Get A Good Pedicure

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

That's it, just the one step.   

(What was I THINKING?)

In Your Dreams

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

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

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

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


...washing dishes.

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

???

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

Buttprints In The Sand

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

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

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

Here I sit,

brokenhearted.

I came to crap,

but only farted.

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

BUTTPRINTS IN THE SAND

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah.  That's more like it.

Erasure, The Flex Capacitor, and Beeth-Oven

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

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

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

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

The Ambigram Tat

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

Not really.

Here's what happened.

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

Anyway.

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

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

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

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

In Which Vern Turns A Wee Bit Dramatic

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

I already feel like I’m getting burned.

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

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

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

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

What’s a mother to do? 

(Seriously.)

Cupcakes For Lunch. And Other Weight Loss Secrets.

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

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

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

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

THE FILLING

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

ORANGE BUTTERCREAM FROSTING

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

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


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

And that's why I ate four.

It's OK, He Said I Could

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

~ George Burns

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

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

It Was So Hot I Even Heard Satan Crying

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

THINGS I CANNOT EXPLAIN

1.  115 degrees

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

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

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

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

THINGS I DON’T NEED TO EXPLAIN

1.  Nielsen’s frozen custard

HARD TO EXPLAIN BUT WORTH TRYING

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

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

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

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

Big Sky Country

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

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

He Is

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

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

He is her Dad.

He is my Husband.

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

He is her Dad.

He is my Husband.

He really is.

So Random

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

Duh. LOSING!

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

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

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

 

It's An Honor Just To Be Nominated

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

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

Return To...Which Mountain?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mm hmm."

[awkward silence]

"I walked out of a dirty movie once."

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

Queen of Denial

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

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

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

My boy is growing.

My girl is driving. 

My head is spinning.

Three weeks left. 

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

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

We Missed The Testicle Festival By 3 Weeks

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

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

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

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

Sam:  Not really.

Drew:  They’re sheep’s balls.

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

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

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

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