Please, Don't Ask

The way I see it, there are basically two kinds of shoppers. Those who strike up conversations with their cashiers at check out and those who don't. You know what I mean. The person ahead of you has all of their bags filled and in the cart, their bill is paid, and it's clearly the appropriate time to take your rightful place at the head of the line. But this person is so convinced that the cashier is hanging on their every word about their recent bout with the flu that they start to throw in the story about how their Aunt Ruth ruined their wedding day when in a moment of drunk weakness she tried to convince the groom he had made a mistake. You move up slowly, trying to close the gap and send a clear message that their time is up while making mental notes such as, "Dude, I think your Aunt Ruth was on to something."

I am not a question asker or a life story revealer in grocery lines. I'm more of a get in, get out, don't ask, don't tell type. But the stores and gas stations are making it increasingly difficult for people like me. The other day I had to go to Wal Mart and the gas station back to back. (Spare me the envy over my exhilerating life.) At the checkout I was asked, as usual, "Did you find everything okay?" to which I was incredibly tempted to reply, "There seem to be no Dove chocolate IV drips in the candy aisle. I mean, are you SUPER WAL-MART or NOT?" Instead I said, "Yep." Because that's how I work once I have reached this part of my shopping journey. I am committed to getting out. Even if it's a lie and I did not in fact find everything I needed, because if I say "No" then the mananger gets paged, and she is either at lunch or in the middle of her "English as a second language" training class, and people are waiting.

And they are adding more questions all the time.
Before I even swipe my card the machine already wants to know, "Did your cashier greet you today?" I know it only takes two seconds, but I am annoyed by this manipulation of my time. I answer "yes" whether it's true or not because as crazy as this makes me, I don't want anyone getting yelled at.
"Would you like to donate a dollar to the Children's Miracle Network?" A delightful organization and worthy of at least one if not more of my dollars, but really, I just came for milk.
"Were you happy with your overall service?" It's a yes or no question. There is no room to write how nice it would be to actually have the blue vested employees know how to answer my burning questions about the location of ice melt, chicken bouillion, and Trivial Pursuit. I answer "yes" anyway. On to the gas station where the display at the pump asks more questions than a first date:
Will this be debit or credit?
Are you paying inside or outside?
Would you like a car wash?
If so, what kind? Please be prepared to distinguish between deluxe, ultimate, and "the works".
How about some hot coffee?
What's your zip code?
Would you like a receipt?
How about fries?
Click here to link to match.com where we can hook you up with other awesome customers who get gas here too!

At the end of it all, I ironically wish for one more question that asks, "Would you like us to leave you the heck alone?" to which I would answer a resounding, "yes", and for once it would be the truth.

It's my secret recipe

The conversation went something like this:

Friend: "Hey, I'm living in denial today and I'm celebrating at Mrs. Field's. Wanna come?"
Me: "Duh! I OWN denial."

And that's how I make friends. Perhaps I should let the Amish in on my secret. I could save them a lot of time and a lot of money on pudding.

Sunday

7:00 am Cory has to leave for meetings. He kisses me good-bye. I mumble a groggy response.
I sleep.
9:16 am The kids are jumping on the bed making requests for a hot breakfast. There is flour and milk and eggs and blueberries and whip cream. They beg for pancakes.
I cook.
10:04 am A roomful of teenage girls at critical stages in their young and impressionable lives will be waiting to hear from me in three hours. My efforts to wrap it up on Saturday were fruitless. I get out my lesson, my scriptures, and rack my brain for an object lesson.
I prepare.
12:43 pm I am fifteen minutes late for choir practice. I jump in the car and drive.
I sing.
3:00 pm I am staring at my roomful of beautiful, amazing girls. I never did get a firm grasp on this lesson, but they are forgiving, inquisitive, and quick to participate.
I teach.
4:15 pm I've been asked to participate in a quartet to perform in church in two weeks. We needed to practice. We met after church.
I sing.
Again.
4:16 pm The soprano in this group has a voice I imagine will be what I hear when I pass from this life and ascend to the heavens. I have a voice that is best reserved for large groups where perfect pitch is optional. Why, exactly, would we be singing in the same company?
I question.
7:32 pm Samantha's throat hurts. This crud has been plaguing her for almost two weeks. I grab the Dimetapp.
I medicate.
7:46 pm I have sent Samantha to bed, Drew wants to talk. And by "talk" I mean he sits next to me on my bed and shows me how he can make himself burp. Really loud. And then brags about his friend Braden who can burp "all the way to 'J' without stopping."
I listen.
9:06 pm I am not tired. The Oscars are on, as well as Ace of Cakes. Helen Mirren's red dress is positively stunning, and Duff is hiding from the 600 girl scouts begging for his autograph where he has delivered a Girl Scout cake. In my next life, I want Duff to be the boyfriend of my college roommate so that our social circles will overlap.
I watch.
11:42 pm I have been tossing in bed for over an hour. I can hear rain on the rooftop; I pull the covers tighter. It is no use. There is school in the morning and cabinets to finish painting and a treadmill to torture me, and I need my sleep. But it isn't coming.
So I blog.

I’m thorry, did you thay thomething?

It’s been a really long time since I’ve had a cavity, but today was the beginning of the end of that party. As a result, for the next several hours this computer will be the only place I can talk without slurring my speech as a result of the tranquilizer dart Novocain. Much like all mundane tasks in my life, I did not endure this experience without observation. As one who has admitted to wearing decade old underwear and once upon a time memorizing all of Lionel Richie’s songs, you should know I wouldn’t lie to you. Plus, I appreciate knowing that you can’t personally witness the drooling from where you sit.

First, a little advice. I highly recommend that anyone who is about to commit to an hour in a dentist’s chair take a quick inventory of the amount of fluids already consumed that morning. In fact, just to be safe I suggest a quick visit to the little girl’s room before surrendering your vocal orifice as the dentist’s playground. This is even better advice when the restroom for this office is not actually located in their office, but down the hall. Otherwise you may discover 20 minutes later that your bowels are filled with anything but mercy, but figuring that you were already this far into the procedure you tell yourself you can hold it, which you do. For another 20 minutes. But he is still drilling, only now you have cotton and wires sticking out, and you are praying to the God of Public Humiliation that if he loves you he will help prevent you from being the first grown adult to urinate in the dentist’s chair. Finally, you may become so desperate that you try to cover it up with humor and ask your dentist if he can see your back teeth floating in there, which you will follow up with nervous laughter until he gets the message and takes out the most obtrusive foreign objects and sets you free. And yes, I really did ask him about the floating teeth.

Second, a word about drilling. If R2D2 were on Jerry Springer and was told by his momma that his brother was sleeping with his fiancé, and that she wasn’t even sure about his real daddy because he was actually a bastard robot from a seedy one night stand she indulged in while visiting the Death Star, I think he would get angry and yell several consecutive robot curses and derogatory proclamations at the top of his radio frequency voice.
And I think it would sound a lot like the drilling on my teeth.

Third, a question. Where exactly are you supposed to focus your eyes when another human being is staring at you from three inches away for over an hour? There’s only so long that I can stare at the brand name printed on the overhead light. Just once I think it would be amusing to stare into their eyes the entire time.

Fourth, a lesson learned. I will never be comfortable with another person being that close to my face wielding sharp objects. And finally, there’s just something about feeling a needle in your gums, seeing smoke wafting up from your mouth, and feeling your lips inflate like Lisa Rinna's after a collagen injection for the rest of the day that inspires you to reconsider your commitment to flossing. I think it’s time I take it seriously.

Wondering...

How is Maury Povich still on television?

Friday Night Fights

I've been stuck at home all day, so I wanted to get out and do something tonight. Cory was gone, so it was just the kids and I. I suggested bowling; Samantha shouted "Yes!" Drew groaned, "Do we haaaave to?" I announced Chipotle for dinner; Samantha placed her order and Drew begged to stay in the car while we went in. I made him get out, he pouted through the line and walked like he had ten pound weights in each shoe.

After getting home I called the bowling alley but there was a long wait. Instead I made the kids turn off all electronic/video game related devices and threw out suggestions of board games. They called all their friends to tell them what a fun mom they had Drew said he just wanted to read his book, then Samantha announced that she wanted to play her flute, after which Drew changed his mind about the sitting still quietly while indulging in positive brain activity thing and decided instead to burp the alphabet in her ear while she played. She LOVED that. I made him stop, so he switched over to another game called Put The Thin Mint Cookie Across The Front Of Your Teeth And Pretend To Be A Gorilla. I lectured Drew on the concept of personal space, and again he reacted with the calling of all his friends to discuss how wise his mom can be. I approached bedtime with bribery: "get it done in 3 minutes and you can play Nintendo DS in bed." With lightning speed they ascended the stairs as if I just barely started speaking a language they could understand.

I never did get out. Thank goodness we have plans for tomorrow.

How funky is your chicken, how thin is your mint?

Girl Scout cookies were delivered yesterday. I had the privilege of being visited by not one, not two, but three blond haired puppy-dog-eyed girl scouts whom I could not refuse. My cupboards overfloweth. As one who eats Thin Mints by the sleeve, I felt validated by this guy. Consider it my online Valentine.

Wondering...

If Drew's older sibling was a brother instead of a sister, would he still have asked for a Webkinz for Christmas? And would he have named it "Snowball"?

Step It Up

I was in college. She was my friend. She had the kind of personality where words like "spunk" and "energy" flowed freely when trying to describe her, and was the kind who always had a tan. She was also an aerobics instructor at Gold's Gym. Now in my defense (you'll soon see why it's necessary) I was very active in college. In fact, if it wasn't for co-ed intramural basketball I can't promise that Cory and I would have kindled a relationship. (Seeing him in shorts helped move things along.) But it was definitely intramural sports where I invested my physical time, and not the gym. So when my friend asked me to come to the step aerobics class she taught, I thought, "What the heck? I'm in good shape. How hard can that be? Except I should probably not wear my INTRAMURAL CHAMPIONS t-shirt to class. I don't want to be too intimidating on my first visit."

We walked in, I set myself up with the equipment, and then I took mental note of all the pledging sorority sisters around me. My defense mechanisms quickly sensed a need to express themselves and I thought, "Yeah, but can you do a reverse layup?" I think that's when I knew I was in trouble.
You should know that when I am working out really hard, my face gets really red. And when I work out to the point of public shame and embarrassment, it's not uncommon for my complexion to reveal hues more akin to the plum and eggplant families. This was definitely an eggplant day.
May I suggest to anyone out there that I still have power to save that if you have never done step aerobics before it would behoove you to start with something other than an advanced class? May I also alert you to the fact that attempting such a feat in a group exercise room constructed entirely out of windows that face the rest of the gym in simulation of a shark exhibit might cause you psychological harm.

It's been over 15 years now, you'd think I could let it go. The good news is that I didn't give up my attmepts at mastering that class, and it was particularly evident to me today as I listened to my instructor yell out commands such as "6-count mambo shasay with a double knee over shuffle turn straddle ham repeater" and I didn't miss a beat. The challenge is when I see someone come in that I don't recognize and I suspect it's their 1st time. The music starts, we begin the warm up, the new girl already doesn't get it, and I am way too familiar with how she feels. The worst part is that she probably doesn't even realize that this is just the warm up, and her journey to blinding humiliation has just begun. Hopefully being surrounded by a bunch of moms instead of aspiring Laker Girls will soften the blow.

Prep Time: 30 min. Ready In: 9 Days, 40 min.

It started with a visit from a neighbor who brought me three things: a paper of instructions, a ziploc full of goop, and some cinnamon bread. Pleasantries were exchanged on the doorstep after which I shut my door and shifted my eyes to the baked goods in the palm of my hand. Not even bothering to take the walk down the hall to the kitchen I took a bite, closed my eyes, and exhaled while leaning back against my wall. Crusty, cinnamony on the outside, moist and delicious on the inside. I eventually made my way to the kitchen where I finally took the time to survery the other items in my hand.

I flipped over the paper where the bold print across the top explained my delivery as "Amish Friendship Bread". My cursory glance at the rest of the directions revealed a list of ingredients and numbered instructions for how to recreate this culinary masterpiece using the bag of goop conveniently supplied for me. A more in-depth look also explained that this procedure would only take me approximately a week and a half. This was a problem, you see, because I sort of wanted more of that bread like, right now.

Day 1: Mush the bag. Sounds easy enough.
Day 2: Mush the bag.
Day 3: Mush the bag.
Day 4: Mush the bag.
Day 5: Mush the bag. I'm starting to feel ridiculous about this process. I imagine a couple of girls in black dresses and white bonnets peeking over my windowsill and giggling while whipering to each other, "She's actually falling for it!" and then running off to a barn raising to tell the rest of the village.
Day 6 is big: Add 1 cup of flour, sugar, and milk. And then mush baby, mush! Except the Amish didn't say baby. Or use the exclamation point.
Day 7: Mush the bag.
Day 8: I'm supposed to mush the bag, and in all seriousness it is a challenge to find the time. I have to go to the gym, run to Costco, make food for a youth activity, take Drew to piano, take Samantha to flute, drop off fundraiser money so my daughter can have something delivered to her on Valentine's Day in the middle of class, shop for snow boots, insert 73 self-deprecating references about how I'm not measuring up, make dinner, and campaign for world peace. I mush the bag with hostility and wonder if this is what the Amish had in mind.
Day 9: The Amish have been screwing with me for over a week now. Mush the bag.
Day 10: It is the last day. I finally get to make the bread!! I'm supposed to add a bunch of ingredients, and then divy up the batter into four separate bags to deliver to friends along with samples of the bread, and thus the cycle continues. Except this is not a good day. It's a day with no promises of any kind of 2 hour block of time to accomplish this task and I wonder if the Amish ever considered that. I'm beginning to think they don't care about me at all, but I've invested over a week of my life at this point and so I fit it in. It isn't until the bread came out of the oven and I took my first bite that I began to forgive. I conclude, "Tobias, Rachel and I? We're like THIS."
Day 11: Doesn't Betty Crocker have a recipe for cinnamon streusel cake that tastes just as good and only takes 45 minutes?
Day 12: Am I really supposed to believe that this bag of fermented slop resulting in baked nirvana started with a girl in Pennsylvania named Rebecca who wants me to widen my social circle? I google Amish Friendship Bread and this is what I get.
Day 13: Betty Crocker, page 74, "Cinnamon Streusel Cake". Prep time: 10 minutes. Ready in: 30 minutes. Giddy up.

Just because I'm cheap, doesn't mean I'm easy

Stripping is seriously hard work. Uhh...let me rephrase that. Stripping paint off my cabinets is not for sissies. My sister tried to warn me; I didn't listen. I should have. Yep, that pretty much sums it up.

False advertising

I was serious when I've mentioned that I have underwear older than my oldest child. She is 11. How can I be sure these underwear are older than she is? Because they are maternity, and I wore them through both pregnancies, which means I purchased them with the first. And yes, sometimes I still wear them. Because what was a cute little pooch over a decade ago as a result of creating another human life is now a not so cute little pooch as a result of what that did to me. And possibly too many Oreos when we go camping. Whatever, I am so giving myself 1,000 blogger points for all that.

I am the same way with bras. I was listening to the radio the other day and they were talking about women and their bras and for the love of all that is good why do they have so many??? They went on to say that the average woman rotates through approximately 5 or 6 bras throughout the week and that they are only built to last around six months. SIX MONTHS?? Are you kidding me? My thirteen-year-old sports bra might have something to say about that. Then again, that bra is about as effective as wrapping cheesecloth around my chest with dental floss, so maybe there's something to that.

The point is, I'm just one of those people who doesn't think about buying new undergarments regularly. But a few weeks ago I found myself in the women's lingerie department and thought, "Huh. New underwear. I think it's time." I was so excited; I brought them home and unwrapped the package and held them up. Confused, I double-checked the packaging and verified that these were indeed intended for a full grown adult and not pre-pubescent Barbie. While it's true that I didn't spend the eight hours necessary to read all the different labels for the kinds of bun encompassing options available to me, I still thought I had made a somewhat educated choice. But recognizing that I do not speak panty language fluently, I studied the packaging to try and discover where I went wrong. It seems only right to pass this on to any others who lack the fluency as well.

Here's what they SAY:
"Fabric-wrapped ComfortSoft® waistband is our most comfortable waistband ever!"
Here's what it MEANS:
Elastic is overrated. The all day wedgie is our friend.
What they SAY:
"Soft cotton-rich knit stretches for flawless fit."
What it MEANS:
"You're too fat. We've decided to work with it while throwing in the word 'flawless', hoping you don't catch on."
What they SAY:
"Cute hipster cut combines low-rise waist with non-binding brief-style legs."
What it MEANS:
"Really, these are mainly for people like the hired models we feature on our packaging. If that isn't you, we hope you still somehow believe that if you buy these panties you will be tricked into thinking you look like that when YOU wear them."
What they SAY:
"Sexy bikini styling makes the most of your curves."
What they MEAN:
"Curves" is the new "Big-boned". We hear the Dove campaigns are making a killing on this and we want in.
What they SAY:
"Classic brief cut offers full coverage, front and back."
What it MEANS:
"Your Grandma called. She wants her underwear back."

"You look like someone who's trying to be my mom but who really isn't."

Drew doesn't like my new haircut.

Rock Star

When you are talking on your cell phone to your husband on your way home and he says, "Hey, honey? Remember when you saw that sideboard green thing with the two doors on the front and the paint job that you say gives it "character" and you came home and said you just HAD to have it and I was so supportive of you?"

"What did you buy?"
"Well, I was thinking. And don't you think that should go both ways?"
"Yes, but see I actually talked to you about it first."
"Well, yeah...but...it's just that I really wanted it, and I was on the way home from work, and...."
"What did you buy?" And then it hit me. With it's best shot.
Heart.
KISS.
Guns N' Roses.
It sounds like a Valentine's Day gone terribly wrong, but in fact these are all 80's rock bands featured on the new video game Guitar Hero. He discovered it at Christmas, and has longed for it like a 12-year-old trying to save up his allowance ever since. Except he's not 12. And he doesn't get allowance. But his salary is the reason we have food on our table and a roof over our heads and a sideboard that brings me happiness on a daily basis.
"Sooo, when I walk in the door in a few minutes am I going to see you with a Guitar in your hand jamming to the Rolling Stones?"
"Maaaaybe."
Which meant "yes". Which means we are officially rock stars. At least our living room knows no difference. But there's more good news, because not only is this a modern day exercise in eye/hand coordination, but they give really good advice. Allow me to share a nugget we received today after a raucous rendition of "Bang Your Head" by Quiet Riot:

"When you become famous, your assistants can help you off with your leather pants. In the meantime, we suggest talcum powder."

Of course, this advice doesn't always work for everyone.

The Evil Eye Baby

This is so awesome! Thanks to my brother Greg for sending it to me.

At least "funny" will still be cool even when I'm in a rest home

There's a couple of people in my life that I don't tell often enough how much I love them. The first is an 18-year-old girl I took to lunch the other day who was shocked when I told her that I was 37. She said she thought I was younger than that. The second was a real live adult peer I was talking to the other night who was shocked when I told her that I was 37. She said she thought I was younger than that. So there it is, according to two people I still look younger than I am. Oh, how I love them.

I've been feeling kinda old lately. Not so much in a "better write out the last will and testament" kind of way, just in a "holy crap, all those jokes they make in greeting cards about saggy boobs are actually based on real events" kind of way. I used to think those were just created by women who liked whining for a living. Then I put two oranges in the bottom of my pantyhose as a joke and thought, "Hey, wait a minute...."

In the midst of feeling way past my prime, I attended an activity the other night with some of our young women at church. It was one of those warm and fuzzy get togethers where everyone takes a turn as an awkward centerpiece while everyone goes around and says something nice about that person. (I find these practices to be generally horrible and uncomfortable.) There were just as many adult leaders as girls, so we all had to endure equally. I didn't intend to take mental notes of the comments, but I did. About Leader #1: she runs marathons, she's pretty...Leader #2: she's really organized, she's so stylish, she's pretty...Leader #3: really nice, has cute kids, she's pretty...Leader #4: she's fun to talk to, she's pretty...Leader #5: she's so pretty, statuesque, so pretty, did we mention how pretty she is? And then they got to me. Judging on the pattern of previous comments, the 14-year-old version of me thought that maybe somewhere among this group of Seventeen Magazine readers somebody might think I had at least looked good at church once. I am Leader #6: "she's funny, she's fun, she's nice, she's funny, THE END." So I guess I'm not much to look at, but I might be good company on a road trip.

The whole experience brought back a memory of playing Barbies with Samantha when she was around 4 years old. She put a bow in the Barbie's hair and said, "See Momma? How does that look?"
"Ohhh...it looks cute!" I replied.
Then she ripped the bow out of her hair with bionic strength and yelled, "I don't want her to be CUTE! I WANT her to be BEAUTIFUL!!"
"Well then," I said. And then I got too curious. "So Samantha, is mommy CUTE? Or is Mommy BEAUTIFUL?"
She paused for a second to think and then said, "Uhhhhh....you're just funny."

I can just see the rest home yearbook now. They'll vote on Cutest Couple, Most Popular, Looks Most Like Her Original Yearbook Photo, Still Using the Restroom without Assistance, Most Likely to Cheat at Canasta, and Ward Clown. I think we all know where my future is headed.

Not kicking butt, but still taking names

Fact: In high school I always wanted to be on the dance team. And for disclosing that, I will award myself 100 blogger points. It's true, I have always loved to dance, but a combination of an addiction to self loathing and an aversion to gold, quarter-sized sequins somehow kept me away from those tryouts. Instead I nurtured my love of music and moves at our church youth dances, a time which my husband confesses he would love to enlist the Back To The Future Delorean to take him to see because he wants to ask me to dance so he can replace my memories of standing on the sidelines during slow dances with happier recollections of lovestruck chemistry wants to stand on the sidelines, point, and declare that he would never, ever date a chick that ridiculous. But as an adult, unless you are single, a little trampy and like to bar hop, there's not much in the way of a dancing outlet for me anymore.

That is, until my gym introduced a "Hip Hop" group exercise class a few years ago. I went once, and I was HOOKED. Every Tuesday at 7pm I had a date with Marty the instructor. Marty was a middle-aged balding white guy with moves that would make Justin Timberlake beg him to hop on his bus and join his tour. I LOVED THIS CLASS!!! My friend and I even had nicknames for all the regulars:
Tank - hot girl, moves deserving of a front row spot, always wore a tank top
Hoops - high schooler, used to ask the teacher to clarify certain moves after class while twirling her hair, wore humongous hoop earrings
Backstreet – as in “Backstreet Boys”
Red - middle-aged PE teacher with Red hair, better moves than most in the class
Noodle Boy - used to drink beforehand to get pumped up, regularly came in with a girl way out of his league, dance moves similar to what you might see if a 5-year-old was slurping up his spaghetti
Ahab the Arab – When this guy came to class I kept waiting for him to confess, "Smile!! Because YOU'RE on Candid Camera!!" He side-stepped like a drunk Teletubby and ran into everyone within twenty feet. There would be four or five of us looking at him with our hands in the air as if to say, "What is your deal, man?" and he never even noticed.
Bubble Gum – wore bright pink shirt every time, couldn’t take her eyes off herself in the mirror
Solid Gold – think “ballet meets Janet Jackson”, dated the instructor.

These nicknames were known only to me and two of my friends until “Noodle Boy” struck up a conversation with us after class one time. In a weak moment I confessed all the nicknames to him, and he didn't appear particularly flattered. But after that he would slide past me during class and yell, “Noodle Boy’s on FIRE tonight!!” with flair.

I went to this class religiously for about a year and a half. Then my kids got a little older, nights got more complicated, and dates with Tuesday fell by the wayside. It’s been two years. Tonight, I decided to go back.

If I simply admit that it wasn't pretty can I just stop there? Fine, I'll continue. But I get 50 more blogger points. Let me just say that my gym crush Marty is no longer the instructor. The only regular left is "Red", and if I had a nickname for myself it would be White Chick In The Back Who Should Have Stayed Home And Made Cookies. The last 15 minutes of class he split us up into four groups numbered 1-4. We would proceed to go into the middle of the floor, with our team, and perform for everyone else who would stand around the perimeter and cheer. We had to do this three times. By the end, I had named the teams:
Team #1: "We Used To Be On The Dance Team"
Team #3: "We've Been Coming To This Class For A While Now"
Team #4: "That's Right Y'all, Let Me Show You A Little Somethin' Somethin'"
I was on Team #2. I'm torn between "White Chicks Can't Bump" and "Hey There, Excuse Me? Could You Do That Double Up Back Hand Swipe Kick Back Jump To The Side Thing Just ONE More Time? I Think I Almost Got It".

A year in the blogosphere

January marks my one-year anniversary of being a blogger. I’m not exactly sure what that means, but I feel like there should be cake. When I first started I wondered if I could possibly have enough to say to keep this site interesting. I suppose when one has opinions ranging from park running etiquette to green beans to the issues that are bound to come up in our children's therapy later, I should have known I might write regularly. As for the "interesting" part, well, that's not for me to judge.

If you are thinking of starting a blog yourself, allow me to share a few things I have learned over the last 12 months. First and foremost, asterisks are more powerful here. No longer the step-child of punctuation, the asterisk in the blogging world is used in a fuller capacity to illustrate *laughing* or the *sigh* or more serious bodily functions such as *wetting my pants*. I couldn't believe its effectiveness the first time I read something that way, and now I celebrate my friend the asterisk.

Secondly, italics and bold have largely been trumped by the ALL CAPS feature. Gone are the days of making your letters darker to let people know that you mean it, NOW WE HAVE ALL CAPS.

Third, periods are overused for emphasis. It’s. Quite. Effective.

You should probably also know that commenting in your own comment section is not looked down upon. I still struggle with this. Nevertheless, I am warming up to the idea that in the blogosphere, subscribing to the "everybody's doing it" philosophy won't necessarily land you in jail or encourage underage drinking, but it will make you appear more popular as you beef up your comment numbers.

Going into my second year, I'm hoping to make my site look cooler and figure out someday how to finally get my widgets on. In the meantime, thanks for coming along for the ride. And a word for those who comment, you have no idea the power you hold over me. If comments were crack, I'd have to attend weekly meetings.

Now, about that cake....

Punk'd

So, my youngest brother works with Matt Romney, one of Mitt Romney's sons. One day when they were talking my brother said, "Hey Matt, wouldn't it be funny if..." and this is the result.

Low cooking moment

My homemade macaroni and cheese? Goooood.

My homemade macaroni and cheese made with vanilla soy milk because I'm out of 1%? Not a culinary highlight.

Mourn with those that mourn

It is an unfortunate characteristic of mine that I sometimes feel other people’s emotions on an abnormal level. While most people are sick of hearing about it, I cried last week when they officially closed the case on Natalee Holloway because I imagined what that must have felt like for her family. I obsessed for months during Elizabeth Smart’s disappearance and sobbed in gratitude the day she was found. I fantasized about tracking down a bully at the school who was being mean to my friend’s kid and cried myself to sleep for several nights in a row after learning about the violation of another’s. I have actually cried watching a guy in a wheelchair win a bunch of money on Wheel of Fortune because I imagined how it might help him with health bills. And don’t even get me started on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. [Before I continue, I really think I should get blogger points for admitting the Wheel of Fortune thing. Even though there’s no such thing as blogger points, I’m making them up right now. And I just earned, say, fifty.]

Today is going to be a very difficult day for some treasured family friends who are burying their one-week-old baby. My parents and brother’s family will surely attend the service, which will undoubtedly feature a mixture of grief over the loss and gratitude for support. I am hundreds of miles away feeling cramps in my chest and helpless to offer any real comfort. I’d love to be the one who writes just the perfect thing in a card that causes a blanket of peace to overwhelm them, but after watching my sister bury a child I recognize that those perfect words don’t really exist. Instead, the road to peace is long, arduous, and very personal, so I am wondering where I fit in. With words coming up short and attendance being impossible, it feels like the only remaining option is to sit here and invite feelings of remorse, hoping that doing so might take some of it away from them. I’m not sure it will work, but trying is all I’ve got. Hug your kids a little tighter today, will ya?

Adding to my misery...

...they've given the school traffic lady a megaphone. Have mercy.

Where the refills are only $1.75

You know you live in the west when one of the state's largest revenue generators is called the "National Western Stock Show". We go every year because Cory gets free tickets from work. Because under no other circumstances would I go to tour cattle trailers, pet goats, or get a hat signed by the owner of a used car dealership. But for free? Hey kids, check out the nards on THAT thing!

Except this is the great lie of the free stock show tickets. It costs $6 for a hot dog that you wouldn't even serve in a homeless shelter and $8 for your kid to layer colored dirt into a glass bottle. BUT, we did get to stand a couple feet away from Miss Rodeo USA on her Clydesdale and it IS one of the last remaining places where one can wear Wranglers without getting beat up.

If you wanna call that a bright side.

To my good friend Jill:

If you get a call from the Wal-Mart photo studio saying that you have won the drawing for a free photo session, please don't hang up. It's probably not a joke. You may have nominated your "sweetheart" today in honor of upcoming Valentine's Day. They say the drawing is random, but somehow I feel your story about your husband finally graduating from his PhD program after 13 years of school and this being the perfect way to celebrate just might warm those red and pink hearts they had on display.

Just thought you should know.

Reunited

The computer and I, we have been on a break. But thanks to some friends in the I.S. department at Cory's work, we are back together. Much like any dysfunctional relationship, there were moments when we were apart that I stood awkwardly in the middle of the room looking from left to right, taking note of all the things that I could be doing with this new allotment of time, but found myself unable to commit. Co-dependency works like that. So anyway, WE are back, and I have a few thoughts that have accumulated over the last few days.

First: Why is the middle school asking me to volunteer to chaperone their first dance of the year? And if I say "yes", why does that feel like contributing to the delinquency of a minor? And why does my daughter want to go? Buying a training bra, starting to wear make-up, spending more time with friends, getting braces, these are all things I am prepared to handle. SCHOOL DANCES??? I'd rather rub my butt with a brick.

Second: At the beginning of my sugar fast back in October, I relinquished a monstrous bag of recently purchased chocolate chips from Costco to Cory and asked him to hide them from me. The sugar fast has been over for two months. We still can't find that bag.

Third: I've decided to run a marathon. On a moving walkway. As soon as someone organizes that.